“I hope so, Art; I hear you have taken the pledge.”
“Belyin' on God's help, I have.”
“Well,” replied Owen, “you couldn't rely on betther help.”
“No,” said Art, “I know I could not; but, Owen, I ran a wild and a
terrible race of it--I'm grieved an' shamed to think--even to think of
it.”
“An' that's a good sign, Art, there couldn't be betther; for unless a
man's heart is sorry for his faults, and ashamed of them too, it's not
likely he'll give them over.”
“I can't bear to walk the streets,” continued Art, “nor to rise my head;
but still something must be done for the poor wife and childre.”
“Ah, Art,” replied Owen, “that is the wife! The goold of Europe isn't
value for her; an' that's what every one knows.”
“But who knows it, an' feels it as I do?” said Art, “or who has the
right either? howandiver, as I said, something must be done; Owen, will
you venture to give me employment? I know I'm in bad trim to come into a
dacent workshop, but you know necessity has no law;--it isn't my clo'es
that will work, but myself; an', indeed, if you do employ me, it's not
much I'll be able to do this many a day; but the truth is, if I don't
get something to keep me busy, I doubt I won't be able to stand against
what I feel both in my mind and body.”
These words were uttered with such an air of deep sorrow and perfect
sincerity as affected Gallagher very much.
“Art,” said he, “there was no man so great a gainer by the unfortunate
coorse you tuck as I was, for you know I came into the best part of your
business; God forbid then that I should refuse you work, especially as
you have turned over a new lafe;--or to lend you a helpin' hand either,
now that I know it will do you and your family good, and won't go to the
public-house. Come wid me.”
He took down his hat as he spoke, and brought Art up to one of
those general shops that are to be found in every country town like
Ballykeerin.
“Mr. Trimble,” said he, “Art Maguire wants a plain substantial suit o'
clothes, that will be chape an' wear well, an' I'll be accountable for
them; Art, sir, has taken the pledge, an' is goin' to turn over a new
lafe, an' be as he wanst was, I hope.”
“And there is no man,” said the worthy shopkeeper, “in the town of
Ballykeerin that felt more satisfaction than I did when I heard he had
taken it. I know what he wants, and what you want for him, and he shall
have it both cheap and good.”
Such was the respect paid to those who nobly resolved to overcome their
besetting sin of drink, and its consequent poverty or profligacy,
that the knowledge alone that they had taken the pledge, gained them
immediate good-will, as it was entitled to do. This, to be sure, was in
Art's favor; but there was about him, independently of this, a serious
spirit of awakened resolution and sincerity which carried immediate
conviction along with it.
“This little matter,” said the honest carpenter, with natural
consideration for Art, “will, of coorse, rest between you an' me, Mr.
Trimble.”
“I understand your feeling, Owen,” said he, “and I can't but admire it;
it does honor to your heart.”
“Hut,” said Gallagher, “it's nothin'; sure it's jist what Art would do
for myself, if we wor to change places.”
Thus it is with the world, and ever will be so, till human nature
changes. Art had taken the first step towards his reformation, and Owen
felt that he was sincere; this step, therefore, even slight as it was,
sufficed to satisfy his old friend that he would be safe in aiding him.
Gallagher's generosity, however, did not stop here; the assistance which
he gave Art, though a matter of secrecy between themselves, was soon
visible in Art's appearance, and that of his poor family. Good fortune,
however, did not stop here; in about a week after this, when Art was
plainly but comfortably dressed, and working with Gallagher, feeble as
he was, upon journeyman's wages, there came a letter from his brother
Frank, enclosing ten pounds for the use of his wife and children. It
was directed to a friend in Ballykeerin, who was instructed to apply it
according to his own discretion, and the wants of his family, only by
no means to permit a single shilling of it to reach his hands, unless on
the condition that he had altogether given up liquor. This seemed to Art
like a proof that God had rewarded him for the step he had taken; in
a few weeks it was wonderful how much comfort he and his family had
contrived to get about them. Margaret was a most admirable manager,
and a great economist, and with her domestic knowledge and good sense,
things went on beyond their hopes.
Art again was up early and down late--for his strength, by the aid of
wholesome and regular food, and an easy mind, was fast returning to
him--although we must add here, that he never regained the healthy and
powerful constitution which he had lost. His reputation, too, was fast
returning; many a friendly salutation he received from those, who,
in his degradation, would pass him by with either ridicule or solemn
contempt.
Nothing in this world teaches a man such well-remembered lessons of
life as severe experience. Art, although far, very far removed from his
former independence, yet, perhaps, might be said never to have enjoyed
so much peace of mind, or so strong a sense of comfort, as he did now in
his humble place with his family. The contrast between his past misery,
and the present limited independence which he enjoyed, if it could
be called independence, filled his heart with a more vivid feeling of
thankfulness than he had ever known. He had now a bed to sleep on,
with _bona fide_ blankets--he had a chair to sit on--a fire on his
hearth--and food, though plain, to eat; so had his wife, so had his
children; he had also very passable clothes to his back, that kept him
warm and comfortable, and prevented him from shivering like a reed in
the blast; so had his wife, and so had his children. But he had more
than this, for he had health, a good conscience, and a returning
reputation. People now addressed him as an equal, as a man, as an
individual who constituted a portion of society; then, again, he loved
his wife as before, and lived with her in a spirit of affection equal to
any they had ever felt. Why, this was, to a man who suffered what he and
his family had suffered, perfect luxury.
In truth, Art now wondered at the life he had led,--he could not
understand it; why he should have suffered himself, for the sake of
a vile and questionable enjoyment--if enjoyment that could be called,
which was no enjoyment--at least for the sake of a demoralizing and
degrading habit, to fall down under the feet as it were, under the
evil tongues, and the sneers--of those who constituted his world--the
inhabitants of Ballykeerin--was now, that he had got rid of the
thraldom, perfectly a mystery to him. Be this as it may, since he had
regenerated his own character, the world was just as ready to take him
up as it had been to lay him down.
Nothing in life gives a man such an inclination for active industry as
to find that he is prospering; he has then heart and spirits to work,
and does work blithely and cheerfully; so was it with Art. He and his
employer were admirably adapted for each other, both being extremely
well-tempered, honest, and first-rate workmen. About the expiration of
the first twelve months, Art had begun to excite a good deal of interest
in the town of Ballykeerin, an interest which was beginning to affect
Owen Gallagher himself in a beneficial way. He was now pointed out to
strangers as the man, who, almost naked, used to stand drunk and begging
upon the bridge of Ballykeerin, surrounded by his starving and equally
naked children. In fact, he began to get a name, quite a reputation for
the triumph which he had achieved over drunkenness; and on this account
Owen Gallagher, when it was generally known in the country that Art
worked with him, found his business so rapidly extending, that he was
obliged, from time to time, to increase the number of hands in his
establishment. Art felt this, and being now aware that his position in
life was, in fact, more favorable for industrious exertion than ever,
resolved to give up journey work, and once more, if only for the
novelty of the thing, to set up for himself. Owen Gallagher, on hearing
this from his own lips, said he could not, nor would not blame him, but,
he added--
“I'll tell you what we can do, Art--come into partnership wid me, for I
think as we're gettin' an so well together, it 'ud be a pity, almost a
sin, to part; join me, and I'll give you one-third of the business,”--by
which he meant the profits of it.
