--An Execution for Rent Forty Years ago--Gordon Harvey's Friendly
Remonstrance with his Brother Orangemen.
The development, by Poll Doolin, of the diabolical plot against Mary
M'Loughlin's character, so successfully carried into effect by Phil
and Poll herself, took a deadly weight off Harman's heart. Mary, the
following morning, little aware that full justice had been rendered her,
was sitting in the parlor with her mother, who had been complaining for
a day or two of indisposition, and would have admitted more fully the
alarming' symptoms she felt, were it not for the declining health of her
daughter. If there be one misery in life more calculated than another to
wither and consume the heart, to make society odious, man to look like a
blot in the creation, and the very providence of God doubtful, it is
to feel one's character publicly slandered and misrepresented by
the cowardly and malignant, by the skulking scoundrel and the moral
assassin--to feel yourself loaded with imputations that are false,
calumnious, and cruel. Mary M'Loughlin felt all this bitterly.
In her heart; so bitterly, indeed, that all relish for life had departed
from her. She was now spiritless, hopeless, without an aim or object, or
anything to sustain her, or to give interest to existence. Philosophy,
which too often knows little about actual life, tells us that a
consciousness of being innocent of the social slanders that are heaped
upon an individual, is a principle that ought to support and console
him. But the truth is, that this very consciousness of innocence is
precisely the circumstance which sharpens and poisons the arrow that
pierces him, and gives rancor to the wound.
On the morning in question, Mary sat by her mother who lay reclining
on a sofa, each kindly attempting to conceal from the other the illness
which she felt. Mary was pale, wasted, and drooping; the mother, on the
contrary, was flushed and feverish.
“I wish, my dear mother,” said she, “that you would yield to me, and go
to bed: you are certainly worse than you wish us to believe.”
“It won't signify, Mary; it's nothing but cold I got, and it will pass
away. I think nothing of myself, but it grieves my heart to see you look
so ill; why don't you strive to keep up your spirits, and to be what
you used to be? But God help you, my poor child,” said she, as the tears
started to her eyes, “sure it's hard for you to do so.”
“Mother,” she replied, “it is hard for me; I am every way surrounded
with deep and hopeless affliction. I often wish that I could lay my
head quietly in the grave; but then, I should wish to do so with my name
unstained--and, on the other hand, what is there that can bind me to
life? I am not afraid of death, but I fear to die now; I know not,
mother, what to do, I am very much to be pitied. Oh,” she added, whilst
the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks, “after all, I feel that
nothing but death can still the thoughts that disturb me, and release me
from the anguish that weighs me down and consumes me day by day.”
“My dear child,” replied her mother, “we must only trust to God, who,
in his own good time, will set everything right. As it is, there is no
respectable person in the neighborhood who believes the falsehood, with
the exception of some of the diabolical Wretch's friends.”
Mary here shuddered, and exhibited the strongest possible symptoms of
aversion, even to momentary sickness.
“If,” pursued the mother, “the unfortunate impression could be removed
from poor, mistaken Harman, all would be soon right.”
The mention of Harman deeply affected the poor girl; she made no reply,
but for some minutes wept in great bitterness.
“Mother,” said she, after a little time, “I fear you are concealing
the state of your own health; I am sure, from your flushed face
and oppressive manner of speaking, that you are worse than you think
yourself, or will admit.”
“Indeed, to tell the truth, Mary, I fear I am; I feel certainly very
feverish--I am burning.”
“Then, for heaven's sake, go to bed, my dear mother; and let the doctor
at once be sent for.”
“If I don't get easier soon, I will,” replied her mother, “I do not much
like going to bed, it looks so like a fit of sickness.”
At this moment a tap at the door announced a visitor, and almost
immediately Harman entered the parlor. It is scarcely necessary to say,
that Mary was quite unprepared for his appearance, as indeed was her
mother. The latter sat up on the sofa, but spoke not, for she scarcely
knew in what terms to address him. Mary, though much moved previous to
his entrance, now assumed the appearance of a coldness, which in her
heart she did not feel. That her lover, who ought to have known her
so well, should have permitted himself to be borne away by such an
ungenerous suspicion of her fidelity, was a reflection which caused her
many a bitter pang. On the other hand, when she looked back upon the
snare into which she had been drawn, it was impossible not to admit
that the force of appearances made a strong case against her. For this
reason, therefore, she scarcely blamed Harman, whilst, at the same
time, she certainly felt that there was something due to her previous
character, and the maidenly delicacy of her whole life.
