Produced by David Widger
TOM BURKE OF “OURS.”
By Charles James Lever
With Illustrations By Phiz. and Browne
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I
Transcriber's Note: Two print editions have been used for this Project
Gutenberg Edition of “Tom Burke of 'Ours'”: The Little Brown edition
(Boston) of 1913 with illustrations by Phiz; and the Chapman and Hall
editon (London) of 1853 with illustrations by Browne. Illegible and
missing pages were found in both print editions.
DW
TO
MISS EDGEWORTH.
Madam,--This weak attempt to depict the military life of France, during
the brief but glorious period of the Empire, I beg to dedicate to you.
Had the scene of this, like that of my former books, been laid chiefly
in Ireland, I should have felt too sensibly my own inferiority to
venture on the presumption of such a step. As it is, I never was more
conscious of the demerits of my volume than when inscribing it to you;
but I cannot resist the temptation of being, even thus, associated with
a name,--the first in my country's literature.
Another motive I will not conceal,--the ardent desire I have to assure
you, that, amid the thousands you have made better, and wiser, and
happier, by your writings, you cannot count one who feels more proudly
the common tie of country with you, nor more sincerely admires your
goodness and your genius, than
Your devoted and obedient servant,
CHARLES J. LEVER.
Temple-O Nov. 25, 1848.
PREFATORY EPISTLE FROM MR. BURKE.
My dear O'Flaherty,--It seems that I am to be the “next devoured.” Well,
be it so; my story, such as it is, you shall have. Only one condition
would I bargain for,--that you seriously disabuse your readers of the
notion that the life before them was one either of much pleasure or
profit. I might moralize a little here about neglected opportunities and
mistaken opinions; but, as I am about to present you with my narrative,
the moral--if there be one--need not be anticipated.
I believe I have nothing else to premise, save that if my tale have
little wit, it has some warning; and as Bob Lambert observed to the
hangman who soaped the rope for his execution, “even that same 's a
comfort.” If our friend Lorrequer, then, will as kindly facilitate my
debut, I give him free liberty to “cut me down” when he likes, and am,
Yours, as ever,
TOM BURKE.
To T. O'Flaherty, Esq.
PREFACE.
I WAS led to write this story by two impulses: first, the fascination
which the name and exploits of the great Emperor had ever exercised on
my mind as a boy; and secondly, by the favorable notice which the Press
had bestowed upon my scenes of soldier life in “Charles O'Malley.”
If I had not in the wars of the Empire the patriotic spirit of a great
national struggle to sustain me, I had a field far wider and grander
than any afforded by our Peninsular campaigns; while in the character of
the French army, composed as it was of elements derived from every rank
and condition, there were picturesque effects one might have sought for
in vain throughout the rest of Europe.
It was my fortune to have known personally some of those who filled
great parts in this glorious drama. I had listened over and over to
their descriptions of scenes, to which their look, and voice, and manner
imparted a thrilling intensity of interest. I had opportunities of
questioning them for explanations, of asking for solutions of this and
that difficulty which had puzzled me, till I grew so familiar with the
great names of the time, the events, and even the localities, that when
I addressed myself to my tale, it was with a mind filled by my topics to
the utter exclusion of all other subjects.
Neither before nor since have I ever enjoyed to the same extent the
sense of being so entirely engrossed by a single theme. A great tableau
of the Empire, from its gorgeous celebrations in Paris to its numerous
achievements on the field of battle, was ever outspread before me, and
I sat down rather to record than to invent the scenes of my story. A
feeling that, as I treated of real events I was bound to maintain
a degree of accuracy in relation to them, even in fiction, made me
endeavor to possess myself of a correct knowledge of localities, and,
so far as I was able, with a due estimate of those whose characters I
discussed.
Some of the battlefields I have gone over; of others, I have learned the
particulars from witnesses of the great struggles that have made them
famous. To the claim of this exactness I have, therefore, the pretension
of at least the desire to be faithful. For my story, it has all the
faults and shortcomings which beset everything I have ever written; for
these I can but offer regrets, only the more poignant that I feel how
justly they are due.