“Begad,” replied Art, laughing, “it's as much for the novelty of the
thing I'm doin' it as any thing else; I think it 'ud be like a dhrame to
me, if I was to find myself and my family as we wor before.” And so they
parted.
It is unnecessary here to repeat what we have already detailed
concerning the progress of his early prosperity; it is sufficient, we
trust, to tell our readers that he rose into rapid independence, and
that he owed all his success to the victory that he had obtained over
himself. His name was now far and near, and so popular had he become,
that no teetotaller would employ any other carpenter. This, at length,
began to make him proud, and to feel that his having given up drink,
instead of being simply a duty to himself and his family, was altogether
an act of great voluntary virtue on his part.
“Few men,” he said, “would do it, an' may be, afther all, if I hadn't
the ould blood in my veins--if I wasn't one of the great Fermanagh
Maguires, I would never a' done it.”
He was now not only a vehement Teetotaller, but an unsparing enemy to
all who drank even in moderation; so much so, indeed, that whenever
a man came to get work done with him, the first question he asked him
was--“Are you a Teetotaller?” If the man answered “No,” his reply was,
“Well, I'm sorry for that, bekase I couldn't wid a safe conscience do
your work; but you can go to Owen Gallagher, and he will do it for you
as well as any man livin'.”
This, to be sure, was the abuse of the principle; but we all know that
the best things may be abused. He was, in fact, outrageous in defence of
Teetotalism; attended all its meetings; subscribed for Band-money; and
was by far the most active member in the whole town of Ballykeerin. It
was not simply that he forgot his former poverty; he forgot himself.
At every procession he was to be seen, mounted on a spanking horse,
ridiculously over-dressed--the man, we mean, not the horse--flaunting
with ribands, and quite puffed up at the position to which he had raised
himself.
This certainly was not the humble and thankful feeling with which he
ought to have borne his prosperity. The truth, however, was, that Art,
in all this parade, was not in the beginning acting upon those broad,
open principles of honesty, which, in the transactions of business, had
characterized his whole life. He was now influenced by his foibles--by
his vanity--and by his ridiculous love of praise. Nor, perhaps, would
these have been called into action, were it not through the intervention
of his old friend and pot companion, Toal Finnigan. Toal, be it known
to the reader, the moment he heard that Art had become a Teetotaller,
immediately became one himself, and by this means their intimacy was
once more renewed; that is to say, they spoke in friendly terms whenever
they met--but no entreaty or persuasion could ever induce Toal to enter
Art's house; and the reader need not be told why. At all events, Toal,
soon after he joined it, put himself forward in the Teetotal Movement
with such prominence, that Art, who did not wish to be outdone in
anything, began to get jealous of him. Hence his ridiculous exhibitions
of himself in every manner that could attract notice, or throw
little Toal into the shade; and hence also the still more senseless
determination not to work for any but a Teetotaller; for in this,
too, Toal had set him the example. Toal, the knave, on becoming a
Teetotaller, immediately resolved to turn it to account; but Art,
provided he could show off, and cut a conspicuous figure in a
procession, had no dishonest motive in what he did; and this was
the difference between them. For instance, on going up the town of
Ballykeerin, you might see over the door of a middle-sized house,
“Teetotal Meal Shop. N. B.--None but Teetotallers need come here.”
Now every one knew Toal too well not to understand this; for the truth
is, that maugre his sign, he never refused his meal or other goods to
any one that had money to pay for them.
One evening about this time, Art was seated in his own parlor--for he
now had a parlor, and was in a state of prosperity far beyond anything
he had ever experienced before--Margaret and the children were with him;
and as he smoked his pipe, he could not help making an observation or
two upon the wonderful change which so short a time had brought about.
“Well, Margaret,” said he, “isn't this wondherful, dear? look at the
comfort we have now about us, and think of--; but troth I don't like to
think of it at all.”
“I never can,” she replied, “without a troubled and a sinkin' heart;
but, Art, don't you remember when I wanst wished you to become a
Teetotaller, the answer you made me?”
“May be I do; what was it?”
“Why, you axed me--and you were makin' game of it at the time--whether
Teetotallism would put a shirt or a coat to your back--a house over your
head--give you a bed to lie on, or blankets to keep you and the childre
from shiverin', an' coughin', an' barkin' in the could of the night?
Don't you remember sayin' this?”
“I think I do; ay, I remember something about it now. Didn't I say that
whiskey was my coach an' my carriage, an' that it made me a lord?”
“You did; well, now what do you say? Hasn't Teetotallism bate you in
your own argument? Hasn't it given you a shirt an' a coat to your back,
a good bed to lie on, a house over your head? In short, now, Art, hasn't
it given you all you said, an' more than ever you expected? eh, now?”
“I give in, Margaret--you have me there; but,” he proceeded, “it's not
every man could pull himself up as I did; eh?”
“Oh, for God's sake, Art, don't begin to put any trust in your own mere
strength, nor don't be boasting of what you did, the way you do; sure,
we ought always to be very humble and thankful to God for what he has
done for us; is there anything comes to us only through him?”
“I'm takin' no pride to myself,” said Art, “divil a taste; but this I
know, talk as you will, there's always somethin' in the ould blood.”
“Now, Art,” she replied, smiling, “do you know I could answer you on
that subject if I liked?”
“You could,” said Art; “come, then, let us hear your answer--come
now--ha, ha, ha!”
She became grave, but complacent, as she spoke. “Well, then, Art,” said
she, “where was the ould blood when you fell so low? If it was the ould
blood that riz you up, remember it was the ould blood that put you down.
You drank more whiskey,” she added, “upon the head of the ould blood
of Ireland, and the great Fermanagh Maguires, than you did on all other
subjects put together. No, Art dear, let us not trust to ould blood or
young blood, but let us trust to the grace o' God, an' ax it from our
hearts out.”
“Well, but arn't we in great comfort now?”
“We are,” she replied, “thank the Giver of all good for it; may God
continue it to us, and grant it to last!”
“Last! why wouldn't it last, woman alive? Well, begad, after all, 'tis
not every other man, any way--”
“Whisht, now,” said Margaret, interrupting him, “you're beginnin' to
praise yourself.”
“Well, I won't then; I'm going down the town to have a glass or two o'
cordial wid young Tom Whiskey, in Barney Scaddhan's.”