“You are surprised, Mary, to see me here,” said Harman; “and you, Mrs.
M'Loughlin, are no doubt equally so?”
“I think it is very natural we should be, James,” replied Mrs.
M'Loughlin. “I must confess that your visit is an unexpected one
certainly, and my anxiety now is, to know the cause to which we may
attribute it. Sit down.”
He did not sit, however, but exclaimed--“Good heavens, what is this?
Why, Mary, I should scarcely have known you. This change is dreadful.”
Neither of the females spoke; but the daughter bestowed on him a single
look--long, fixed, and sorrowful--which did more to reprove and soften
him, than any language could have done. It went to his heart--it
filled him with grief, repentance, remorse. For many a day and night
afterwards, her image, and that look, were before him, exerting a
power over his soul, which kindled his love to a height it would never
otherwise have reached. He approached her.
“What reparation do I not owe you, my beloved Mary, for my base and
ungenerous belief in that scoundrel's vile calumny? Such reparation,
however, as I can make, I will. You are not aware that Poll Doolin has
confessed and disclosed the whole infamous plot; and in a few days the
calumny will be extinct. As for me, you know not what a heavy weight
pressed my heart down to the uttermost depths of suffering. I have not
been without other calamities--yet this, I take heaven to witness, was
the only one I felt.”
There was a tone of deep feeling and earnest sincerity in his words,
which could not for a moment be mistaken. His face, too, was pale, and
full of care, and his person much thinner than it had been.
Mary saw all this at a glance--as did her mother. “Poor James,” said the
latter, “you have had your own troubles, and severe ones, too, since we
saw you last.”
“They are gone,” he replied; “I care not, and think little about them,
now that Mary's character is vindicated. If I should never see her,
never speak to her more, the consciousness that she is the same angelic
being that I first found her to be, would sustain me under the severest
and most depressing calamities of life. And God knows,” he said, “I
am likely to experience them in their worst shape; but, still, I have
courage now to bear up against them.”
On approaching Mary nearer, he perceived that her eyes were suffused
with tears--and the sight deeply affected him. “My dear Mary,” said he,
“is there not one word for me? Oh, believe me, if ever man felt deep
remorse I do.”
She put her hand out to him, and almost at the same instant became
insensible. In a moment he placed her, by her mother's desire, on the
sofa, and rang the bell for some of the servants to attend. Indeed,
it would be difficult, if not impossible, to look upon a more touching
picture of sorrow and suffering than that pure-looking and beautiful
girl presented as she lay there insensible; her pale but exquisite
features impressed with a melancholy at once deep and tender, as was
evinced by the large tear-drops that lay upon her cheeks.
“May God grant that her heart be not broken,” exclaimed her mother,
“and that she be not already beyond the reach of all that our affections
would hope and wish! Poor girl,” she added, “the only portion of the
calamity that touched her to her heart was the reflection that you had
ceased to love her!”
Mrs. M'Loughlin whilst she spoke kept her eyes fixed upon her daughter's
pale but placid face; and whilst she did so, she perceived that a few
large tears fell upon it, and literally mingled with those of the poor
sufferer's which had been there before. She looked up and saw that
Harman was deeply moved.
“Even if it should be so,” he exclaimed, “I shall be only justly
punished for having; dared to doubt her.”
A servant having now entered, a little cold water was got, which,
on being sprinkled over her face and applied to her lips, aided in
recovering her.
