At the Dawning.
It was easy enough to see from Geraldine’s manner that although she had
never put the precarious state of her father’s health before herself
plainly, yet that she had vaguely dreaded the worst.
As a rule, our fears travel so much faster than actual danger, that
before danger absolutely appears in sight, we are well prepared for its
advent; and there was not one of Mr. Drewitt’s family, unless indeed it
might be Harold, who had not been long prepared for the worst.
Mrs. Drewitt, and Brian and Geraldine had known, for many a day, that he
could never be better. Once admit the idea that improvement is
impossible, and it is not difficult to imagine that the last change of
all is probable.
There are times when it is the truest wisdom to look upon our living as
dying; when it is well to meet the mournful truth boldly and without
disguise; when it is well to buckle on all our charity and forbearance;
to call together love, and duty, and tenderness, so that we may not pain
the departing by opposition which might be imperative for their sakes as
well as our own, were they not already at the mouth of that river where
all human leave-takings must be ended.
“If we had but known how ill he was—If we had only imagined he was
dying!”
“Had we thought he was in danger!”
How often we hear these sentences—happy only if we have never had need
to utter them ourselves!
Geoffry Pryor resolved that Geraldine should have no sorrow of this
kind. It was right for her to understand, and yet the intelligence did
not seem strange to her.
She had feared—and the fear was true—and she went down the hill towards
Kincorth, crying, as I have said, bitterly.
As she went Mr. Pryor began to marvel whether he had done right;
whether, after all, Mr. Drewitt’s case was so hopeless; but then he
remembered many an unfailing symptom which assured him that Kincorth
would soon be in want of a new master.
“And the sooner the better, say I,” was the conclusion he arrived at;
but then his conscience chid him, and he added, “though God knows best.”
As for Harold, nothing could induce him to think badly of his father’s
state.
“You told me more than a year ago he could not be cured, and he is alive
now,” he argued.
“I said I feared he never could be better, and I was right,” answered
Brian.
“Well, he may live for a hundred years yet,” was the reply. “He is
dying—you are dying—I am dying; but although we are dying we are not
near our deaths; at least I hope not,” added Harold; and he went
whistling out of the gates, to seek for more cheerful companionship
abroad.
He did not like all work and no play, not he; give him a good tumbler of
punch, a pretty country-girl for partner, and a jolly good dance up at
Regan’s—a public-house on the way to Cragantlet, where he and a lot of
other young fellows got together—and Kincorth might go hang.
“‘For I’m a fine young Irish gentleman,
All of the ancient school,’”
Master Harold would shout out as he came reeling home, arm-in-arm with
three or four more as drunk as himself; and Brian, who had never taken a
glass too much wine in his life, looked at his brother and asked
helplessly—“What can I do? what can I do?”
He never knew where to find Harold when he wanted him; and one night
when the worst, so long apprehended, had to be faced, Brian, flinging
himself on the fastest thing in the stable—Madcap—knew no more where to
go to look for his brother than if he were the greatest stranger in the
world.
“There is a dance up at Regan’s to-night, sir,” said the man who had
saddled the chesnut; “and if you’ll ride up there, I’ll cut across the
hills to Durrow, for Mr. Maxwell’s dining with Mr. Pryor, and should
Master Harold not be at Regan’s he’ll be there.”
“Which is the nearest road to Regan’s?” Brian asked, stroking the neck
of the chesnut, who was one of the most fidgety brutes a man ever
undertook to ride.
“Straight on till Cragantlet, then take the turn before you come to the
gates, and keep on about half-a-mile. He’s nearly sure to be there; but
if he’s not there, you might call at Dan Glynn’s as you’re comin’ back.”
“I’ll call there as I’m going,” was the reply; for Dan Glynn was an
individual who resided about a mile inland from Duranmore, and who was
reputed to make his living by less honest means than tilling bad land or
sending lean sheep to Ballinasloe fair for the Leinster graziers to buy
and fatten.
It was a dark night for August, but Brian knew every inch of the road,
and so for that matter did the chesnut, who brought him to the Moor Farm
in less than a quarter of an hour.
Brian rode straight up to the door and, without dismounting, rapped for
admittance with the handle of his whip.
There were no lights to be seen, there was no one stirring about the
place; but the youth knew Mr. Glynn’s habits, and not thinking these at
all sufficient reasons for supposing the household had retired to rest,
he jumped to the ground, and with whip and boots made such vigorous
onslaughts on the door as soon brought Mr. Glynn out of his bed to
inquire what the —— he wanted.
“I want my brother, Glynn; do you know where he is?”
“The Lord be good to me, it’s Mister Brian. I beg your pardon, sir, I’m
sure; I thought it was some damned gauger. No, I haven’t seen Masther
Harold, not these two days. Anything wrong, sir? can I be of any help?”
“No, thank you,” answered Brian, who had one foot already in the
stirrup. “I’ll go on to Regan’s.”