“Art,” she replied, somewhat solemnly, “the very name of Barney Scaddhan
sickens me. I know we ought to forgive every one, as we hope to be
forgiven ourselves; but still, Art, if I was in your shoes, the sorra
foot ever I'd put inside his door. Think of the way he trated you; ah,
Art acushla, where's the pride of the ould blood now?”
“Hut, woman, divil a one o' me ever could keep in bad feelin' to any
one. Troth, Barney of late's as civil a crature as there's alive; sure
what you spake of was all my own fault and not his; I'll be back in an
hour or so.”
“Well,” said his wife, “there's one thing, Art, that every one knows.”
“What is that, Margaret?”
“Why, that a man's never safe in bad company.”
“But sure, what harm can they do me, when we drink nothing that can
injure us?”
“Well, then,” said she, “as that's the case, can't you as well stay with
good company as bad?”
“I'll not be away more than an hour.”
“Then, since you will go, Art, listen to me; you'll be apt to meet Toal
Finnigan there; now, as you love me and your childre, an' as you wish
to avoid evil and misfortune, don't do any one thing that he proposes to
you: I've often tould you that he's your bitterest enemy.”
“I know you did; but sure, wanst a woman takes a pick (pique) aginst a
man she'll never forgive him. In about an hour mind.” He then went out.
The fact is, that some few of those who began to feel irksome under the
Obligation--by which I mean the knaves and hypocrites, for it is not
to be supposed that among such an incredible multitude as joined the
movement there were none of this description--some few, I say, were in
the habit of resorting to Barney Scaddhan's for the social purpose of
taking a glass of the true Teetotal cordial together. This drinking of
cordial was most earnestly promoted by the class of low and dishonest
publicans whom we have already described, and no wonder that it was so;
in the first place, it's sale is more profitable than that of whiskey
itself, and, in the second place, these fellows know by experience that
it is the worst enemy that teetolism has, very few having ever strongly
addicted themselves to cordial, who do not ultimately break the pledge,
and resume the use of intoxicating liquor. This fact was well known at
the time, for Father Costelloe, who did every thing that man could do to
extend and confirm the principle of temperance, had put his parishioners
on their guard against the use of this deleterious trash. Consequently,
very few of the Ballykeerin men, either in town or parish, would taste
it; when they stood in need of anything to quench their thirst, or
nourish them, they confined themselves to water, milk, or coffee.
Scarcely any one, therefore, with the exception of the knaves and
hypocrites, tampered with themselves by drinking it.
The crew whom Art went to meet on the night in question consisted of
about half a dozen, who, when they had been in the habit of drinking
whiskey, were hardened and unprincipled men--profligates in every
sense--fellows that, like Toal Finnigan, now adhered to teetotalism from
sordid motives only, or, in other words, because they thought they
could improve their business by it. It is true, they were suspected
and avoided by the honest teetotallers, who wondered very much that Art
Maguire, after the treatment he had formerly received at their hands,
should be mean enough, they said, ever “to be hail fellow well met” with
them again. But Art, alas! in spite of all his dignity of old blood, and
his rodomontade about the Fermanagh Maguires, was utterly deficient in
that decent pride which makes a man respect himself, and prevents him
from committing a mean action.
For a considerable time before his arrival, there were assembled in
Barney Scaddhan's tap, Tom Whiskey, Jerry Shannon, Jack Mooney, Toal
Finnigan, and the decoy duck, young Barney Scaddhan himself, who merely
became a teetotaller that he might be able to lure his brethren in to
spend their money in drinking cordial.
“I wondher Art's not here before now,” observed Tom Whiskey; “blood
alive, didn't he get on well afther joinin' the 'totallers?”
“Faix, it's a miracle,” replied Jerry Shannon, “there's not a more
'spbnsible man in Ballykeerin, he has quite a Protestant look;--ha, ha,
ha!”
“Divil a sich a pest ever this house had as the same Art when he was a
blackguard,” said young Scaddhan; “there was no keepin' him out of it,
but constantly spungin' upon the dacent people that wor dhrmkin' in it.”
“Many a good pound and penny he left you for all that, Barney, my lad,”
said Mooney; “and purty tratement you gave him when his money was gone.”
“Ay, an' we'd give you the same,” returned Scaddhan, “if your's was
gone, too; ha, ha, ha! it's not moneyless vagabones we want here.”
“No,” said Shannon, “you first make them moneyless vagabones, an' then
you kick them out o' doors, as you did him.”
“Exactly,” said the hardened miscreant, “that's the way we live; when we
get the skin off the cat, then we throw out the carcass.”
“Why, dang it, man,” said Whiskey, “would you expect honest Barney here,
or his still honester ould rip of a father, bad as they are, to give us
drink for nothing?”
“Now,” said Finnigan, who had not yet spoken, “yez are talkin' about Art
Maguire, and I'll tell yez what I could do; I could bend my finger that
way, an' make him folly me over the parish.”
“And how could you do that?” asked Whiskey.
“By soodherin' him--by ticklin' his empty pride--by dwellin' on the ould
blood of Ireland, the great Fermanagh Maguires--or by tellin' him that
he's betther than any one else, and could do what nobody else could.”
“Could you make him drunk to-night?” asked Shannon.
“Ay,” said Toal, “an' will, too, as ever you seen him in your lives; only
whin I'm praisin' him do some of you oppose me, an' if I propose any
thing to be done, do you all either support me in it, or go aginst me,
accordin' as you see he may take it.”
“Well, then,” said Mooney, “in ordher to put you in spirits, go off,
Barney, an' slip a glass o' whiskey a piece into this cordial, jist to
tighten it a bit--ha, ha, ha!”
“Ay,” said Tom Whiskey, “till we dhrink success to teetotalism, ha, ha,
ha!”
“Suppose you do him in the cordial,” said Shannon.
“Never mind,” replied Toal; “I'll first soften him a little on the
cordial, and then make him tip the punch openly and before faces, like a
man.”
“Troth, it's a sin,” observed Moonoy, who began to disrelish the
project; “if it was only on account of his wife an' childre.”
Toal twisted his misshapen mouth into still greater deformity at this
observation--
“Well,” said he, “no matter, it'll only be a good joke; Art is a dacent
fellow, and afther this night we won't repate it. Maybe,” he continued
“I may find it necessary to vex him, an' if I do, remember you won't let
him get at me, or my bread's baked.”
This they all promised, and the words were scarcely concluded, when Art
entered and joined them. As a great portion of their conversation did
not bear upon the subject matter of this narrative, it is therefore
unnecessary to record it. After about two hours, during which Art had
unconsciously drunk at least three glasses of whiskey, disguised in
cordial, the topic artfully introduced by Toal was the Temperance
Movement.
“As for my part,” said he, “I'm half ashamed that I ever joined it. As I
was never drunk, where was the use of it? Besides, it's an unmanly thing
for any one to have it to say that he's not able to keep himself sober,
barrin' he takes an oath, or the pledge.”
