Meehaul now directed his steps homewards, literally stunned by the
unexpected cowardice of his enemy. On approaching his father's door, he
found Nell M'Collum seated on a stone bench, waiting his arrival.
The moment she espied him she sprang to her feet, and with her usual
eagerness of manner, caught the breast of his coat, and turning him
round towards the moonlight, looked eagerly into his face.
“Well,” she inquired, “did he show his fire-arms? Well? What was done?”
“Somebody has been making a fool of you, Nell,” replied Meehaul; “he
had neither fire-arms, nor staff, nor any thing else; an' for my part, I
might as well have left mine at home.”
“Well, but, _douol_, man, what was done? Did you smash him? Did you
break his bones?”
“None of that, Nell, but worse; he's disgraced for ever. I struck him,
an' he refused to fight me; he hadn't a hand to raise.
“No! _Dher Chiernah_, he had not; an' he may thank Nell M'Collum for
that. I put the weakness over him. But I've not done wid him yet. I'll
make that family curse the day they crossed Nell M'Collum, if I should
go down for it. Not that I have any ill will to the boy himself, but the
father's heart's in him, an' that's the way, Meehaul, I'll punish the
man that was the means of lavin' me as I am.”
“Nell, the devil's in your heart,” replied Meehaul, “if ever he was in
mortal's. Lave me, woman: I can't bear your revengeful spirit, an' what
is more, I don't want you to interfere in this business, good, bad, or
indifferent. You bring about harm, Nell; but who has ever known you to
do good?”
“Ay! ay!” said the hag, “that's the cuckoo song to Nell; she does harm,
but never does good! Well, may my blackest curse wither the man that
left Nell to hear that, as the kindest word that's spoke either to her
or of her! I don't blame you. Meehaul--I blame nobody but him for it
all. Now a word of advice before you go in; don't let on to Ellen that
you know of her meetin' him this night;--an' reason good,--if she thinks
you're watchin' her, she'll be on her guard--'ay, an' outdo you in spite
of your teeth. She's a woman--she's a woman. Good night, an' mark him
the next time betther.”
Meehaul himself--had come to the same determination and from the same
motive.
The consciousness of Lamh Laudher's public disgrace, and of his
incapability to repel it, sank deep into his heart. The blood in his
veins became hot and feverish when he reflected upon the scornful and
degrading insult he had just borne. Soon after his return home, his
father and mother both noticed the singularly deep bursts of indignant
feeling with which he appeared to be agitated. For some time they
declined making any inquiry as to its cause, but when they saw at length
the big scalding tears of shame and rage start from his flashing eyes,
they could no longer restrain their concern and curiosity.
“In the name of heaven, John,” said they, “what has happened to put you
in such a state as you're in?”
“I can't tell you,” he replied; “if you knew it, you'd blush with
burnin' shame--you'd curse me in your heart. For my part, I'd rather be
dead fifty times over than livin', after what has happened this night.”
“An' why not tell us, Lamh Laudher?”
“I can't father; I couldn't stand upright afore you and spake it. I'd
sink like a guilty man in your presence; an' except you want to drive me
distracted, or perjured, don't ask me another question about it. You'll
hear it too soon.”
“Well, we must wait,” said the father; “but I'm sure, John, you'd
not do anything unbecomin' a man. For my part, I'm not unasy on your
account, for except to take an affront from a Neil, there's nothing you
would do could shame me.”
This was a' fresh stab to the son's wounded pride, for which he was not
prepared. With a stifled groan he leaped to his feet, and rushing from
the kitchen, bolted himself up in his bed-room.
His parents, after he had withdrawn, exchanged glances.
“That went home to him,” said the father; “an' as sure as death, the
Neils are in it, whatever it is. But by the crass that saved us, if he
tuck an affront from any of them, without payin' them home double, he is
no son of mine, an' this roof won't cover him another night. Howsomever
we'll see in the morn-in', plase God!”
The mother, who was proud of his courage and prowess, scouted with great
indignation the idea of her son's tamely putting up with an insult from
any of the opposite faction.
“Is it he bear an affront from a Neil! arrah, don't make a fool of
yourself, old man! He'd die sooner. I'd stake my life on him.”
The night advanced, and the family had retired to bed; but their son
attempted in vain to sleep. A sense of shame overpowered him keenly.
