THE DEMONSTRATION.
And thus it came to pass that the chief characters of this story found
themselves in Ballybay again on its closing day, on exactly the same
spot as they were on the day when it opened.
The Land League demonstration was not prepared with any particular care
or organization, the Irish people being still, even in the matter of
political demonstration, in a state of childish immaturity. It turned
out to be better so, for the spontaneous inventiveness of the moment
suggested a programme far more dramatic and picturesque than could have
occurred to the mind of the most ingenious political stage-manager. The
platform had been erected on the spot where the cabin had stood which
the son of the Gombeen man had overthrown so many years ago. The field
now was laid in grass, which, before the demonstration waved long and
green; but as the hours went on and the thousands of feet passed over
it, the grass was all crushed and torn. There were half a dozen
bands--two of them dressed in the showy uniform which descends from the
pictures of Robert Emmet in the dock--and they played continuously and
for the most part discordantly. There were also many banners, there was
a long procession of men on horseback, and the heads of the horses were
covered with green boughs. Green, indeed, was everywhere; there were
green banners, green scarves, green neck-ties, and the greater part of
the men displayed the green ticket of the Tenant League in their hats.
The air of the crowd was in no way serious, the whole affair was rather
like a _fete_ than a grave political demonstration. The multitudes, too,
had the absence of self-control which characterizes popular
demonstrations; their feelings seemed to express themselves without
thought or premeditation, speech overflowed rather than fell from their
lips. The result was that the cheering was continuous; now it was the
arrival of a band; then the erect walk of a sturdy contingent from a
distant point; sometimes it was simply the exchange of a look, that,
though mute, spoke volumes, between the people in the procession and
those on the sidepaths, that brought forth a wild cheer, in short the
temper of the crowd was bright and electrical--the mood for unusual
ideas and passionate scenes.
The good humor was hearty rather than inventive or articulate, but one
man had had the genius to invent a comic device. This was a very wild
creature, half beggar, half laborer, the last of a rapidly dying class
in Ireland. He had got hold of a wretched nag of whom the knacker had
been defrauded for many years and seated on this in fantastic dress he
cudgelled it unmercifully, amid screams of laughter, for around its neck
was a placard with the words, "Dead Landlordism."
About two o'clock, there was seen making a desperate attempt to
penetrate through this teeming, densely-packed, and noisy multitude, a
stout figure, with a face ugly, irregular, good-humored. He was dressed
in a long and dull-colored and almost shabby ulster. His hat was as
rough as if it had been brushed the wrong way, and he wore a suit of
tweed that was now very old, but that even in its earliest days would
have been scorned by the poorest shopman of the town with any
pretensions to respectability, and the trousers were short and painfully
bagged at the knees. But the divine light of genius shone from the brown
eyes and the ample forehead. The enthusiasm of the multitude now knew no
bounds. There was first a strange stillness, then, when the word seemed
to have passed with a strange and lightning-like rapidity from mouth to
mouth, there burst forth a great cheer, and it was known that Isaac Butt
had come.
But even the Irish leader was destined to play a subordinate part in the
proceedings of this strange day. It was a local speaker that stirred the
hearts of the people to the uttermost, for he told the story of the
eviction of the Widow Cunningham, of the death of her husband, the exile
of her son, the shame of her daughter.
While he was speaking some one cried, "She'll have her own agin," and
then a few of the young fellows disappeared from the platform. In the
course of half-an-hour they returned. They ascended the platform, and
after a while, and another pause, a strange and audible thrill passed
through the multitude; and then there were passed in almost a hoarse
whisper the words, "The Widow Cunningham." And she it was; acting on the
hint of the speaker, she had been taken from the workhouse; and she was
brought back to her old farm again and to the site of her shattered
homestead and broken life. The multitude cheered themselves hoarse;
hundreds rushed to the platform to seize her by the hand; a few women
threw their arms around her neck, and wept and laughed. Finally, the
enthusiasm could not be controlled, and, in spite of the entreaties of
the political leaders and of the priests, a knot of young men caught the
poor old creature up, and carried her around the field in triumph; the
crowd everywhere swaying backwards and forwards, divided between the
effort to make a way for the strange procession and the desire to catch
sight of the old woman. Probably few of the people there could
understand the strange effect which this sight had upon them; but their
instincts guided them aright in the enthusiasm with which they hailed
this visible token of a bad and terrible and irrevocable past.
And how was it with the chief actor in the scene? Five years of life in
a workhouse had left no trace of the handsome, long-haired, and
passionate woman who had cursed the destroyer of her house and her
children with wild vehemence, and had resisted the assault of the
Crowbar Brigade with murderous energy. She was now simply a feeble old
woman, with scanty grey hair; the light had died out of her eyes; and
there was nothing left in them now but weariness and pain; her cheeks
were sunk and were dreadfully discolored; in short, she was a poor,
feeble, old woman, with broken spirits and dulled brain. The revenge for
which she had longed and prayed had come at last; but it had come too
late.
She went through the whole scene with curious and unconscious gaze, as
of one passing through a waking dream, and the only sign she gave of
understanding anything that was going on was that she gave a weak and
weary little smile when the people cried out to her enthusiastically,
"Bravo, Widow Cunningham!"--a smile as spectral as the state of things
of which she was the relic. She was very wearied and almost fainting
when she was brought back to the platform; and then she said, in a voice
that was a little louder than a whisper, and with a strange wistfulness
in her eyes, "I'd like a cup of tay."
But there was no tea to be had, and the thoughtless good-nature of the
day helped to precipitate the tragedy which the equally thoughtless
enthusiasm had begun. A dozen flasks were produced; a tumbler was taken
from the table, and a large quantity of whiskey was poured down her
throat. She became feeble, and the rays of intelligence almost
disappeared from her face.
At last, as the evening fell, the crowd dispersed; the old pauper was
left by the men who had brought her to the platform, and there were but
a couple of women more watchful than the rest to take care of her. They
tried to bring her home, but she showed a strange kind of obstinacy, and
refused for a long time to move. When she was got to make a stir she
seemed most unwilling to go in the direction of the workhouse, she would
give no reason--for indeed she seemed either unable or unwilling to
speak at all, but with the silent obstinacy of an animal she tried to go
in an opposite direction. At last the two women thought it wisest to
humor her, and let her go where she wished. By this time night had
completely fallen, and in going down a dark boreen she managed to escape
from her companions altogether. They searched everywhere around, and at
last frightened, they went home for their husbands. A party of five
people--the husbands, the son of one of them, and the two women came
along the boreen, guided by the dim light of the farthing dip which is
the only light the Irish farmer has yet been able to use. After a long
search they came to a spot well known to all of them, and then the truth
burst suddenly upon them. One of the women had been at the funeral of
the Widow Cunningham's husband when she was a little girl, and
remembered the spot where he was buried. They all followed her there in
a strange anxiety, and their anticipations proved right. On the grave of
her husband they found the Widow Cunningham, and she was a corpse.