“And why did you take it then?” said Art.
“Bekaise I was a fool,” replied Toal; “devil a thing else.”
“It's many a good man's case,” observed Art in reply, “to take an oath
against liquor, or a pledge aither, an' no disparagement to any man that
does it.”
“He's a betther man that can keep himself sober widout it,” said Toal
dryly.
“What do you mane by a betther man?” asked Art, somewhat significantly;
“let us hear that first, Toal.”
“Don't be talking' about betther men here,” said Jerry Shannon; “I tell
you, Toal, there's a man in this room, and when you get me a betther
man in the town of Ballykeerin, I'll take a glass of punch wid you, or a
pair o' them, in spite of all the pledges in Europe!”
“And who is that, Jerry,” said Toal.
“There he sits,” replied Jerry, putting his extended palm upon Art's
shoulder and clapping it.
“May the divil fly away wid you,” replied Toal; “did you think me a
manus, that I'd go to put Art Maguire wid any man that I know? Art
Maguire indeed! Now, Jerry, my throoper, do you think I'm come to this
time o' day, not to know that there's no man in Ballykeerin, or the
parish it stands in--an' that's a bigger word--that could be called a
betther man that Art Maguire?”
“Come, boys,” said Art, “none of your nonsense. Sich as I am, be the
same good or bad, I'll stand the next trate, an' devilish fine strong
cordial it is.”
“Why, then, I don't think myself it's so good,” replied young Scaddhan;
“troth it's waiker than we usually have it; an' the taste somehow isn't
exactly to my plaisin'.”
“Very well,” said Art; “if you have any that 'ill plaise yourself
betther, get it; but in the mane time bring us a round o' this, an'
we'll be satisfied.”
“Art Maguire,” Toal proceeded, “you were ever and always a man out o'
the common coorse.”
“Now, Toal, you're beginnin',” said Art; “ha, ha, ha--well, any way, how
is that!”
“Bekaise the divil a taste o' fear or terror ever was in your
constitution. When Art, boys, was at school--sure he an' I wor
schoolfellows--if he tuck a thing into his head, no matter what, jist
out of a whim, he'd do it, if the divil was at the back door, or the
whole world goin' to stop him.”
“Throth, Toal, I must say there's a great deal o' thruth in that. Divil
a one livin' knows me betther than Toal Finigan, sure enough, boys.”
“Arra, Art, do you remember the day you crossed the weir, below Tom
Booth's,” pursued Toal, “when the river was up, and the wather jist
intherin' your mouth?”
“That was the day Peggy Booth fainted, when she thought I was gone;
begad, an' I was near it.”
“The very day.”
“That may be all thrue enough,” observed Tom Whiskey; “still I think
I know Art this many a year, and I can't say I ever seen any of these
great doing's. I jist seen him as aisy put from a thing, and as much
afeard of the tongues of the nabors, or of the world, as another.”
“He never cared a damn for either o' them, for all that,” returned
Toal; “that is, mind, if he tuck a thing into his head; ay, an' I'll go
farther--divil a rap ever he cared for them, one way or other. No, the
man has no fear of any kind in him.”
“Why, Toal,” said Mooney, “whether he cares for them or not, I think is
aisily decided; and whether he's the great man you make him. Let us hear
what he says himself upon it, and then we'll know.”
“Very well, then,” replied Toal; “what do you say yourself, Art? Am I
right, or am I wrong?”
“You're right, Toal, sure enough; if it went to that, I don't care a
curse about the world, or all Ballykeerin along wid it. I've a good
business, and can set the world at defiance. If the people didn't want
me, they wouldn't come to me.”
“Come, Toal,” said Jerry; “here--I'll hould you a pound note”--and lie
pulled out one as he spoke--“that I'll propose a thing he won't do.”
“Aha--thank you for nothing, my customer--I won't take that bait,”
replied the other; “but listen--is it a thing that he can do?”
“It is,” replied Jerry; “and what's more, every man in the room can do
it, as well as Art, if he wishes.”
“He can?”
“He can.”
“Here,” said Toal, clapping down his pound. “Jack Mooney, put these in
your pocket till this matther's decided. Now, Jerry, let us hear it.”
“I will;--he won't drink two tumblers of punch, runnin'; that is, one
afther the other.”
“No,” observed Art, “I will not; do you want me to break the pledge?”
“Sure,” said Jerry, “this is not breaking the pledge--it's only for a
wager.”
“No matther,” said Art; “it's a thing I won't do.”
“I'll tell you what, Jerry,” said Toal, “I'll hould you another pound
now, that I do a thing to-night that Art won't do; an' that, like your
own wager, every one in the room can do.”
“Done,” said the other, taking out the pound note, and placing it in
Mooney's hand--Toal following his example.
“Scaddhan,” said Toal, “go an' bring me two tumblers of good strong
punch. I'm a Totaller as well as Art, boys. Be off, Scaddhan.”
“By Japers,” said Tom Whiskey, as if to himself--looking at the same
time as if he were perfectly amazed at the circumstance--“the little
fellow has more spunk than Maguire, ould blood an' all! Oh, holy Moses;
afther that, what will the world come to!”
Art heard the soliloquy of Whiskey, and looked about him with an air of
peculiar meaning. His pride--his shallow, weak, contemptible pride, was
up, while the honest pride that is never separated from firmness and
integrity, was cast aside and forgotten. Scaddhan came in, and placing
the two tumblers before Toal, that worthy immediately emptied first one
of them, and then the other.
“The last two pounds are yours,” said Jerry; “Mooney, give them to him.”
Art, whose heart was still smarting under the artful soliloquy of Tom
Whiskey, now started to his feet, and exclaimed--
“No, Jerry, the money's not his yet. Barney, bring in two tumblers. What
one may do another may do; and as Jerry says, why it's only for a wager.
At any rate, for one o' my blood was never done out, and never will.”
“By Japers,” said Whiskey, “I knew he wouldn't let himself be bate. I
knew when it came to the push he wouldn't.”
“Well, Barney,” said Toal, “don't make them strong for him, for they
might get into his head; he hasn't a good head anyway--let them be
rather wake, Barney.”
“No,” said Art, “let them be as strong as his, and stronger, Barney; and
lose no time about it.”
“I had better color them,” said Barney, “an' the people about the place
'll think it's cordial still.”
“Color the devil,” replied Art; “put no colorin' on them. Do you think
I'm afeard of any one, or any colors?”
“You afeard of any one,” exclaimed Tom Whiskey; “one o' the ould
Maguires afeard! ha, ha, ha!--that 'ud be good!”
Art, when the tumblers came in, drank off first one, which he had no
sooner emptied, than he shivered into pieces against the grate; he then
emptied the other, which shared the same fate.
“Now,” said he to Barney, “bring me a third one; I'll let yez see what a
Maguire is.”