The same accuracy which I claim for scenes and situations, I should
like, if I dared, to claim for the individuals who figure in this tale;
but I cannot, in any fairness, pretend to more than an attempt to paint
resemblances of those whom I have myself admired in the description
of others. Pioche and Minette are of this number. So is, but of a very
different school, the character of Duchesne; for which, however, I had
what almost amounted to an original. As to the episodes of this story,
one or two were communicated as facts; the others are mere invention.
I do not remember any particulars to which I should further advert;
while I feel, that the longer I dwell upon the theme, the more occasion
is there to entreat indulgence,--an indulgence which, if you are not
weary of according, will be most gratefully accepted by
Your faithful servant,
CHARLES LEVER
Casa Capponi, Florence, May, 1867.
CONTENTS.
TOM BURKE OF “OURS.”
CHAPTER I. MYSELF.
It was at the close of a cold, raw day in January--no matter for the
year--that the Gal way mail was seen to wind its slow course through
that long and dull plain that skirts the Shannon, as you approach the
“sweet town of Athlone.” The reeking box-coats and dripping umbrellas
that hung down on every side bespoke a day of heavy rain, while the
splashed and mud-stained panels of the coach bore token of cut-up
roads, which the jaded and toil-worn horses amply confirmed. If the
outsiders--with hats pressed firmly down, and heads bent against the
cutting wind--presented an aspect far from comfortable, those within,
who peeped with difficulty through the dim glass, had little to charm
the eye; their flannel nightcaps and red comforters were only to be seen
at rare intervals, as they gazed on the dreary prospect, and then sank
back into the coach to con over their moody thoughts, or, if fortunate,
perhaps to doze.
In the rumble, with the guard, sat one whose burly figure and rosy
cheeks seemed to feel no touch of the inclement wind that made his
companions crouch. An oiled-silk foraging-cap fastened beneath the chin,
and a large mantle of blue cloth, bespoke him a soldier, if even the
assured tone of his voice and a certain easy carriage of his head had
not conveyed to the acute observer the same information. Unsubdued in
spirit, undepressed in mind, either by the long day of pouring rain or
the melancholy outline of country on every side, his dark eye flashed as
brightly from beneath the brim of his cap, and his ruddy face beamed as
cheerily, as though Nature had put forth her every charm of weather
and scenery to greet and delight him. Now inquiring of the guard of the
various persons whose property lay on either side, the name of some poor
hamlet or some humble village; now humming to himself some stray verse
of an old campaigning song,--he passed his time, diversifying these
amusements by a courteous salute to a gaping country girl, as, with
unmeaning look, she stared at the passing coach. But his principal
occupation seemed to consist in retaining one wing of his wide cloak
around the figure of a little boy, who lay asleep beside him, and whose
head jogged heavily against his arm with every motion of the coach.
“And so that's Athlone, yonder, you tell me,” said the captain, for such
he was,--“'the sweet town of Athlone, ochone!' Well, it might be worse.
I 've passed ten years in Africa,--on the burning coast, as they call
it: you never light a fire to cook your victuals, but only lay them
before the sun for ten minutes, game something less, and the joint's
done; all true, by Jove! Lie still, my young friend, or you'll heave us
both over! And whereabouts does he live, guard?”
“Something like a mile and a half from here,” replied the gruff guard.
“Poor little fellow! he's sleeping it out well. They certainly don't
take overmuch care of him, or they'd never have sent him on the top of
a coach in weather like this, without even a greatcoat to cover him.
I say, Tom, my lad, wake up; you're not far from home now. Are you
dreaming of the plum-pudding and the pony and the big spaniel, eh?”
“Whisht!” said the guard, in a low whisper. “The chap's father is dying,
and they've sent for him from school to see him.”
A loud blast of the horn now awoke me thoroughly from the half-dreamy
slumber in which I had listened to the previous dialogue, and I sat up
and looked about me. Yes, reader, my unworthy self it was who was then
indulging in as pleasant a dream of home and holidays as ever blessed
even a schoolboy's vigils. Though my eyes were open, it was some minutes
before I could rally myself to understand where I was, and with what
object. My senses were blunted by cold, and my drenched limbs were
cramped and stiffened; for the worthy captain, to whose humanity I owed
the share of his cloak, had only joined the coach late in the day,
and during the whole morning I had been exposed to the most pitiless
downpour of rain and sleet.
“Here you are!” said the rough guard, as the coach drew up to let me
down. “No need of blowing the horn here, I suppose?”
