Dingle before he got steady, even while only a stripling. In this place,
if I'd a mind to do it, I might keep playing with your feelings, and
tell you how young Dingle parted from the people, and what they thought
and said, while he was climbing; and how one minute they had rason to
hope, and the next to fear for him:--but I won't do this, for you may
imagine it all without any word of mine. I'll come to the point at
once:--it was long before James made much way; for the lowest part of
the peak was the worst; and when he got higher, he had often to crawl
along the ledges a great way to find resting-places above for his feet:
but he got on better than he did at the beginning; and after being often
lost sight of, behind the pieces of rock that shot up like towers, he
appeared again in places where he wasn't expected; and in less than an
hour, the people below saw him in the branches of the tree, behind which
it was known the eagle's aërie was built. Even then he hadn't done his
work:--but you'll hear how he got on.
The eagle's nest rested partly on the tree I spoke of, which grew out of
a crevice of the rock, and partly on the floor of a natural cave: it
was made of big sticks, and among them was many a white bone of bird
and beast, that had served the eagles for prey, years and years before.
James Dingle put aside the branches, quietly as he could, and in no
small trepidation, to see what was doing, before he got in:--and he did
right, I think; for look before you leap, is a saying that has sense in
it, especially when you're going to get into an eagle's nest. So far,
all went well; but no sooner had he put his head through the leaves,
than he saw a sight that struck him motionless!--Most men have been
amazed some time or other; but there never was a man so amazed as James
Dingle was. At one corner of the little hollow in the rock,--making
himself look less than he was,--who do you think sat then but small
Misther Millet?--Misther Millet himself, whiter than the wall,--who had
been lost since the day before, as I tould you,--shivering like a mouse
within reach of the claws of a cat, with both the eagles opposite, on
the brink of the nest, staring at the crature, and seeming to wonder
what he was at, and how he got there!--There was two young eagles in the
nest full-fledged, and looking mighty frightened at their new friend,
Misther Millet. The lamb wasn't touched, though killed; and by its
side lay the child, with one of the young eagles' wings over the little
darling's face. It seemed as though the birds had all been afraid to
begin their meal, with Millet where he was, and hadn't yet made up their
minds how to get rid of him. I may as well tell you now, as by-and-by,
how he came there, for I dare say you'd like to know.--
Well, then, the little man, by his own story, had wandered away the
day before, an hour after breakfast, to fetch a romantic walk among the
hills, and gather pebbles, and catch butterflies, and draw trees, and
make poetry, and do them things he was fond of: but by the time his
stomach tould him it was getting on fast for dinner-time, he made a
discovery that wasn't singular, considering what he'd been at, and which
way he wint. You'll guess he lost his way,--and so he did; and every
step he took made matters worse. Night came upon him, in a place where
he could see nothing but a few rocks and wild shrubs about, and the sky
speckled with stars above him. He chose out the clanest and softest bed
he could, took off his coat and turned it inside out; then putting it
on again, he lay down, and to his own great surprise soon found himself
falling asleep. He had no bad dreams from indigestion that night, you
may be sure; but he didn't wake very well in the morning, for all that.
At day-break, he began walking again; and, in about an hour's time, upon
looking through a few bushes, he got sight of a hole in the rock, which
had light at the other end of it. He crawled in upon all-fours, and soon
found himself cheek-by-jowl with a pair of young eagles!
Now we knew, from tradition, that there certainly was a long, but not
a difficult way to the eagle's nest, through the hills; but though many
had tried that was born and bred near them, none could ever find it
out; and then comes Misther Millet, piping hot from a Liverpool
'counting-house, and discovers it without trying, and much against his
own will, to boot!--His wonder wasn't well over, before home came the
great hen-eagle, with a lamb; and from that time, he didn't dare stir;
for she never ceased eyeing him, as though she was only waiting until he
made a move, to dart at his face. By-and-by, home came her mate too; and
the sight of him didn't make Misther Millet feel a morsel more aisy, I
take lave to suppose; especially when he saw that the bird had a child
in its clutch:--and there sat the little man, half dead with hunger, and
cold, and fear, when James Dingle looked in upon him.
