BIDDY DILLON BECOMES A "HERETIC."
Several months passed quietly by. It was winter, and the heaviest snow
that had fallen within the memory of that personage so universally
known and respected--namely, the oldest inhabitant--now lay upon the
ground; and all in town and country who were partial to the exercise
of skating could enjoy it freely. But the severe cold confined the
delicate invalids to their heated rooms, and fair Annie Lee again
found herself shut up to the tiresome routine of sick-room pleasures,
only varied by intervals of suffering. The pleasure, however,
predominated. She seemed almost to forget her pain and increasing
languor in her unceasing efforts to instruct her young nurse.
Annorah, on her part, thirsted for knowledge, especially for the
wisdom that cometh from above. She improved, too, rapidly enough to
satisfy a less partial teacher. In the varied arts of housewifery, and
in the more intricate use of the needle, she had also become quite
expert, and, to use Mrs. Lee's own words, "was quite a treasure in
every part of the house."
Little lame Phelim came for an hour each afternoon to Miss Annie's
room to be made a "schollard, shure;" and every Saturday evening found
Annorah, with her Bible, seated by her mother's fireside, reading, and
in her own earnest but uncouth manner expounding the truths she read.
One Sabbath evening in March, Father M'Clane set out for a walk to
Mrs. Dillon's cottage. His prospects and reflections had been of a
grave and sad character throughout the day, and his threadbare coat
and lean purse had been more than usually suggestive of the great
truth, that all earthly comforts are fleeting and transitory.
For the first time Biddy had that day absented herself from the
Catholic chapel. Annorah had lately added to her Scripture reading,
"Kirwan's Letters to Archbishop Hughes." She read it to her mother
whenever a spare hour enabled her to run home. Biddy had been greatly
interested in the appeals and arguments of her talented countryman,
and deeply impressed by his life-like delineation of the follies and
superstitions of the Romish ritual.
"It's rasonable he is intirely," she said, "and a bright son o' the
ould counthree, blessin's on it! It's him who spakes well o' the poor
ruined crathers, and praises us all for the natural generous-sowled
people we are. He knows us intirely, Norah dear. Shure he's a
wonderful man and a bould, let alone the thrue son o' ould Ireland,
for doing the beautiful thing. Read us one more letther, mavourneen,
before ye are off, and lave the book here. Mayhap Phelim will spell
out a morsel or so when the Sabbath even is coom."
"You will not go to confession to-morrow, dear mother?" said Annorah.
"Not I," replied Biddy firmly.
"It goes to my heart, mother, that the money we earn so hardly, and
which should be kept to comfort your old age, should go for nothing,
or worse."
"I will do it no more. Make yer heart aisy, honey. Never a penny o'
mine will the praste hould in his hand again."
"He will visit you, mother."
"An' what o' that? Let him coom. He is welcome an' he minds his own
business, and only dhraps in for a bit o' gossip; but an' he
interferes in me private consarns, it's soon he'll find himself
relaved o' all throuble on account o' us."
Annorah saw that there was no reason now to fear that her mother would
be overawed by the priest; but she still lingered anxiously. Her
mother saw the shade on her face, and asked,--
"What is it, Norah? Are you in throuble?"
"Do not quarrel with him, mother," replied the daughter.
"Let him be dacent, and it's ceevil treatment he'll get; but no man
shall browbeat me on me own floor," said Biddy, in a tone which
declared the firmness of her purpose.
It was on the night succeeding this conversation, that Father M'Clane
visited the cottage. As he approached the house he paused at the
unusual sound of a voice reading. It was Phelim imperfectly spelling
out to his mother and a few of the neighbours one of the letters of
Kirwan. The priest, who was not remarkably well versed in the books of
the day, did not know the work, but supposed that it was the Bible to
which they were so profoundly listening. His face grew as dark as the
night shades around him.
"I've caught ye at last!" he exclaimed, as, without ceremony, he burst
into the room. "This tells the story. It's not that ye are ill in bed,
or hindered by the rain, or the could; it's because ye are heretics
all, that ye shun the confession and the holy mass. Do ye know what
the Church has power to do wi' the like o' ye? Arrah! it was the
heavenly and not the mortal wisdom that made the hot fires o'
purgatory for such. Small help will ye get from me when the flames are
scorching ye. Never a mass shall be said for a sowl o' ye, unless ye
repent at once."
"And what call have ye to spake the like o' that," said Biddy, "and me
sitting peaceably by me own fire wi' the neighbours?" She spoke in a
low, uncertain tone, for his sudden appearance had startled her. A
hush had fallen on the little assembly, and signs of terror flitted
across the faces of the most timid, as the familiar voice of the
priest recalled their old Popish fears. He was not slow to perceive
this, or to take advantage of it.
"And who taught yer lame boy to read at all? Who brought the heretic
Bible into yer house? And who gathered the poor neighbours together to
hear the false words that lead to perdition? Answer me that, Misthress
Dillon," said the priest in a tone of anger.
Biddy did not reply, though she had quite regained her usual courage.
"I'll ask ye a plain question, Biddy Dillon, and I want a straight
answer. Will ye, or will ye not, give up these heretic doings, and
stay in the communion o' the holy Church?"