He tossed and turned, and groaned, at the contemplation of the disgrace
which he knew would be heaped on him the following day. What was to be
done? How was he to wipe it off? There was but one method, he believed,
of getting his hands once more free; that was to seek Ellen, and gain
her permission to retract his oath on that very night. With this purpose
he instantly dressed, himself, and quietly unbolting his own door,
and that of the kitchen, got another staff, and passed out to seek her
father's inn.
The night had now become dark, but mild and agreeable; the repose of man
and nature was deep, and save his own tumultuous thoughts every thing
breathed an air of peace and rest. At a quick but cautious pace he soon
reached the inn, and without much difficulty passed into the garden,
from which he hoped to be able to make himself known to Ellen. In this,
to his great mortification, he was disappointed; the room in which she
slept, being on the third story, presented a window, it is true, to the
garden; but how was he to reach it, or hold a dialogue with her, even
should she recognize him, without being overheard by some of the family?
All this might have occurred to him at home, had he been sufficiently
cool for reflection. As it was, the only method of awakening her that he
could think of was to throw up several handsful of small pebbles against
the window. This he tried without any effect. Pebbles sufficiently large
to reach the window would have broken the glass, so that he felt himself
compelled to abandon every hope of speaking to her that night. With
lingering and reluctant steps he left the garden, and stood for some
time before the front of the house, leaning against an upright stone,
called the market cross. Here he had not been more than two minutes,
when he heard footsteps approaching, and on looking closely through
the darkness, he recognized the figure of Nell M'Collum, as it passed
directly to the kitchen window. Here the crone stopped, peered in, and
with caution gave one of the panes a gentle tap. This was responded
to by one much louder from within, and almost immediately the door was
softly opened. From thence issued another female figure, evidently that
of Nanse M'Collum, her niece. Both passed down the street in a northern
direction, and Lamh Laudher, apprehensive that they were on no good
errand, took off his shoes, lest his footsteps might be heard, and
dogged them as they went along. They spoke little, and that in whispers,
until they had got clear of the town, when, feeling less restraint, the
following dialogue occurred to them:--
“Isn't it a quare thing, aunt, that she should come back to this place
at all?”
“Quare enough, but the husband's comin' too--he's to folly her.”
“He ought to know that he needn't come here, I think.”
“Why, you fool, how do you know that? Sure the town must pay him fifty
guineas, if he doesn't get a customer, and that's worth comin' for. She
must be near us by this time. Husht! do you hear a car?”
They both paused to listen, but no car was audible.
“I do not,” replied the niece; “but isn't it odd that he lets her carry
the money, an' him trates her so badly'?”
“Why would it be odd? Sure, she takes betther care of it, an' puts it
farther than he does. His heart's in a farden, the nager.”
“Rody an' the other will soon spare her that trouble, any way,” replied
the niece. “Is there no one with her but the carman?”
“Not one--hould you tongue--here's the gate where the same pair was to
meet us. Who is this stranger that Rody has picked up? I hope he's the
thing.”
“Some red-headed fellow. Rody says he is honest. I'm wondherin', aunt,
what 'ud happen if she'd know the place.”
“She can't, girshah--an' what if she does? She may know the place, but
will the place know her? Rody's friend says the best way is to do for
her; an' I'm afeard of her, to tell you the truth--but we'll settle that
when they come. There now is the gate where we'll sit down. Give a cough
till we try if they're------whist! here they are!”
The voices of two men now joined the conversation, but in so low a tone,
that Lamh Laudher could not distinctly hear its purport.
[Illustration: PAGE 91-- With stealthy pace he crept over]
The road along which they traveled was craggy, and full of ruts, so that
a car could be heard in the silence of night at a considerable distance.
On each side the ditches were dry and shallow; and a small elder hedge,
which extended its branches towards the road, afforded Lamh Laudher
the obscurity which he wanted. With stealthy pace he crept over and sat
beneath it, determined to witness whatever incident might occur, and to
take a part in it, if necessary. He had scarcely seated himself when the
car which they expected was heard jolting about half a mile off along
the way, and the next moment a consultation took place in tones so low
and guarded, that every attempt on his part to catch its purport was
unsuccessful. This continued with much earnestness, if not warmth, until
the car came within twenty perches of the gate, when Nell exclaimed--
“If you do, you may--but remimber I didn't egg you on, or put it into
your hearts, at all evints. Maybe I have a child myself livin'--far from
me--an' when I think of him, I feel one touch of nature at my heart in
favor of her still. I'm black enough there, as it is.”