The third, on making its appearance, was immediately drained, and
shivered like the others--for the consciousness of acting-wrong, in
spite of his own resolution, almost drove him mad. Of what occurred
subsequently in the public house, it is not necessary to give any
account, especially as we must follow Art home--simply premising, before
we do so, that the fact of “Art Maguire having broken the pledge,” had
been known that very night to almost all Ballykeerin--thanks to the
industry of Toal Finnigan, and his other friends.
His unhappy wife, after their conversation that evening, experienced one
of those strange, unaccountable presentiments or impressions which every
one, more or less, has frequently felt. Until lately, he had not often
gone out at night, because it was not until lately that the clique began
to reassemble in Barney Scaddhan's. 'Tis true the feeling on her part
was involuntary, but on that very account it was the more distressing;
her principal apprehension of danger to him was occasioned by his
intimacy with Toal Finnigan, who, in spite of all her warnings and
admonitions, contrived, by the sweetness of his tongue, to hold his
ground with him, and maintain his good opinion. Indeed, any one who
could flatter, wheedle, and play upon his vanity successfully, was
sure to do this; but nobody could do it with such adroitness as Toal
Finnigan.
It is wonderful how impressions are caught by the young from those who
are older and have more experience than themselves. Little Atty, who had
heard the conversation already detailed, begged his mammy not to send
him to bed that night until his father would come home, especially
as Mat Mulrennan, an in-door apprentice, who had been permitted that
evening to go to see his family, had not returned, and he wished, he
said, to sit up and let him in. The mother was rather satisfied than
otherwise, that the boy should sit up with her, especially as all the
other children and the servants had gone to bed.
“Mammy,” said the boy, “isn't it a great comfort for us to be as we are
now, and to know that my father can never get drunk again?”
“It is indeed, Atty;” and yet she said so; with a doubting, if not an
apprehensive heart.
“He'll never beat you more, mammy, now?”
“No, darlin'; nor he never did, barrin' when he didn't know what he was
doin'.”
“That is when he was drunk, mammy?”
“Yes, Atty dear.”
“Well, isn't it a great thing that he can never get drunk any more,
mammy; and never beat you any more; and isn't it curious too, how he
never bate me?”
“You, darlin'? oh, no, he would rather cut his arm off than rise it to
you, Atty dear; and it's well that you are so good a boy as you are--for
I'm afeard, Atty, that even if you deserved to be corrected, he wouldn't
do it.”
“But what 'ud we all do widout my father, mammy? If anything happened to
him I think I'd die. I'd like to die if he was to go.”
“Why, darlin'?”
“Bekase, you know, he'd go to heaven, and I'd like to be wid him; sure
he'd miss me--his own Atty--wherever he'd be.”
“And so you'd lave me and your sisters, Atty, and go to heaven with your
father!”
The boy seemed perplexed; he looked affectionately at his mother, and
said--
“No, mammy, I wouldn't wish to lave you, for then you'd have no son at
all; no, I wouldn't lave you--I don't know what I'd do--I'd like to stay
wid you, and I'd like to go wid him, I'd--”
“Well, darlin', you won't be put to that trial this many a long day, I
hope.”
Just then voices were heard at the door, which both recognized as those
of Art and Mat Mulrennan the apprentice.
“Now, darlin',” said the mother, who observed that the child was pale
and drowsy-looking, “you may go to bed, I see you are sleepy, Atty, not
bein' accustomed to sit up so late; kiss me, an' good-night.” He then
kissed her, and sought the room where he slept.
Margaret, after the boy had gone, listened a moment, and became deadly
pale, but she uttered no exclamation; on the contrary, she set her
teeth, and compressed her lips closely together, put her hand on the
upper part of her forehead, and rose to go to the door. She was not yet
certain, but a dreadful terror was over her--Could it be possible that
he was drunk?--she opened it, and the next moment her husband, in a
state of wild intoxication, different from any in which she had ever
seen him, come in. He was furious, but his fury appeared to have been
directed against the apprentice, in consequence of having returned home
so late.
On witnessing with her own eyes the condition in which he returned, all
her presentiments flashed on her, and her heart sank down into a state
of instant hopelessness and misery.
“Savior of the world!” she exclaimed, “I and my childre are lost; now,
indeed, are we hopeless--oh, never till now, never till now!” She wept
bitterly.
“What are you cryin' for now?” said he; “what are you cryin' for, I
say?” he repeated, stamping his feet madly as he spoke; “stop at wanst,
I'll have no cry--cryin' what--at--somever.”
She instantly dried her eyes.
“Wha--what kep that blasted whelp, Mul--Mulrennan, out till now, I say?”
“I don't know indeed, Art.”
“You--you don't! you kno--know noth-in'; An' now I'll have a smash, by
the--the holy man, I'll--I'll smash every thing in--in the house.”
He then took up a chair, which, by one blow against the floor, he
crashed to pieces.
“Now,” said he, “tha--that's number one; whe--where's that whelp,
Mul--Mulrennan, till I pay--pay him for stayin' out so--so late. Send
him here, send the ska-min' sco--scoundrel here, I bid you.”. Margaret,
naturally dreading violence, went to get little Atty to pacify him, as
well as to intercede for the apprentice; she immediately returned, and
told him the latter was coming. Art, in the mean time, stood a little
beyond the fireplace, with a small beach chair in his hand which he had
made for Atty, when the boy was only a couple of years old, but which
had been given to the other children in succession. He had been first
about to break it also, but on looking at it, he paused and said--
“Not this--this is Atty's, and I won't break it.”
At that moment Mulrennan entered the room, with Atty behind him, but
he had scarcely done so, when Art with all his strength flung the hard
beach chair at his head; the lad, naturally anxious to avoid it, started
to one side out of its way, and Atty, while in the act of stretching out
his arms to run to his father, received the blow which had been designed
for the other. It struck him a little above the temple, and he fell,
but was not cut. The mother, on witnessing the act, raised her arms and
shrieked, but on hearing the heavy, but dull and terrible sound of the
blow against the poor boy's head, the shriek was suspended when half
uttered, and she stood, her arms still stretched out, and bent a little
upwards, as if she would have supplicated heaven to avert it;--her mouth
was half open--her eyes apparently enlarged, and starting as if it
were out of their sockets; there she stood--for a short time so full
of horror as to be incapable properly of comprehending what had taken
place. At length this momentary paralysis of thought passed away, and
with all the tender terrors of affection awakened in her heart, she
rushed to the insensible boy. Oh, heavy and miserable night! What pen
can portray, what language describe, or what imagination conceive, the
anguish, the agony of that loving mother, when, on raising her sweet,
and beautiful, and most affectionate boy from the ground whereon he lay,
that fair head, with its flaxen locks like silk, fell utterly helpless
now to this side, and now to that!