"An' it plaze yer riverence," replied Biddy, no ways disconcerted,
"yer blessed saints are nothing to me; an' I shall do as I plaze."
"Hear the woman! Do you hear the bould blasphemer?" he exclaimed.
"An' what if they do hear? It were a sore pity they should be sthruck
deaf to plaze ye," replied Biddy, her eyes flashing with excitement.
"I would ye were in ould Ireland, or, for the matther o' that, in
purgatory itself."
"We would--" said the priest.
"No doubt o' it. But it's here I am, at yer service," interrupted
Biddy.
"Yes, and it's here ye've been bought for a wee pinch o' tae and a few
poor, lean chickens. Sowl and body ye've been bought, and a mighty
poor bargain have the blind purchasers made o' it."
"Plazing yer riverence, ye know nought o' what ye are saying, and
small throuble ye'll make wi' yer idle words. It's not a turkey, duck,
or hen could buy Biddy Dillon. Ye've tried it yerself, father, and so
ye know."
"It's a black heart ye have," said the priest, whose courage was
hardly equal to his anger, and whose valour speedily cooled before
resolute opposition. "It's blacker than ink ye are, Biddy Dillon,
with the wicked heresy."
Like most Irish women, Biddy was well skilled in the art of scolding,
and among her neighbours was considered rather more expert in the
business than themselves. When angry, abusive epithets seemed to fall
as naturally from her tongue as expressions of endearment when she was
pleased.
"A black heart, did ye say?" she cried, rising and facing the priest,
who involuntarily retired a step from her; "the same to yerself! An'
ye were bathed in Lough Ennel, and rinsed in the Shannon at Athlone,
it would not half clane out the vile tricks ye are so perfect in. A
black heart has Biddy Dillon? An' ye were ducked and soaked over night
in the Liffey mud at Dublin, ye were claner than now? A black heart?
An' yerself an ould penshioner, idle and mane, stirrin' up a scrimmage
in an honest woman's house, and repeating yer haythenish nonsense, an'
ye able and sthrong to take hould o' the heaviest end o' the work! Are
ye not ashamed? What are ye good for?"
"The saints preserve us! what a tongue the woman has!" exclaimed
Father M'Clane, making a futile effort to smile, as he turned his
face, now pale as death, toward the company. "But I have no time to
stay longer. I warn ye all, my friends, to kape away from this
accursed house, and to turn a deaf ear to all that is said to ye here.
Your souls are in peril. Ye are almost caught in the snare. Ye should
run for yer lives before ye perish entirely. I shall remember you,
Biddy Dillon."
"In course ye will. An' ye show yerself here again, barrin' as a
peaceable frind or ould acquaintance, ye'll find yerself remimbered
too, honey."
There was a silence of some minutes after the priest left the house.
It was broken by the most timid of the party.
"Afther all, Biddy, my heart misgives me. Of what use are all the
prayers on the beads, the Hail Marys, and the penance, the fasting
from meat on Fridays, or even the blessed salt o' our baptism, if we
anger the praste, and he refuse to give us the holy oil at the last?
What will become o' us then?"
"What can a wicked ould praste do to help us? It's God alone can
strengthen us then. I wouldn't give a penny for the oil. It's a
betther way, darlin', that God has provided for us. It's a brave story
that Phelim is waiting to read to us. There's thruth and sense in it,
too, ye will find.--It's a fine counthree is this, Masther Barry, and
a free," added Biddy, turning to a stout man, who, with scarcely a
whole article in his apparel, was lounging in the shade of a corner.
"Thrue for ye," he replied,--"though it's little I get out of it,
barrin' the sup o' whisky wi' my supper."
"But ye might--the more shame it is. Ye are weel-conditioned and
hearty. It's no the counthree is to blame, neighbour, nor Katy indade.
She works night and day for ye an' the childer. Ye are better here
than over the sae."
"Oh, then, I don't know. When I came to this counthree, I had never a
rag to me back, an' now, faith, I'm nothing but rags. A fine, illigant
counthree!"
"Lave the liquor alone, Peter Barry, and ye may have the best of the
land for yerself. An' ye would give up the dhrinking, a better lad
could not be found, nor a handsomer."
"It's too sthrong for me. It's many a day have I given it up for ever,
and been drunk as a beast in an hour. But to-night, says Katy to me,
'It's the heretic Bible as is read at Mrs. Dillon's has a cure in it
for weak sinners like you, Peter dear.' So I came to hear a bit o' the
Bible, an' ye plaze."
So Kirwan's Letters were laid aside, and a New Testament brought out.
Phelim read very poorly, and was often obliged to spell over the long
words, and did not always succeed in giving the correct pronunciation;
but no fault was found by his eager listeners. He read how Christ
healed the leper, and poor Peter Barry found in the story a word of
encouragement for him. He read of the Saviour's gracious compassion
for the hungering multitude; and his ignorant auditors praised the
divine Being who so sympathized with mortal infirmities. Phelim was
often interrupted by remarks or approving comments, but these in no
way diminished the interest of the sacred story.