It was then only, that the birds appeared to know of the approach of
another intruder: they stretched forth their wide wings, and each of
them, at the same moment, seized the lamb with one foot, and stood
fluttering on the other, at the edge of the nest. Dingle reached out his
left hand and dragged the child to him; and with his right, before you'd
breathe, struck the bird that was nearest him--it was the cock--a blow
on the head, with Bat Boroo's oaken cudgel, that knocked him over the
edge of the nest; and down he fell, in a way that made those below think
he was killed; but after falling many yards, he fluttered his wings, and
soon recovered enough to fly to a resting-place. The hen, at the moment
her mate got the blow, screamed so that the rocks rung with it, and
got upon the wing. She wheeled round in the air, and rose, to all
appearance, for the purpose of making a terrible stoop upon her enemy.
There wasn't any time to be lost:--James Dingle pushed both the young
eagles out of the nest; they were able to keep themselves up; and the
ould hen, instead of making a descent upon James, altered her course,
flew towards her young, and kept close to them, until they had reached,
and were safe perched upon, the point of one of the peaks, that grew up
by the side of the crag.
While this was doing, Dingle got into the nest, bid Millet crawl back
through the hole with the child, and in a short time followed. He had
made up his mind to explore his way through the hills; for, thinks
he, Misther Millet never could have got here, if the road's difficult;
unless, indeed, the eagles carried him up; but that's not likely:--so
I'll try; and it's odd, from this height, if I can't discover the way
down, whatever may be said of its being impossible. The hen-eagle, too,
kept hovering about, and would, no doubt, soon be joined by her mate;
and--do you mark?--if he pulled up the rope by the cord he had, and let
down the baby, the great chance was, whether one of the ould birds--to
say nothing of the fear he had of its getting hurt against the
rocks,--wouldn't pounce upon and destroy it, as it swung mid-way in the
air. So he determined to try his luck, and began descending. Misther
Millet amused him by his story as they wint: but the gentleman couldn't
remember one inch of the way he came; and if Norah Cavanagh's child
hadn't been carried off the way I tould you, Jack Dax would have lost
a nephew, and the world Misther Millet: for I can't but think he'd have
died somewhere about the hills, or been killed by the eagles; and so,
one way or other, met with the same fate as the boy did that was seen in
the nest long ago, and never got back.
When the people below saw that James Dingle waved his stick
triumphantly,--as he did before he left the nest,--and had disappeared
for some time, though the eagles hadn't harmed him, they reminded one
another of the way to the crag over the hills, and thought he was
trying to find it. And when they asked Malachi Roe, he made a speech
again,--that is, a speech for the likes of such a one as him:--says he,
“I've no doubt but he is; he'd be a fool if he didn't; for look at the
eagles above, between this and the nest.”
“True,” says Mick Maguire; “that didn't occur to us, whin he wint up.
Any how, he might have killed them both,--and then there'd be no danger
in letting down the baby,--he might have done that, if he'd taken my
gun. And I'm thinking that Bat Boroo's stick--”
“What's your opinion, Malachi?” said Father Killala, interrupting
Mick;--and it's the only fault he has: for he'd never hear one of my
stories half through, without asking two or three hundred questions; and
then, may be, he'd go off in the middle of it. But he's a fine man, and
that's his only fault, or, I'd rather say, it's a way he has that's
not pleasant to some people, though Mick didn't mind it. “What's your
opinion, Malachi?” says Father Killala; “do you think James Dingle will
find his way back?”
“With the blessing of Providence, I've no doubt of it,” replied
Malachi;--“no one ever came back from it yet, it's true; but there never
was such a man as James Dingle got into the nest before.”
“He knows the country as well as any one here, I suppose,” observed the
Priest.
“Better, Father Killala,” said Malachi.
With this, most of the people came back, bringing poor Norah with them;
and she was comforted in a great degree. Still she'd terrible fears, and
a multitude of bad fancies; but every one strove to console her: those
who wouldn't spake to her before, wept for her now; and Norah Cavanagh
was grateful to them for it. A few watched the crag; but most of the
people, as I said, came away: and they might be seen hanging together in
knots about the place, doing nothing the rest of the morning but watch
in hopes of seeing James Dingle appear. Some wint up among the hills to
scout for him; though that wasn't much use, for nobody knew which way
he'd come back.
Hours and hours passed on, but still no news of James Dingle! And his
aunt, who heard of what had been done, was almost frantic at the foot of
the hill, beyond The Beg. It was long she waited, and often she looked
up the crags, but still there was no sign of her nephew:--it was past
mid-day, and all the people got round her, and every body began to
despair but Malachi.
At last two men was seen coming down from above; and who should they be,
as you'll guess, but James Dingle and small Misther Millet! Young Dingle
had Norah Cavanagh's child in his arms, and Millet was helping himself
on as well as he could by Bat Boroo's big stick.