“Art Maguire,” she said, “fly, fly,”--and she gave him one look; but,
great God! what an object presented itself to her at that moment. A man
stood before her absolutely hideous with horror; his face but a minute
ago so healthy and high-colored, now ghastly as that of a corpse, his
hands held up and clenched, his eyes frightful, his lips drawn back,
and his teeth locked with strong and convulsive agony. He uttered not
a word, but stood with his wild and gleaming eyes riveted, as if by the
force of some awful spell, upon his insensible son, his only one, if he
was then even that. All at once he fell down without sense or motion,
as if a bullet had gone through his heart or his brain, and there lay as
insensible as the boy he had loved so well.
All this passed so rapidly that the apprentice, who seemed also to have
been paralyzed, had not presence of mind to do any thing but look from
one person to another with terror and alarm.
“Go,” said Margaret, at length, “wake up the girls, and then fly--oh,
fly--for the doctor.”
The two servant maids, however, had heard enough in her own wild shriek
to bring them to this woful scene. They entered as she spoke, and, aided
by the apprentice, succeeded with some difficulty in laying their master
on his bed, which was in a back room off the parlor.
“In God's name, what is all this?” asked one of them, on looking at the
insensible bodies of the father and son.
“Help me,” Margaret replied, not heeding the question, “help me to lay
the treasure of my heart--my breakin' heart--upon his own little bed
within, he will not long use it--tendherly, Peggy, oh, Peggy dear,
tendherly to the broken flower--broken--broken--broken, never to rise
his fair head again; oh, he is dead,” she said, in a calm low voice,
“my heart tells me that he is dead--see how his limbs hang, how lifeless
they hang. My treasure--our treasure--our sweet, lovin', and only little
man--our only son sure--our only son is dead--and where, oh, where, is
the mother's pride out of him now--where is my pride out of him now?”
They laid him gently and tenderly--for even the servants loved him as
if he had been a relation--upon the white counterpane of his own little
crib, where he had slept many a sweet and innocent sleep, and played
many a lightsome and innocent play with his little sisters. His mother
felt for his pulse, but she could feel no pulse, she kissed his passive
lips, and then--oh, woful alternative of affliction!--she turned to his
equally insensible father.
“Oh, ma'am,” said one of the girls, who had gone over to look at Art;
“oh, for God's sake, ma'am, come here--here is blood comin' out of the
masther's mouth.”
She was at the bedside in an instant, and there, to deepen her
sufferings almost beyond the power of human fortitude, she saw the blood
oozing slowly out of his mouth. Both the servants were now weeping and
sobbing as if their hearts would break.
“Oh, mistress dear,” one of them exclaimed, seizing her affectionately
by both hands, and looking almost distractedly into her face, “oh,
mistress dear, what did you ever do to desarve this?”
“I don't know, Peggy,” she replied, “unless it was settin' my father's
commands, and my mother's at defiance; I disobeyed them both, and they
died without blessin' either me or mine. But oh,” she said, clasping
her hands, “how can one poor wake woman's heart stand all this--a double
death--husband and son--son and husband--and I'm but one woman, one
poor, feeble, weak woman--but sure,” she added, dropping on her knees,
“the Lord will support me. I am punished, and I hope forgiven, and he
will now support me.”
She then briefly, but distractedly, entreated the divine support, and
rose once more with a heart, the fibres of which were pulled asunder, as
it were, between husband and son, each of whose lips she kissed, having
wiped the blood from those of her husband, with a singular blending
together of tenderness, distraction and despair. She went from the one
to the other, wringing her hands in dry agony, feeling for life in
their hearts and pulses, and kissing their lips with an expression of
hopelessness so pitiable and mournful, that the grief of the servants
was occasioned more by her sufferings than by the double catastrophe
that had occurred.
The doctor's house, as it happened, was not far from theirs, and in a
very brief period he arrived.
“Heavens! Mrs. Maguire, what has happened?” said he, looking on the two
apparently inanimate bodies with alarm.
“His father,” she said, pointing to the boy, “being in a state of drink,
threw a little beech chair at the apprentice here, he stepped aside, as
was natural, and the blow struck my treasure there,” she said, holding
her hand over the spot where he was struck, but not on it; “but, doctor,
look at his father, the blood is trickling out of his mouth.”
The doctor, after examining into the state of both, told her not to
despair--
“Your husband,” said he, “who is only in a fit, has broken a
blood-vessel, I think some small blood-vessel is broken; but as for the
boy, I can as yet pronounce no certain opinion upon him. It will be a
satisfaction to you, however, to know that he is not dead, but only in a
heavy stupor occasioned by the blow.”
It was now that her tears began to flow, and copiously and bitterly they
did flow; but as there was still hope, her grief, though bitter, was not
that of despair. Ere many minutes, the doctor's opinion respecting one
of them, at least, was verified. Art opened his eyes, looked wildly
about him, and the doctor instantly signed to his wife to calm the
violence of her sorrow, and she was calm.
“Margaret,” said he, “where's Atty? bring him to me--bring him to me!”
“Your son was hurt,” replied the doctor, “and has just gone to sleep.”
“He is dead,” said Art, “he is dead, he will never waken from that
sleep--and it was I that killed him!”
“Don't disturb yourself,” said the doctor, “as you value your own life
and his; you yourself have broken a blood-vessel, and there is nothing
for you now but quiet and ease.”
“He is dead,” said his father, “he is dead, and it was I that killed
him; or, if he's not dead, I must hear it from his mother's lips.”
“Art, darlin', he is not dead, but he is very much hurted,” she replied;
“Art, as you love him, and me, and us all, be guided by the doctor.”
“He is not dead,” said the doctor; “severely hurt he is, but not dead.
Of that you may rest assured.”
So far as regarded Art, the doctor was right; he had broken only a small
blood vessel, and the moment the consequences of his fit had passed away,
he was able to get up, and walk about with very little diminution of his
strength.
To prevent him from seeing his son, or to conceal the boy's state from
him, was impossible. He no sooner rose than with trembling hands, a
frightful terror of what was before him, he went to the little bed on
which the being dearest to him on earth lay. He stood for a moment,
and looked down upon the boy's beautiful, but motionless face; he first
stooped, and putting his mouth to the child's ear said--
“Atty, Atty”--he then shook his head; “you see,” he added, addressing
those who stood about him, “that he doesn't hear me--no, he doesn't hear
me--that ear was never deaf to me before, but it's deaf now;” he then
seized his hand, and raised it, but it was insensible to his touch, and
would have fallen on the bed had he let it go. “You see,” he proceeded,
“that his hand doesn't know mine any longer! Oh, no, why should it? this
is the hand that laid our flower low, so why should he acknowledge it?
yet surely he would forgive his father, if he knew it--oh, he would
forgive that father, that ever and always loved him--loved him--loved
him, oh, that's a wake word, a poor wake word. Well,” he went on, “I
will kiss his lips, his blessed lips--oh, many an' many a kiss, many a
sweet and innocent kiss--did I get from them lips, Atty dear, with those
little arms, that are now so helpless, clasped about my neck.” He then
kissed him again and again, but the blessed child's lips did not return
the embrace that had never been refused before. “Now,” said he, “you all
see that--you all see that he won't kiss me again, and that is bekaise
he can't do it; Atty, Atty,” he said, “won't you speak to me? it's I,
Atty, sure it's I, Atty dear, your lovin' father, that's callin' you to
spake to him. Atty dear, won't you spake to me--do you hear my voice,
_asthore machree_--do you hear your father's voice, that's callin'
on you to forgive him?” He paused for a short time, but the child lay
insensible and still.