“How’s the Masther, Mister Brian?”
“Dying, Glynn,” was the reply that came back through the night, for the
chesnut was galloping down the cross road leading to Duranmore, and
Brian turned round in his saddle to shout out these words.
“Faith, then, an’ if he’s dyin’ it’s not Dan Glynn that’ll go back till
his bed, an’ sleep contint. I’ll follow the boy: shure an’ it’s at a
time like this a man stands in need of company, let him be rich or let
him be poor.” And straightway Mr. Glynn “clapped a saddle” on his black
pony Tom, and cantered away to Cragantlet in pursuit of Brian Drewitt.
Brian, meantime, had gone galloping on under the darkness. He gave the
chesnut her head, and she went tearing away as though she thought he was
riding a steeple-chase. Over those lonely roads, what did it matter?
Among those desolate hills, who cared if he rode like a fiend through
the night? The same country as Maxwell had traversed, while the moon
shone down on lake, and hill, and bog, and ravine, Brian now dashed
through without turning his eyes to right or left. He thought of his
father—of the great mystery—of how hard he had tried to do his duty—and
of how his reward was—
“Harold, Harold,” but never once, “Brian, my son.”
And now his father was going where all his eldest born had tried to
effect could benefit him no more. He would never see Kincorth clear of
debt; never know how disinterested Brian had been; never understand how
this boy-man had worked to free him from anxiety; never comprehend how
wild and reckless, how selfish and thoughtless, his favourite son was
growing up.
“It is best as it is,” thought Brian, bitterly; “better for him to die
than for Harold to break his heart!” And as he thought this, the sound
of music was borne down the lane, and he heard shouting and laughing and
the noise of the dancers’ feet as they were thumped at regular intervals
upon the earthen floor.
“Hold my horse, boy,” he shouted to an urchin standing by the open door,
and the boy ran forward and took the mare, and was about to lead her
round to the yard, when Brian stopped him.
“Don’t put her up,” he said, “I only want to speak a word inside. I
shall be out again in a minute,” and he strode into the house, a
finer-looking man than Harold was ever likely to grow to.
“Is my brother within, Mrs. Regan?” he asked of the landlady, who met
him at the door.
“Mr. Brian! an’ it’s welcome ye are, sir. Your brother? I’m not just
sure, sir; will ye step in and sit down while I see?”
“I’ll see for myself, Mrs. Regan, if you please,” answered Brian, gently
putting the landlady on one side. “You need not be afraid; I’m not going
to scold the boy; nobody is going to be angry with him, only his father
wants to see him before he dies!”
“God save us all, is he that bad, Mr. Brian?” But Brian had already
flung open the kitchen-door and was among the merrymakers.
In a moment every dancer stood still, every voice was hushed, and only
the piper who had been playing Paddy O’Rafferty went on with his tune,
unmindful of the intruder.
“Hush! Jamsie,” said one in his ear, “it is the young master;” and the
piper stopped.
Although it was summer, a tremendous turf-fire blazed on the hearth, and
collected together in the kitchen were a number of pretty young
country-girls, young farmers, labourers, and two or three gentlemen’s
sons, foremost among whom stood Harold.
There were wooden forms round the room for the convenience of the
lookers on; there was whiskey in abundance; one or two dogs lay on the
hearth, and the blind piper was accommodated with a seat in a dark
corner.
“Welcome, Brian!” shouted out Harold, boisterously; “welcome! we’ll get
you a pretty partner and drink your health with three times three.”
“Not to-night, Harold,” answered Brian. “I want you a minute; come
here;” and thinking all the time of the room in which he had left his
father, of the contrast between the one scene and the other, he led his
brother into the passage, and told him he must hurry home.
Like one listening in a dream, Harold heard all Brian said in silence.
In silence also he allowed himself to be taken out of the house into the
darkness, to the spot where the chesnut was standing.
“Don’t spare her, Harold,” said Brian, helping his brother into the
saddle; “lose no time.”
“But you, Brian—but you?” and Harold was on the ground again.
“I’ll walk back,” was the answer. “Hang it! can’t you do as I tell you
for once? Jump up; it is you he wants to see—not me.”
And Brian almost lifted his brother into his seat as he spoke.
“Are you all right now?” he asked.
“Yes, only I wish——”
Brian struck the mare on her flank, and the creature was off through the
darkness, through the night, bearing Harold towards Kincorth.
A mile after leaving Regan’s, Brian met Glynn. “Take my pony, Master
Brian,” he said; “I brought him up here on purpose, and I can send to
Kincorth for him in the morning.”
“And you, Glynn?”
“I can tramp it,” was the answer; and Brian accepted his offer; only as
he rode he wondered how much of all the respect and civility which was
accorded to him he owed to the fact of his being the eldest son, the
next heir.
“It is Harold they like,” he reflected, “and not me.”