This was said in allusion to the miserable appearance of the ruined
cabin that figured as my father's gate lodge, where some naked children
were seen standing before the door, looking with astonishment at the
coach and passengers.
“Well, good-by, my little man. I hope you 'll find the governor better.
Give him my respects; and, hark ye, if ever you come over to Athlone,
don't forget to come and see me: Captain Bubbleton,--George Frederick
Augustus Bubbleton, Forty-fifth Regiment; or, when at home, Little
Bubbleton, Herts, and Bungalow Hut, in the Carnatic^ that's the mark. So
good-by! good-by!”
I waved my hand to him in adieu, and then turned to enter the gate.
“Well, Freney,” said I, to a half-dressed, wild-looking figure that
rushed out to lift the gate open,--for the hinges had been long broken,
and it was attached to the pier by some yards of strong rope,--“how is
my father?”
A gloomy nod and a discouraging sign with his open hand were the only
reply.
“Is there any hope?” said I, faintly.
“Sorrow one of me knows; I dare n't go near the house. I was sarved with
notice to quit a month ago, and they tell him I 'm gone. Oh vo, vo! what
's to become of us all!”
I threw the bag which contained my humble wardrobe on my shoulder,
and without waiting for further questioning, walked forward. Night
was falling fast, and nothing short of my intimacy with the place from
infancy could have enabled me to find my way. The avenue, from long
neglect and disuse, was completely obliterated; the fences were broken
up to burn; the young trees had mostly shared the same fate; the cattle
strayed at will through the plantations; and all bespoke utter ruin and
destruction.
If the scene around me was sad, it only the better suited my own heart.
I was returning to a home where I had never heard the voice of kindness
or affection; where one fond word, one look of welcome, had never
met me. I was returning, not to receive the last blessing of a loving
parent, but merely sent for as a necessary ceremony on the occasion. And
perhaps there was a mock propriety in inviting me once more to the house
which I was never to revisit. My father, a widower for many years, had
bestowed all his affection on my elder brother, to whom so much of his
property as had escaped the general wreck was to descend. He had been
sent to Eton under the guidance of a private tutor, while an obscure
Dublin school was deemed good enough for me. For him every nerve was
strained to supply all his boyish extravagance, and enable him to
compete with the sons of men of high rank and fortune, whose names,
mentioned in his letters home, were an ample recompense for all the
lavish expenditure their intimacy entailed. My letters were few and
brief; their unvaried theme the delay in the last quarter's payment,
or the unfurnished condition of my little trunk, which more than once
exposed me to the taunts of my schoolfellows.
He was a fair and delicate boy, timid in manner and retiring in
disposition; I, a browned-faced varlet, who knew every one from the herd
to the high-sheriff. To him the servants were directed to look up as the
head of the house; while I was consigned either to total neglect, or
the attentions of those who only figured as supernumeraries in our Army
List. Yet, with all these sources of jealousy between us, we loved each
other tenderly. George pitied “poor Tommy,” as he called me; and for
that very pity my heart clung to him. He would often undertake to plead
my cause for those bolder infractions his gentle nature never ventured
on; and it was only from long association with boys of superior rank,
whose habits and opinions he believed to be standards for his imitation,
that » at length a feeling of estrangement grew up between us, and we
learned to look somewhat coldly on each other.
From these brief details it will not be wondered at it I turned
homeward with a heavy heart. From the hour I received the letter of my
recall--which was written by my father's attorney in most concise and
legal phrase--I had scarcely ceased to shed tears; for so it is, there
is something in the very thought of being left an orphan, friendless
and unprotected, quite distinct from the loss of affection and kindness
which overwhelms the young heart with a very flood of wretchedness.
Besides, a stray word or two of kindness had now and then escaped my
father towards me, and I treasured these up as my richest possession.
I thought of them over and over. Many a lonely night, when my heart has
been low and sinkings I repeated them to myself, like talismans against
grief; and when I slept, my dreams would dwell on them and make my
waking happy.
As I issued from a dark copse of beech-trees, the indistinct outline of
the old house met my eye. I could trace the high-pitched roof, the
tall and pointed gables against the sky; and with a strange sense of
undefinable fear,' beheld a solitary light that twinkled from the window
of an upper room, where my father lay. The remainder of the building
was in deep shadow. I mounted the long flight of stone steps that led
to what once had been a terrace; but the balustrades were broken many a
year ago; and even the heavy granite stone had been smashed in several
places. The hall door lay wide open, and the hall itself had no other
light save such as the flickering of a wood fire afforded, as its
uncertain flashes fell upon the dark wainscot and the floor.