I won't describe what big Jack Dax,--who was there,--said on seeing his
nephew again; I'll rather take up your time by telling you what a better
man, and that's Father Killala, did:--though Misther Dax is a good soul,
and much liked; but, of course, not to be mentioned with the Priest.
And the truth is, big Jack Dax didn't waste much time in words but, with
little or no ceremony, hoisted his poor worn-out little nephew on his
own broad shoulders, and so hoiked him off home to The Beg. It was
himself--I mane the Priest,--that took the child out of James Dingle's
arms, and when he'd seen it was alive and well, he motioned all the
people about him to be silent: then, turning to young Dingle, he said,
in a tone that those who heard it won't soon forget, “James Dingle,
you're the father of this child!”
Every soul stood amazed, and nobody spoke but Dingle himself. “What
makes you say so, sir?” said he.
“What?” exclaimed Father Killala: “what but that we've all witnessed
to-day?--Your humanity made you offer money to any one that would scale
the crag, when you merely knew that a child had been carried off by
the eagle; but as soon as you heard the child was Norah Cavanagh's, you
prepared to go yourself. None but the father of this babe would have
ventured as much for it as you have to-day;--you are that father, James
Dingle. In the face of Heaven above us,--before your countrymen,--in
the sight of that lost young woman,--and with this unhappy being on
your bosom,”--and he placed the child in young Dingle's arms as he
spoke,--“with this in your bosom, you cannot--dare not deny it!”
“I don't deny it, Father Killala,” replied James Dingle.
It's said the Priest himself looked a little surprised at this; but
he wint on:--“Then, Mr. Dingle, as you're a man, I trust it's your
intention to follow up this great day's work, by doing right to her that
you've wronged.”
“He never wronged me, Father Killala,--blessings on him!” said Norah
Cavanagh.
Well! how all this would end, no soul could guess. The good Priest
looked more astonished than before, and not a little angry at Norah.
“And are you so lost to shame,” said he to her--“has vice made you so
abandoned--”
“She never was lost to shame, and don't know vice;” interrupted James
Dingle, rather warmly: “I'll uphould her to be as pure and virtuous as
any here.”
James Dingle's aunt, who had stood mute with amazement all this time,
now broke silence. “What's all this I hear?” exclaimed she:--“Why, he'll
say next she's an honest man's wife, and himself her husband.”
“That's just how it is, aunt,” replied James.
Without repeating more of that part of their discourse, word for word,
I may as well tell you, that Dingle owned to his enraged aunt,
he'd married Norah secretly, under a promise of getting the aunt's
forgiveness within a month or so; but as Norah was a Catholic, and the
Dingles were Protestants, and the ould woman herself was as proud as
them that was her betters, and so adverse to a Catholic for her
nephew's wife, that she'd as soon have done any thing as agree to such a
thing;--as, I say, all this was the case,--and James should have thought
of it before, shouldn't he?--though his heart was a stout one, he hadn't
the courage to mention his marriage to her. When his wife--for so I'll
call her now--found he broke his promise, and wouldn't save her from
the shame that was fast coming upon her, she resolutely refused to have
any--even the slightest--communication with him, and scorned to accept
the smallest mite of assistance from his hand: but worked hard and
supported herself, and by-and-by her baby too;--bowing, down before her
bad luck, and taking it as a penance for doing wrong, as she had, by
such a marriage; but under all, trusting to Providence for better days.
James Dingle freely confessed how bad he'd acted; and Norah repeated
over and over, it wasn't his wish she should work as she had;--but she
would. The only excuse he could make was, the situation of his sisters;
who, as every one knew, like himself, were quite dependent on his aunt
for support. “And though,” says he, “I'm strong and able, and could well
keep them by the sweat of my brow, they'd break their hearts in a month,
after being brought up the way they have; and I was sure my aunt would
turn them out, the day I owned to marrying Norah. But that's but a poor
plea for me:--I should have looked to my wife first;--I feel it here!”
says he, striking his breast, “I'm a good-for-nothing scoundrel, and
them that doesn't despise me is a'most as bad as myself. I made up my
mind how I'd act, coming down the crags, with the child smiling up like
an angel of goodness in my face, and so telling me, in that mute way,
to repent and do right, without more delay. I determined on this,
before Father Killala spoke to me;--believe it or no, which way you
please.--Norah, I'll go home with you, and in your own little cabin ask
your forgiveness; next, I'll beg that of my sisters, who, I suppose,
will be sent to me at once;--I begged it from above long ago. Aunt,
after the poor return I've made to you for all you did for me and mine
before now, it's useless to ask grace of you for myself, I suppose; but
my knees wouldn't be stiff, if I thought I could, by entreating, obtain
a continuance of your bounty to them who hav'n't offended you;--of
course, I mane my sisters. Whether or no, aunt, I'll always be grateful;
and do as you will, I'll not repine.”