At this moment there was no dry eye present; the very doctor wept.
Margaret's grief was loud; she felt every source of love and tenderness
for their only boy opened in her unhappy and breaking heart, and was
inconsolable: but then compassion for her husband was strong as
her grief. She ran to Art, she flung her arms about his neck, and
exclaimed--
“Oh, Art dear, Art dear, be consoled: take consolation if you can, or
you will break my heart. Forgive you asthore! you, you that would shed
your blood for him! don't you know he would forgive you? Sure, I forgive
you--his mother, his poor, distracted, heart-broken mother forgives
you--in his name I forgive you.” She then threw herself beside the body
of their child, and shouted out--“Atty, our blessed treasure, I have
forgiven your father for you--in your blessed name, and in the name of
the merciful God that you are now with, I have forgiven your unhappy
find heart-broken father--as you would do, if you could, our lost
treasure, as you would do.”
“Oh,” said his father vehemently distracted with his horrible
affliction; “if there was but any one fault of his that I could remimber
now, any one failin' that our treasure had--if I could think of a single
spot upon his little heart, it would relieve me; but, no, no, there's
nothin' of that kind to renumber aginst him. Oh, if he wasn't what he
was--if he wasn't what he was--we might have some little consolation;
but now we've none; we've none--none!”
As he spoke and wept, which he did with the bitterest anguish of
despair, his grief assumed a character that was fearful from the inward
effusion of blood, which caused him from time to time to throw it up in
red mouthfuls, and when remonstrated with by the doctor upon the danger
of allowing himself to be overcome by such excitement--
“I don't care,” he shouted, “if it's my heart's blood, I would shed it
at any time for him; I don't care about life now; what 'ud it be to me
without my son? widout you, Atty dear, what is the world or all
that's in it to me now! An' when I think of who it was that cut you
down--cursed be the hand that gave you that unlucky blow, cursed may
it be--cursed be them that tempted me to drink--cursed may the drink be
that made me as I was, and cursed of God may I be that--”
“Art, Art,” exclaimed Margaret, “any thing but that, remember there's a
God above--don't blasphame;--we have enough to suffer widout havin' to
answer for that.”
He paused at her words, and as soon as the paroxysm was over, he sunk
by fits into a gloomy silence, or walked from room to room, wringing
his hands and beating his head, in a state of furious distraction, very
nearly bordering on insanity.
The next morning, we need scarcely assure our readers, that, as the
newspapers have it, a great and painful sensation had been produced
through the town of Bally-keerin by the circumstances which we have
related:--
“Art Maguire had broken the pledge, gone home drunk, and killed his only
son by the blow of an iron bar on the, head; the crowner had been sent
for, an' plaise God we'll have a full account of it all.”
In part of this, however, common fame, as she usually is, was mistaken;
the boy was not killed, neither did he then die. On the third day, about
eight o'clock in the evening, he opened his eyes, and his mother, who
was scarcely ever a moment from his bedside, having observed the fact,
approached him with hopes almost as deep as those of heaven itself in
her heart, and in a voice soft and affectionate as ever melted into a
human ear--
“Atty, treasure of my heart, how do you feel?”
The child made no reply, but as his eye had not met hers, and as she had
whispered very low, it was likely, she thought, that he had not heard
her.
“I will bring his father,” said she, “for if he will know or spake to
any one, he will, spake to him.”
She found Art walking about, as he had done almost ever since the
unhappy accident, and running to him with a gush of joyful tears, she
threw her arms about his neck, and kissing him, said--
“Blessed be the Almighty, Art--” but she paused, “oh, great God, Art,
what is this! merciful heaven, do I smell whiskey on you?”
“You do,” he replied, “it's in vain, I can't live--I'd die widout it;
it's in vain, Margaret, to spake--if I don't get it to deaden my grief
I'll die: but, what wor you goin' to tell me?” he added eagerly.
She burst into tears.
“Oh, Art,” said she, “how my heart has sunk in spite of the good news I
have for you.”
“In God's name,” he asked, “what is it? is our darlin' betther?”
“He is,” she replied, “he has opened his eyes this minute, and I want
you to spake to him.”
They both entered stealthily, and to their inexpressible delight heard
the child's voice; they paused,--breathlessly paused,--and heard him
utter, in a low sweet voice, the following words--
“Daddy, won't you come to bed wid me, wid your own Atty?”
This he repeated twice or thrice before they approached him, but when
they did, although his eye turned from one to another, it was vacant,
and betrayed no signs whatsoever of recognition.
Their hearts sank again, but the mother, whose hope was strong and
active as her affection, said--
“Blessed be the Almighty that he is able even to spake but he's not well
enough to know us yet.”
This was unhappily too true, for although they spoke to him, and placed
themselves before him by turns, yet it was all in vain; the child knew
neither them nor any one else. Such, in fact, was now their calamity,
as a few weeks proved. The father by that unhappy blow did not kill
his body, but he killed his mind; he arose from his bed a mild, placid,
harmless idiot, silent and inoffensive--the only words he was almost
heard to utter, with rare exceptions, being those which had been in his
mind when he was dealt the woful blow:--“Daddy, won't you come to bed
wid me, wid your own Atty?” And these he pronounced as correctly as
ever, uttering them with the same emphasis of affection which had marked
them before his early reason had been so unhappily destroyed. Now, even
up to that period, and in spite of this great calamity, it was not
too late for Art Maguire to retrieve himself, or still to maintain the
position which he had regained. The misfortune which befell his
child ought to have shocked him into an invincible detestation of all
intoxicating liquors, as it would most men; instead of that, however,
it drove him back to them. He had contracted a pernicious habit of
diminishing the importance of first errors, because they appeared
trivial in themselves; he had never permitted himself to reason against
his propensities, unless through the indulgent medium of his own vanity,
or an overweening presumption in the confidence of his moral strength,
contrary to the impressive experience of his real weakness. His virtues
were many, and his foibles few; yet few as they were, our readers
perceive that, in consequence of his indulging them, they proved the
bane of his life and happiness. They need not be surprised, then, to
hear that from the want of any self-sustaining power in himself he fell
into the use of liquor again; he said he could not live without it, but
then he did not make the experiment; for he took every sophistry that
appeared to make in his favor for granted. He lived, if it could be
called life, for two years and a half after this melancholy accident,
but without the spring or energy necessary to maintain his position, or
conduct his business, which declined as rapidly as he did himself. He
and his family were once more reduced to absolute beggary, until in the
course of events they found a poorhouse to receive them. Art was seldom
without a reason to justify his conduct, and it mattered not how feeble
that reason might be, he always deemed it sufficiently strong to satisfy
himself. For instance, he had often told his wife that if Atty had
recovered, sound in body and mind, he had determined never again to
taste liquor; “but,” said he, “when I seen my darlin's mind gone, I
couldn't stand it widout the drop of drink to keep my heart an' spirits
up.” He died of consumption in the workhouse of Ballykeerin, and there
could not be a stronger proof of the fallacy with which he reasoned than
the gratifying fact, that he had not been more than two months dead,
when his son recovered his reason, to the inexpressible joy of his
mother; so that had he followed up his own sense of what was right, he
would have lived to see his most sanguine wishes, with regard to
his son, accomplished, and perhaps have still been able to enjoy a
comparatively long and happy life.