I had just recognized the grim, old-fashioned portraits that covered
the walls, when my eye was attracted by a figure near the fire. I
approached, and beheld an old man doubled with age. His bleared eyes
were bent upon the wood embers, which he was trying to rake together
with a stick; his clothes bespoke the most miserable poverty, and
afforded no protection against the cold and cutting blast. He was
croning some old song to himself as I drew near, and paid no attention
to me. I moved round so as to let the light fall on his face, and then
perceived it was old Lanty, as he was called. Poor fellow! Age and
neglect had changed him sadly since I had seen him last. He had been
the huntsman of the family for two generations; but having somehow
displeased my father one day at the cover, he rode at him and struck him
on the head with his loaded whip. The man fell senseless from his horse,
and was carried home. A few days, however, enabled him to rally and be
about again; but his senses had left him forever. All recollection
of the unlucky circumstance had faded from his mind, and his rambling
thoughts dwelt on his old pursuits; so that he passed his days about
the stables, looking after the horses and giving directions about them.
Latterly he had become too infirm for this, and never left his own
cabin; but now, from some strange cause, he had come up to “the house,”
and was sitting by the fire as I found him.
They who know Ireland will acknowledge the strange impulse which, at the
approach of death, seems to excite the people to congregate about the
house of mourning. The passion for deep and powerful excitement--the
most remarkable feature in their complex nature--seems to revel in
the details of sorrow and suffering. Not content even with the tragedy
before them, they call in the aid of superstition to heighten the
awfulness of the scene; and every story of ghost and banshee' is conned
over in tones that need not the occasion to make them thrill upon the
heart. At such a time the deepest workings of their wild spirits are
revealed. Their grief is low and sorrow-struck, or it is loud and
passionate; now breaking into some plaintive wail over the virtues
of the departed, now bursting into a frenzied appeal to the Father of
Mercies as to the justice of recalling those from earth who were its
blessing: while, stranger than all, a dash of reckless merriment will
break in upon the gloom; but it is like the red lightning through the
storm, that as it rends the cloud only displays the havoc and desolation
around, and at its parting leaves even a blacker darkness behind it.
From my infancy I had been familiar with scenes of this kind; and my
habit of stealing away unobserved from home to witness a country wake
had endeared me much to the country-people, who felt this no small
kindness from “the master's son.” Somehow the ready welcome and
attention I always met with had worked on my young heart, and I learned
to feel all the interest of these scenes fully as much as those about
me. It was, then, with a sense of desolation that I looked upon the one
solitary mourner who now sat at the hearth,--that poor old idiot man
who gazed on vacancy, or muttered with parched lip some few words to
himself. That he alone should be found to join his sorrows to ours,
seemed to me like utter destitution, and as I leaned against the chimney
I burst into tears.
“Don't cry, alannah! don't cry,” said the old man; “it 's the worst way
at all. Get up again and ride him at it bould. Oh vo! look at where the
thief is taking now,--along the stonewall there!” Here he broke out into
a low, wailing ditty:--
“And the fox set him down and looked about--
And many were feared to follow;
'Maybe I 'm wrong,' says he, 'but I doubt
That you 'll be as gay to-morrow.
For loud as you cry, and high as you ride,
And little you feel my sorrow,
I'll be free on the mountain-side,
While you 'll lie low to-morrow.
Oh, Moddideroo, aroo, aroo!'”
“Ay, just so; they 'll run to earth in the cold churchyard.
Whisht!--hark there! Soho, soho! That's Badger I hear.”
I turned away with a bursting heart, and felt my way up the broad oak
stair, which was left in complete darkness. As I reached the corridor,
off which the bedrooms lay, I heard voices talking together in a low
tone; they came from my father's room, the door of which lay ajar. I
approached noiselessly and peeped in: by the fire, which was the only
light now in the apartment, sat two persons at a set table, one of
whom I at once recognized as the tall, solemn-looking figure of Doctor
Finnerty; the other I detected, by the sharp tones of his voice, to be
Mr. Anthony Basset, my father's confidential attorney.