“Your appearance,” said she, “and the intelligence you brought were
so unexpected, and my weakness so great, that I felt myself overcome;
however, I am better--I am better, now;” but whilst she uttered these
words her voice grew tremulous, and they were scarcely out of her lips
when she burst out into an excessive fit of weeping. For several minutes
this continued, and she appeared to feel relieved; she then entered into
conversation, and was able to talk with more ease and firmness than she
had evinced for many a day before. It was just then that a knock came
to the hall door, and in a couple of minutes about a dozen of Val's
blood-hounds, selected to act as bailiffs and keepers--a task to which
they were accustomed--entered the house with an Execution to seize for
rent. This, at all times and under all circumstances, is a scene in
which a peculiar license is given to brutality and ruffianism; but in
the present case there were additional motives; with which the reader is
already acquainted, for insulting this family. Not that the mere-levying
of an Execution was a matter of novelty to either Mary or her mother,
for of late there had unfortunately been several in the house and on
their property before. These, however, were conducted with a degree of
civility that intimated respect for, if not sympathy with, the feelings
of a family so inoffensive, so beneficial to the neighborhood by the
employment they afforded, and, in short, every way so worthy of respect.
“What is all this about?” asked Harman.
“Why,” said one of the fellows, “we're seizin' for rent: that's what
it's about.”
“Rent,” observed the other, surprised, “why, it is only a few minutes
since Mr. M'Loughlin told me that M'Clutchy assured him--”
“Captain M'Clutchy, sir, if you plaise.”
“Very well--Captain M'Clutchy, or Colonel M'Olutchy, if you wish,
assured him that--”
“I have nothing to do with what he assured him,” replied the fellow; “my
duty is to take an inventory of the furniture; beg pardon, ladies, but
we must do our duty you know.”
“Let them have their way,” said Mrs. M'Loughlin, “let them have their
way; I know what they are capable of. Mary, my dear, be firm--as I said
before--our only trust is in God, my child.”
“I am firm, my dear mother; for, as James said, the grief of griefs
has been removed from me. I can now support myself under anything--but
you--indeed, James, she is battling against illness these three or
four days--and will not go to bed; it is for you I now feel, mother.”
Mr. M'Loughlin and his family here entered; and truth to tell, boundless
was the indignation of the honest fellow, at this most oppressive and
perfidious proceeding on the part of the treacherous agent.
“Ah,” said he, “I knew it--and I said it--but let the scoundrel do his
worst; I scorn him, and I defy him in the very height of his ill-gotten
authority. My children,” said he, “keep yourselves cool. Let not this
cowardly act of oppression and revenge disturb or provoke you. This
country, as it is at present governed--and this property as it is at
present managed--is no place for us to live in. Let the scoundrel then
do his worst. As for us, we will follow the example of other respectable
families, who, like ourselves, have been forced to seek a home in
a distant country. We will emigrate to America, as soon as I can
conveniently make arrangements for that purpose; for God knows I am sick
of my native land, and the petty oppressors which in so many ways harass
and goad the people almost to madness.”
He had no sooner uttered these words, than the fellow whose name was
Hudson, whispered to one of his companions, who immediately disappeared
with something like a grin of exultation on his countenance. Mrs.
M'Loughlin's illness was now such as she could no longer attempt to
conceal. The painful shock occasioned by this last vindictive proceeding
on the part of M'Clutchy, came at a most unhappy moment. Overcome by
that and her illness, she was obliged to go to bed, aided by her husband
and her daughter; but before she went, it was considered necessary to
get one of the ruffians, as an act of favor, to take an inventory of
the furniture in her chamber, in order that her sick room might not be
intruded upon afterwards.
Mary having put her sick mother to bed, returned to the parlor, from
whence she was proceeding to the kitchen, to make whey with her own
hands for the invalid, when in passing along the hall, Harman and her
brother John met her. She was in a hurry, and was about to pass without
speaking a word, when she and they were startled by the following
dialogue--
“So, Bob, did you see the pale beauty in the parlor?”
“I did, she's a devilish pretty girl.”
“She is so--well, but do you know that she is one of Mr. Phil's ladies.
Sure he was caught in her bed-room some time ago.”
“Certainly, every one knows that; and it appears she is breaking her
heart because he won't make an honest woman of her.”
John caught his sister, whose agitation, was dreadful, and led her away;
making at the same time, a signal to Harman to remain quiet until his
return--a difficult task, and. Harman felt it so. In the meantime, the.
following appendix was added to the dialogue already detailed--
“Why do you hould such talk under this, roof, Leeper?” asked a third
voice.
The only reply given to this very natural query was a subdued cackle,
evidently proceeding from the two first speakers.