But James Dingle's aunt didn't mind what her nephew said, and wouldn't
even listen to Father Killala, but raved and stormed with such violence,
that every one thought her passion must soon blow over; but the more
she blustered, the better she seemed to be for it. Bat Boroo got his big
stick and retired to the rear, seemingly a little frightened or so; Duck
Davie rubbed the palms of his hands together, and felt delighted to see
the ould lady in such a pucker,--no doubt he did; Mick Maguire stood
leaning upon the muzzle of his gun, staring with wonder at her chin
going up and down at such a rate; and Luke Fogarty poked his bull's
horn as near as he well could to her mouth, to pick up as much of her
discourse as his deafness would let him.
At last, as all things must have an end, young Dingle's aunt stopped
talking; but without being a bit more contented than when she began.
Just then, little Norah knelt down before her, and with tears in her
eyes asked, would she forgive her nephew, if she (Norah) left the place
for everwith her baby, and wint away to such parts, that none who knew
her should ever see sight of her more.
But James Dingle and Ileen stepped up to the little Dillosk-woman as
soon as the words were out of her mouth; and one at one side, and one at
the other, they raised her up.
“I can't agree to that,” says James Dingle.
“No; nor I,--nor any woman here,” says Ileen.
“I don't reproach you, Norah,” continued James, “for offering to leave
me;--but I won't allow it. It's now, perhaps for the first time, I feel
how very dear you are to me. I'll give up all for you,--all, Norah; and
it's much I shall be in your debt even then.”
“The whole that I've to say about the matter, Mrs. Dingle, is this,”
quoth Ileen; “you've no right to look down upon Norah though she's poor
and a Catholic, bekase you're rich and a Protestant: for you were poor
yourself, before your husband, that's dead, turned tithe-proctor; and
your own uncle is now Coadjutor to the Parish-Priest of Ballydalough.
There's not one belonging to you can say his grandfather ever had two
chimneys to his house, or more than would buy a day's dinner in his
pocket:--that I needn't tell you though, for you know it well enough,
Mrs. Dingle. The buttermilk blood will shew itself; but you sha'n't
trample upon Norah Cavanagh, while I, that's her own mother's second
cousin, can get within a mile of her. She comes of a good family, Mrs.
Dingle, and if you won't be a mother to her, I will!--I couldn't look
upon her while every one had a right to think she'd disgraced herself;
but now she's proved to be what she ought, I restore her to my heart.”
“Ah! why not be good humoured thin at once?” says Mick Maguire to the
aunt; “make no more wry faces at the pill; but, though it's bitter,
swallow it at once: why not thin, eh?--and don't be a fool!--If you make
any more noise about it, I'll fire away all the powder I have to drown
your voice.”
“I'll not have my aunt insulted, Mick,” says James Dingle: “neither
by you, nor any one:--and I'd be better pleased with Heen had she said
less.”
“I'm not one for asking lave what I shall say, before I spake, or
begging pardon for what I've spoke, James Dingle;” replied Ileen.
“That's true,” observed her husband, ould Malachi Roe, in a remarkably
positive tone.
Mrs. Dingle seemed to have a mind to begin again, when who should walk
up to the place where the people were standing, but my lady from The
Beg, leaning upon the arm of Pierce Veogh!--Mick Maguire let off his gun
for joy at the sight; the piper played a merry jig; Father Killala and
James Dingle shook hands with Pierce, and welcomed him heartily; and
almost every body felt delighted: for Pierce, with all his faults, was
much loved for many things;--chiefly, though, because he was born among
us, and had been unfortunate.
“Thank God!” says he, as soon as he was let speak; “Thank God! I'm here
among my people once more; and able to stand a free man on my own ground
again. For clearing me of all my miseries,--for recalling me to the
right path,--for restoring me to the house of my forefathers,--I am
indebted to my wife.” The beautiful lady who still kept her arm in
his, blushed, and held down her head, as he spoke these words. “My last
creditor,” continued Pierce, “that rascally mushroom, Mick Purcell, was
forced to give me a full acquittance this morning; an hour after that we
were married: but it's only since Mr. Dax returned to The Beg with his
nephew, that I heard what had happened; and it grieves me to find any
one about me wretched at such a time as this. Mrs. Dingle, I don't like
to boast of my few good deeds; but, I believe, on one occasion, I had it
in my power to grant you an important favour;--did I refuse?”