On the table before them lay a mass of papers, parchments, leases,
deeds, together with glasses and a black bottle, whose accompaniments of
hot water and sugar left no doubt as to its contents. The chimney-piece
was crowded with a range of vials and medicine bottles, some of them
empty, some of them half finished.
[Illustration: Law and Physic in the Chamber of Death 008]
From the bed in the corner of the room came the heavy sound of snoring
respiration, which either betokened deep sleep or insensibility. If
I enjoyed but little favor in my father's house, I owed much of the
coldness shown to me to the evil influence of the very two persons who
sat before me in conclave. Of the precise source of the doctor's dislike
I was not quite clear, except, perhaps, that I recovered from the
measles when he predicted my certain death; the attorney's was, however,
no mystery.
About three years before, he had stopped to breakfast at our house on
his way to Ballinasloe fair. As his pony was led round to the stable, it
caught my eye. It was a most tempting bit of horseflesh, full of spirit
and in top condition, for he was going to sell it. I followed him round,
and appeared just as the servant was about to unsaddle him. The attorney
was no favorite in the house, and I had little difficulty in persuading
the man, instead of taking off the saddle, merely to shorten the
stirrups to the utmost limit. The next minute I was on his back flying
over the lawn at a stretching gallop. Fences abounded on all sides, and
I rushed him at double ditches, stone walls, and bog-wood rails, with a
mad delight that at every leap rose higher. After about three quarters
of an hour thus passed, his blood, as well as my own, being by this time
thoroughly roused, I determined to try him at the wall of an old pound
which stood some few hundred yards from the front of the house. Its
exposure to the window at any other time would have deterred me from
even the thought of such an exploit, but now I was quite beyond the pale
of such cold calculations; besides that, I was accompanied by a select
party of all the laborers, with their wives and children, whose praises
of my horsemanship would have made me take the lock of a canal if before
me. A tine gallop of grass sward led to the pound, and over this I went,
cheered with as merry a cry as ever stirred a light heart. One glance I
threw at the house as I drew near the leap. The window of the breakfast
parlor was open; my father and Mr. Basset were both at it, I saw
their faces red with passion; I heard their loud shout; my very
spirit sickened within me. I saw no more; I felt the pony rush at the
wall,--the quick stroke of his feet,--the rise,--the plunge,--and then
a crash,--and I was sent spinning over his head some half-dozen yards,
ploughing up the ground on face and hands. I was carried home with a
broken head; the pony's knees were in the same condition. My father said
that he ought to be shot for humanity's sake; Tony suggested the same
treatment for me, on similar grounds. The upshot, however, was, I
secured an enemy for life; and worse still, one whose power to injure was
equalled by his inclination.
Into the company of these two worthies I now found myself thus
accidentally thrown, and would gladly have retreated at once, but that
some indescribable impulse to be near my father's sickbed was on me; and
so I crept stealthily in and sat down in a large chair at the foot of
the bed, where unnoticed I listened to the long-drawn heavings of his
chest, and in silence wept over my own desolate condition.
For a long time the absorbing nature of my own grief prevented me
hearing the muttered conversation near the lire; but at length, as the
night wore on and my sorrow had found vent in tears, I began to listen
to the dialogue beside me.
“He 'll have five hundred pounds under his grandfather's will, in spite
of us. But what 's that?” said the attorney.
“I 'll take him as an apprentice for it, I know,” said the doctor, with
a grin that made me shudder.
“That's settled already,” replied Mr. Basset. “He's to be articled to
me for five years; but I think it 's likely he 'll go to sea before the
time expires. How heavily the old man is sleeping! Now, is that natural
sleep?”
“No, that's always a bad sign; that puffing with the lips is generally
among the last symptoms. Well, he'll be a loss anyhow, when he's gone.
There's an eight-ounce mixture he never tasted yet,--infusion of gentian
with soda. Put your lips to that.”
“Devil a one o' me will ever sup the like!” said the attorney,
finishing his tumbler of punch as he spoke. “Faugh! how can you drink
them things that way?”
“Sure it's the compound infusion, made with orangepeel and cardamom
seeds. There is n't one of them did n't cost two and ninepence. He 'll
be eight weeks in bed come Tuesday next.”