On the morning of the day on which he died, although not suffering much
from pain, he seemed to feel an impression that his end was at hand. It
is due to him to say here, that he had for months before his death been
deeply and sincerely penitent, and that he was not only sensible of the
vanity and errors which had occasioned his fall from integrity, and cut
him off in the prime of life, but also felt his heart sustained by
the divine consolations of religion. Father Costello was earnest and
unremitting in his spiritual attentions to him, and certainly had the
gratification of knowing that he felt death to be in his case not merely
a release from all his cares and sorrows, but a passport into that life
where the weary are at rest.
About twelve o'clock in the forenoon he asked to see his wife--his own
Margaret--and his children, but, above all, his blessed Atty--for such
was the epithet he had ever annexed to his name since the night of the
melancholy accident. In a few minutes the sorrowful group appeared, his
mother leading the unconscious boy by the hand, for he knew not where he
was. Art lay, or rather reclined, on the bed, supported by two bolsters;
his visage was pale, but the general expression of his face was calm,
mild, and sorrowful; although his words were distinct, his voice was
low and feeble, and every now and then impeded by a short catch--for to
cough he was literally unable.
“Margaret,” said he, “come to me, come to me now,” and he feebly
received her hand in his; “I feel that afther all the warfare of this
poor life, afther all our love and our sorrow, I am goin' to part wid
you and our childhre at last.”
“Oh, Art, darlin', I can think of nothing now, asthore, but our love,”
she replied, bursting into a flood of tears, in which she was joined by
the children--Atty, the unconscious Atty, only excepted.
“An' I can think of little else,” said he, “than our sorrows and
sufferins, an' all the woful evil that I brought upon you and them.”
“Darlin',” she replied, “it's a consolation to yourself, as it is to us,
that whatever your errors wor, you've repented for them; death is not
frightful to you, glory be to God!”
“No,” said he, looking upwards, and clasping his worn hands; “I am
resigned to the will of my good and merciful God, for in him is my hope
an' trust. Christ, by his precious blood, has taken away my sins, for
you know I have been a great sinner;” he then closed his eyes for a few
minutes, but his lips were moving as if in prayer. “Yes, Margaret,” he
again proceeded, “I am goin' to lave you all at last; I feel it--I
can't say that I'll love you no more, for I think that even in heaven
I couldn't forget you; but I'll never more lave you a sore heart, as
I often did--I'll never bring the bitther tear to your eye--the hue
of care to your face, or the pang of grief an' misery to your heart
again--thank God I will not; all my follies, all my weaknesses, and all
my crimes--”
“Art,” said his wife, wringing her hands, and sobbing as if her heart
would break, “if you wish me to be firm, and to set our childre an
example of courage, now that it's so much wanted, oh, don't spake as you
do--my heart cannot stand it.”
“Well, no,” said he, “I won't; but when I think of what I might be this
day, and of what I am--when I think of what you and our childre might
be--an' when I see what you are--and all through my means--when I think
of this, Margaret dear, an' that I'm torn away from you and them in the
very prime of life--but,” he added, turning hastily from that view of
his situation, “God is good an' merciful, an' that is my hope.”
“Let it be so, Art dear,” replied Margaret; “as for us, God will take
care of us, and in him we will put our trust, too; remimber that he is
the God and father of the widow an' the orphan.”
He here appeared to be getting very weak, but in a minute or two he
rallied a little, and said, while his eye, which was now becoming heavy,
sought about until it became fixed upon his son--
“Margaret, bring him to me.”
She took the boy by the hand, and led him over to the bedside.
“Put his hand in mine,” said he, “put his blessed hand in mine.”
She did so, and Art looked long and steadily upon the face of his child.
“Margaret,” said he, “you know that durin' all my wild and sinful
coorses, I always wore the lock of hair you gave me when we wor young
next my heart--my poor weak heart.”
Margaret buried her face in her hands, and for some time could not
reply.
“I don't wish, darlin',” said he, “to cause you sorrow--you will have
too much of that; but I ax it as a favor--the last from my lips--that
you will now cut off a lock of his hair--his hair fair--an' put it along
with your own upon my heart; it's all I'll have of you both in the grave
where I'll sleep; and, Margaret, do it now--oh, do it soon.”
Margaret, who always carried scissors hanging by her pocket, took them
out, and cutting a long abundant lock of the boy's hair, she tenderly
placed it where he wished, in a little three-cornered bit of black silk
that was suspended from his neck, and lay upon his heart.
“Is it done?” said he.
“It is done,” she replied as well as she could!
“This, you know, is to lie on my heart,” said he, “when I'm in my grave;
you won't forget that!”
“No--oh, no, no; but, merciful God, support me! for Art, my husband, my
life, I don't know how I'll part with you.”
“Well, may God bless you forever, my darlin' wife, and support you and
my orphans! Bring them here.”
They were then brought over, and in a very feeble voice he blessed them
also.
“Now, forgive me all,” said he, “forgive ME ALL!”
But, indeed, we cannot paint the tenderness and indescribable affliction
of his wife and children while uttering their forgiveness of all his
offences against them, as he himself termed it. In the meantime he kept
his son close by him, nor would he suffer him to go one moment from his
reach.
“Atty,” said he, in a low voice, which was rapidly sinking;--“put his
cheek over to mine”--he added to his wife, “then raise my right arm, an'
put it about his neck;--Atty,” he proceeded, “won't you give me one last
word before I depart?”
His wife observed that as he spoke a large tear trickled down his cheek.
Now, the boy was never in the habit of speaking when he was spoken to,
or of speaking at all, with the exception of the words we have already
given. On this occasion, however, whether the matter was a coincidence
or not, it is difficult to say, he said in a quiet, low voice, as if
imitating his father's--
“Daddy, won't you come to bed for me, for your own Atty?”