“Do you both see that strong horse-pistol,” said the third voice--for in
those days; an Execution was almost always levied by armed men--“by the
Bible of truth, if I hear another word of such conversation from any
man here while we're under this roof, I'll sink the butt of it into his
skull! It's bad enough that we're here on an unpleasant duty--”
“Unpleasant! speak for yourself.”
“Silence, you ruffian--on an unpleasant-duty; but that's no reason that
we should grieve the hearts and insult the feelings of a respectable
family like this. The truth, or rather the blasted falsehood that was
put out on the young lady is now known almost everywhere, for Poll
Doolin has let out the truth.
“But didn't Misther Phil desire us to say it, so as that they might hear
us.”
“Mr. Phil's a cowardly scoundrel, and nothing else; but, mark me, Phil
or no Phil, keep your teeth shut on that subject.”
“Just as much or as little of that as we like, if you please, Mr. ----.”
“Very well, you know my mind--so take the consequences, that's all.”
“Here goes then,” said the ruffian, speaking in a deliberately loud
voice, “it's well known that Miss M'Loughlin is Misther Phil's----”
A heavy blow, followed by a crash on the floor--a brief conflict as if
with another person, another blow, and another crash followed. Harman,
in a state of feeling which our readers may imagine, but which we cannot
describe, pushed in the door, which, in fact, was partially open.
“What, what is this?” he asked, pretending ignorance, “is it fighting
among yourselves you are? Fie, fie! Gordon Harvey, what is the matter?”
“Only a little quarrel of our own, Mr. Harman,” replied the excellent
fellow. “The truth is, sir, that these men--ay, gather yourselves up,
do; you ought to have known Gordon Harvey's blow, for you have often
enough heard of it before now; there is no great mistake about that,
you scoundrels--the truth is, Mr. Harman, that these fellows were primed
with whiskey at M'Clutchy's and they gave me provoking language that
I couldn't bear; it's well for them that I didn't take the butt end
of that,” said he, holding up the horse-pistol in his left hand, “but
you'll find ten for one that would rather have a taste of it than of
this;” shutting his right--which was a perfect sledgehammer, and, when
shut, certainly the more formidable weapon of the two.
The two ruffians had now gathered themselves up, and appeared to be
considerably sobered by Harvey's arguments. They immediately retired
to a corner of the room, where they stood with a sullen but vindictive
look--cowardly and ferocious, ready to revenge on M'Loughlin's family
the punishment which they had received, but durst not resent, at the
hands of Harvey--unquestionably one of the most powerful and generous
Orangemen that was ever known in Castle Cumber. Let us not for a moment
be mistaken. The Orangemen of Ireland contained, and still contain among
them, men of great generosity, courage, and humanity. This is undeniable
and unquestionable; but then, it is well known that these men never took
any part in the outrages perpetrated by the lower and grosser grades,
unless to prevent outrage. In nothing, indeed, was the lamentable state
of the Irish Church Establishment more painfully obvious than in the
moral ignorance and brutal bigotry, which want of Christian instruction
and enlightened education had entailed upon men, who otherwise have been
a high-minded, brave, and liberal class, had they not been corrupted by
the example of the very pastors--ungodly, loose, convivial, political,
anything but Christian--from whom they were to expect their examples and
their precepts. But to return. Harman having given a significant glance
to Harvey, left the room, and the latter immediately followed him.
“Harvey,” said he, “I have overheard the whole conversation; give me
your hand, for it is that of an honest man. I thank you, I thank you--do
try and prevent these ruffians from insulting the family.”
“I don't think the same thing will happen a second time, Mr. Harman,”
replied the gigantic Orangeman; “but, the truth is, the men are half
drunk, and were made so before they came here.”
“Well, but I thank you, Harvey; deeply and from my soul, I thank you.”
“You needn't, Mr. Harman; I hate a dirty and ungenerous thing. Phil's a
brother Orangeman, and my tongue is tied--no doubt I'll be expelled for
knocking these two scoundrels down, but I don't care; it was too bad and
too cruel, and, let the upshot be what it may, Gordon Harvey is not the
man to back a scoundrelly act, no matter who does it, or who orders it.”
They shook hands cordially, and we now must leave the family for a time,
to follow the course of other events that bear upon our narrative.