“Well, well! If he lived till the next assizes, it would be telling me
four hundred pounds; not to speak of the costs of two ejectments I have
in hand against Mullins and his father-in-law.”
“It's a wonder,” said the doctor, after a pause, “that Tom didn't come
by the coach. It's no matter now, at any rate; for since the eldest
son's away, there's no one here to interfere with us.”
“It was a masterly stroke of yours, doctor, to tell the old man the
weather was too severe to bring George over from Eton. As sure as he
came he'd make up matters with Tom; and the end of it would be, I 'd
lose the agency, and you would n't have those pleasant little bills for
the tenantry,--eh. Fin?”
“Whisht! he's waking now. Well, sir; well, Mr. Burke, how do you feel
now? He 's off again!”
“The funeral ought to be on a Sunday,” said Basset, in a whisper;
“there 'll be no getting the people to come any other day. He 's saying
something, I think.”
“Fin,” said my father, in a faint, hoarse voice,--“Fin, give me a drink.
It 's not warm!”
“Yes, sir; I had it on the fire.”
“Well, then, it 's myself that 's growing cold. How 's the pulse now.
Fin? Is the Dublin doctor come yet?”
“No, sir; we 're expecting him every minute. But sure, you know, we 're
doing everything.”
“Oh! I know it. Yes, to be sure, Fin; but they 've many a new thing up
in Dublin there, we don't hear of. Whisht! what's that?”
“It 's Tony, sir,--Tony Basset; he 's sitting up with me.”
“Come over here, Tony. Tony, I'm going fast; I feel it, and my heart is
low. Could we withdraw the proceedings about Freney?”
“He 's the biggest blackguard--”
“Ah! no matter now; I 'm going to a place where we 'll all need mercy.
What was it that Canealy said he 'd give for the land?”
“Two pound ten an acre; and Freney never paid thirty shillings out of
it.”
“It's mighty odd George didn't come over.”
“Sure, I told you there was two feet of snow on the ground.”
“Lord be about us, what a severe season! But why isn't Tom here?” I
started at the words, and was about to rush forward, when he added,--“I
don't want him, though.”
“Of course you don't,” said the attorney; “it's little comfort he ever
gave you. Are you in pain there?”
“Ay, great pain over my heart. Well, well! don't be hard to him when I
'm gone.”
“Don't let him talk so much,” said Basset, in a whisper, to the doctor.
“You must compose yourself, Mr. Burke,” said the doctor. “Try and take a
sleep; the night isn't half through yet.”
The sick man obeyed without a word; and soon after, the heavy
respiration betokened the same lethargic slumber once more.
The voices of the speakers gradually fell into a low, monotonous sound;
the long-drawn breathings from the sickbed mingled with them; the fire
only sent forth an occasional gleam, as some piece of falling turf
seemed to revive its wasting life, and shot up a myriad of bright
sparks; and the chirping of the cricket in the chimney-corner sounded to
my mournful heart like the tick of the death-watch.
As I listened, my tears fell fast, and a gulping fulness in my throat
made me feel like one in suffocation. But deep sorrow somehow tends to
sleep. The weariness of the long day and dreary night, exhaustion, the
dull hum of the subdued voices, and the faint light, all combined to
make me drowsy, and I fell into a heavy slumber.
I am writing now of the far-off past,--of the long years ago of my
youth,--since which my seared heart has had many a sore and scalding
lesson; yet I cannot think of that night, fixed and graven as it lies in
my memory, without a touch of boyish softness. I remember every waking
thought that crossed my mind: my very dream is still before me. It
was of my mother. I thought of her as she lay on a sofa in the old
drawing-room; the window open, and the blinds drawn, the gentle breeze
of a June morning flapping them lazily to and fro as I knelt beside
her to repeat my little hymn, the first I ever learned; and how at each
moment my eyes would turn and my thoughts stray to that open casement,
through which the odor of flowers and the sweet song of birds were
pouring, and my little heart was panting for liberty, while her gentle
smile and faint words bade me remember where I was. And then I was
straying away through the old garden, where the very sunlight fell
scantily through the thick-woven branches, loaded with perfumed
blossoms; the blackbirds hopped fearlessly from twig to twig, mingling
their clear notes with the breezy murmur of the leaves and the deep hum
of summer bees. How happy was I then! And why cannot such happiness be
lasting? Why can we not shelter ourselves from the base contamination of
worldly cares, and live on amid pleasures pure as these, with hearts as
holy and desires as simple as in childhood?