Mrs. Dingle burst into tears, but made no reply.
“I understand you object to your nephew's choice, little Norah here,
because she's a Catholic. My wife,” continued Pierce, “was a Protestant;
I, as you know, am not: but, with her, the difference of our creeds was
no bar to our union.”
Well--as I often say--to make a long story short, at last and in the
long run, what with Father Killala's preaching, and Pierce Veogh's
entreating, and his beautiful lady's winning smiles, and the tears of
proud little Norah, James Dingle's aunt agreed to make it up with her
nephew. Instead of going home with Norah that night to her own little
mud cabin, he took her away to his aunt's house; and she has ever since
lived upon good terms with the ould woman, and her nieces to boot.
Pierce Veogh had intended to have made no noise about his wedding that
day; but to have kept open house at The Beg, from the next morning,
for a whole week. However, as he'd shewn himself to the people, and
reconciled his richest tenant to the marriage of her nephew with one
of the poorest on the whole domain,--though there never was a better,
except my lady, and few so good, upon it as little Norah,--he couldn't
but ask every body to come home with him and make merry a little.
And it's merry enough they made themselves, as I can bear witness, for
I was among them. They couldn't well get on without me; so Mick Maguire,
and Bat Boroo, with Corney Carolan, and a whole fratarnity of them, came
down to fetch me up to The Beg in pomp. But, bad luck to them!--they
would have broke my neck if I hadn't a little thought for myself; for
they'd a cup of the crature inside them before they started, and what
should they propose but to knock out the head of a large empty cask
that had been washed ashore close to my cabin that day week, and, as
I couldn't walk, to roll me in it, over and over, right up to The Beg!
This, of course, I couldn't allow; but, as there was no other vahicle to
be had, I consented,--if they'd born square holes through the two ends
of the cask, and get a pole to fit them,--to bestride it. So they did as
I hinted, and away I wint, with the piper playing before me, and two or
three o' them, under Bat Boroo's command, carrying me, straight off to
The Beg; where I emptied so many piggins o' pothien to the health of my
neighbours, that I know no more how or when I got home, than the man in
the moon.
[Illustration: 309]
*****
[Illustration: 310]
THIRD COURSE: MY COUSIN'S CLIENTS.
[Illustration: 312]
INTRODUCTION.
As executor to my cousin, an attorney who had resided for upwards of
thirty years in old Fumival's Inn, it became my duty to look over
a quantity of his papers, in order to elucidate some important
transactions, to which he had alluded in his will. The mass of documents
was too weighty to admit of a removal; and, for some time after his
decease, a variety of circumstances prevented me from devoting a morning
to their examination at his chambers. At length, the feast of St.
Swithin arrived:--the morning was ushered in, as is usually the case,
with low and gloomy clouds; and at noon, a heavy shower, of several
hours' duration, began to fall. The rain compelled me to abandon the
business which I had intended to have done that day, and nothing of
interest pressed for my attention at home. I lost an hour in going,
alternately, to every window of the house; and, at the expiration of
that time, as no symptoms of a change were perceptible,--Furnival's
Inn being not far distant,--I resolved on passing the remainder of the
morning at my late lamented cousin's chambers. So little inclination,
however, had I for my task, that I should scarcely have had courage
enough to sally forth in the rain, had I not felt a strong presentiment
of an approaching visit from two respectable, but very prosing old
ladies,--the poppies of every party in which they appeared,--who
invariably took advantage of very wet days, to visit such of their
acquaintance as were frequently from home; because, as they said,
with some truth, scarcely any one was then out but themselves. Under
a laudable fear of the heavy influence which these respectable old
gentlewomen would have on my spirits, during such a remarkably dull day,
and knowing, from past experience, that when they came, they usually
stayed to dine, I glode forth, “like sparkle out of brode,” without
saying a word to any body; took a hearty lunch at a coffee-house;
hurried towards Furnival's Inn; and, at five o'clock, was jocosely
reported, to the two old ladies whose visit I had anticipated, as being,
notwithstanding the wetness of the day, “absent without leave.”
[Illustration: 313]
ADAM BURDOCK.