But Brian was wrong; the country-people liked Harold much, but they
liked him better. They were fond of the free-mannered impetuous boy, but
they were fonder still of the young gentleman who was doing his best so
soon; who was out with the labourers in the morning, and was overseeing
the men, and planning this and measuring that, from sunrise to sunset.
“Doing his best to keep the ould place from the stranger,” as they
pathetically said.
It was two o’clock before Brian reached home. Glynn’s pony cast a shoe
six miles from Kincorth, and the young man had been obliged to walk him
every step of those six miles home.
“An’ ye never stopped to pick up the shoe, Master Brian,” said Nannie,
who was now stooped with age, and old and withered, regretfully. “I only
hope no harm will come of it. Won’t you eat a bite before you go up to
him? He has been asking for you.”
“For my brother, I suppose you mean,” answered Brian; “is he not with
him?”
“Yes; but it has been Brian, Brian, this last two hours. You look white
like, won’t you have a drop of something?”
“No, Nannie, not now; let me alone, like a good soul. Where is my
mother?”
“Where wud she be but wid him?” was the reply; and Brian ascended the
staircase and entered his father’s room.
There lay Mr. Drewitt, waiting for the final summons; there sat Mrs.
Drewitt, and Harold, and Geraldine, and Doctor Sheen. From side to side
the dying man tossed restlessly. “Brian, Brian!” he cried; and Brian
answered, “I am here.”
“Will you take care of your mother, Brian, and your sister, and—and
Harold?”
“I will, father,” and the young man bowed his head as though he felt
himself in the presence of something mightier than mortality.
“Will you be good to him, patient with him?”
“I will,” and Brian Drewitt took his father’s hand.
“Swear it,” murmured the dying man.
“As I hope for peace here and salvation hereafter, I swear!” said Brian.
“I have left you all,” Mr. Drewitt muttered feebly; “perhaps it is not
right—and I did not mean to do it—but you will be good to him, Brian,
you will?”
“Before God!” was the reply.
“And may He enable you to fulfil your vow!” said a voice behind him; and
Brian, looking round, saw the Rector of Duranmore, who laid a kindly
hand on his shoulder.
“My boy,” he whispered, “you have undertaken great responsibilities this
night; but God will give you strength if you ask for His help.”
And then they all knelt down, while the clergyman prayed that
intensely-pathetic prayer which is ordered, in the visitation of the
sick, for those for whom there appeareth small hope of recovery.
“Amen,” said the sick man, but there was no other Amen, only sobs from
the women and Harold, and a profound silence as regarded Brian and
Doctor Sheen.
“Amen!”—the sands in the glass had almost run out; the sun of his life
was close upon its setting; the river of his existence was flowing out
into the sea.
Amen! His day was declining; his grass withering. This man was going to
his long home, and the mourners were gathered round about him.
Amen! He could not take up his life again and make a better thing of it;
he could not go back through the years and redress the wrong, and undo
the misery he had brought on others. For him in this world there was no
future, only a barren and unprofitable past.
Amen! Throw open the shutters, and fling up the windows, that he may
look his last in the grey light of morning, over the country he has
loved so long.
“Lift me up,” he said feebly; and they raised him up that he might see
the trees standing quietly in the first blush of dawn—the sea lying
still as a glassy lake—the grand old mountains and Eversbeg’s Head.
From the far-off mountains, from the nearer hills, from the sea and the
woods, and the cold grey sky, the dying man’s eyes came back slowly to
the room where was a “sound of weeping and a noise of lamentation.”
Maxwell had come in and stood beside the bed, waiting till his uncle
should notice him. Against an old-fashioned escritoire leant Mr. Pryor,
who felt himself an intruder and a stranger in the midst of such a
scene. The Rector supported the sick man, and whispered some words of
consolation to him. He saw the end coming; he knew the moment when the
keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men bow themselves, and the
grinders cease, was close at hand; and though he could not hear what the
dying man was muttering, he yet liked to see his lips move, hoping it
was in prayer.
He looked very peaceful; his face was calm and placid; but as he brought
back his eyes from the Bennebeola mountains, from Eversbeg and the
nearer hills, his glance fell on Maxwell, who stepped closer to speak to
him.
But his uncle turned from him, and calling out “Brian—Brian!” fell
forward into the arms of his first-born.
And over his father’s grey head, which lay on his bosom, Brian looked
defiantly at his cousin. There was no man living could step between them
now; in that hour his son was closer to Archibald Drewitt than the wife
of his bosom.
As the magnet attracts iron, so the stronger nature attracts the weaker
in the hour of its most grievous need.
No man could separate the father and his child now—for still the grey
head lay on Brian’s breast, growing heavier—heavier each moment.
There was a great silence in the chamber, and then Doctor Sheen walked
round the bed, and taking one cold hand in his, felt the pulse.
It was gone—the “silver cord was loosed, and the golden bowl broken, and
the pitcher broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the
cistern.”
The dust had returned to the earth, and the spirit unto God who gave it.