Suddenly a change came over my dream, and the dark clouds began to
gather from all quarters, and a low, creeping wind moaned heavily along.
I thought I heard ray name called. I started and awoke. For a second or
two the delusion was so strong that I could not remember where I was;
but as the gray light of a breaking morning fell through the half-open
shutters, I beheld the two figures near the fire. They were both
sound asleep, the deep-drawn breathing and nodding heads attesting the
heaviness of their slumber.
I felt cold and cramped, but still afraid to stir, although a longing to
approach the bedside was still upon me. A faint sigh and some muttered
words here came to my ear, and I listened. It was my father; but so
indistinct the sounds, they seemed more like the ramblings of a dream.
I crept noiselessly on tiptoe to the bed, and drawing the curtain gently
over, gazed within. He was lying on his back, his hands and arms outside
the clothes. His beard had grown so much and he had wasted so far that I
could scarcely have known him. His eyes were wide open, but fixed on the
top of the bed; his lips moved rapidly, and by his hands, as they were
closely clasped, I thought it was in prayer. I leaned over him, and
placed my hand in his. For some time he did not seem to notice it; but
at last he pressed it softly, and rubbing the fingers to and fro, he
said, in a low, faint voice,--“Is this your hand, my boy?”
I thought my heart had split, as in a gush of tears I bent down and
kissed him.
“I can't see well, my dear; there's something between me and the light,
and a weight is on me--here--here--”
A heavy sigh, and a shudder that shook his whole frame, followed these
words.
“They told me I wasn't to see you once again,” said he, as a sickly
smile played over his mouth; “but I knew you'd come to sit by me. It
's a lonely thing not to have one's own at such an hour as this. Don't
weep, my dear, my own heart's failing me fast.”
A broken, muttering sound followed, and then he said, in a loud voice;
“I never did it! it was Tony Basset. He told me,--he persuaded me. Ah!
that was a sore day when I listened to him. Who 's to tell me I 'm not
to be master of my own estate? Turn them adrift,--ay, every man of them.
I 'll weed the ground of such wretches,--eh, Tony? Did any one say
Freney's mother was dead? they may wake her at the cross roads, if they
like. Poor old Molly! I 'm sorry for her, too. She nursed me and my
sister that's gone; and maybe her deathbed, poor as she was, was
easier than mine will be,--without kith or kin, child or friend. Oh,
George!--and I that doted on you with all my heart! Whose hand's this?
Ah, I forgot; my darling boy, it's you. Come to me here, my child! Was
n't it for you that I toiled and scraped this many a year? Wasn't it for
you that I did all this? and--God, forgive me!--maybe it 's my soul
that I 've perilled to leave you a rich man. Where 's Tom? where 's that
fellow now?”
“Here, sir!” said I, squeezing his hand, and pressing it to my lips.
He sprang up at the words, and sat up in his bed, his eyes dilated to
their widest, and his pale lips parted asunder.
“Where?” cried he, as he felt me over with his thin fingers, and drew me
towards him.
“Here, father, here!”
“And is this Tom?” said he, as his voice fell into a low, hollow sound;
and then added: “Where's George? answer me at once. Oh, I see it! He
isn't here; he would n't come over to see his old father. Tony! Tony
Basset, I say!” shouted the sick man, in a voice that roused the
sleepers, and brought them to his bedside, “open that window there. Let
me look out,--do it as I bid you,--open it wide. Turn in all the cattle
you can find on the road. Do you hear me, Tony? Drive them in from every
side. Finnerty, I say, mind my words; for” (here he uttered a most awful
and terrific oath), “as I linger on this side of the grave, I 'll not
leave him a blade of grass I can take from him.”
His chest heaved with a convulsive spasm; his face became pale as death;
his eyes fixed; he clutched eagerly at the bedclothes; and then, with
a horrible cry, he fell back upon the pillow, as a faint stream of red
blood trickled from his nostril and ran down his chin.
“It 's all over now!” whispered the doctor.
“Is he dead?” said Basset.
The other made no reply; but drawing the curtains close, he turned away,
and they both moved noiselessly from the room.