“Make your mind asy,” said one of them, “you won't have to answer for
her.”
The reply which was given to this could not be heard.
“Well,” rejoined,Nell, “I know that. Her comin' here may not be for my
good; but--well, take this shawl, an' let the work be quick. The carman
must be sent back with sore bones to keep him quiet.”
The car immediately reached the spot where they sat, and as it passed,
the two men rushed from the gate, stopped the horse, and struck the
carman to the earth. One of them seized him while down, and pressed
his throat, so as to prevent him from shouting. A single faint shriek
escaped the female, who was instantly dragged off the car and gagged by
the other fellow and Nanse M'Collum.
Lamh Laudher saw there was not a moment to be lost. With the speed
of lightning he sprung forward, and with a single blow laid him who
struggled with the carman prostrate. To pass then to the aid of the
female was only the work of an instant. With equal success he struck
down the villain with whom she was struggling. Such was the rapidity of
his motions, that he had not yet had time even to speak; nor indeed did
he wish at all to be recognized in the transaction. The carman, finding
himself freed from his opponent, bounced to his legs, and came to the
assistance of his charge, whilst Lamh Laudher, who had just flung Nanse
M'Collum into the ditch, returned in time to defend both from a second
attack. The contest, however, was a short one. The two ruffians, finding
that there was no chance of succeeding, fled across the fields; and our
humble hero, on looking for Nanse and her aunt, discovered that they
also had disappeared. It is unnecessary to detail the strong terms in
which the strangers expressed their gratitude to Lamh Laudher.
“God's grace be upon you, whoever you are, young man!” exclaimed the
carman; “for wid His help an' your own good arm, it's my downright
opinion that you saved us from bein' both robbed an' murthered.”
“I'm of that opinion myself,” replied Lamh Laudher.
“There is goodness, young man, in the tones of your voice,” observed the
female; “we may at least ask the name of the person who has saved our
lives?”
“I would rather not have my name mentioned in the business,” he replied;
“a woman, or a devil, I think, that I don't wish to cross or provoke,
has had a hand in it. I hope you haven't been robbed?” he added.
She assured him, with expressions of deep gratitude, that she had not.
“Well,” said he, “as you have neither of you come to much harm, I would
take it as the greatest favor you could do me, if you'd never mention a
word about it to any one.”
To this request they agreed with some hesitation. Lamh Laudher
accompanied them into the town, and saw them safely in a decent
second-rate inn, kept by a man named Luke Connor, after which he
returned to his father's house, and without undressing, fell into a
disturbed slumber until morning.
It is not to be supposed that the circumstances attending the quarrel
between him and Meehaul Neil, on the preceding night, would pass off
without a more than ordinary share of public notice. Their relative
positions were too well known not to excite an interest corresponding
with the characters they had borne, as the leaders of two bitter and
powerful factions: but when it became certain that Meehaul Neil had
struck Lamh Laudher Oge, and that the latter refused to fight him, it
is impossible to describe the sensation which immediately spread through
the town and parish. The intelligence was first received by O'Rorke's
party with incredulity and scorn. It was impossible that he of the
Strong Hand, who had been proverbial for courage, could all at once turn
coward, and bear the blow from a Neil! But when it was proved beyond the
possibility of doubt or misconception, that he received a blow tamely
before many witnesses, under circumstances of the most degrading insult,
the rage of his party became incredible. Before ten o'clock the next
morning his father's house was crowded with friends and relations,
anxious to hear the truth from his own lips, and all, after having heard
it, eager to point out to him the only method that remained of wiping
away his disgrace, namely, to challenge Meehaul Neil. His father's
indignation knew no bounds; but his mother, on discovering the truth,
was not without that pride and love which, are ever ready to form an
apology for the feelings and errors of an only child.
“You may all talk,” she said; “but if Lamh Laudher Oge didn't strike
him, he had good reasons for it. How do you know, an' bad cess to your
tongues, all through other, how Ellen Neil would like him after weltin'
her brother? Don't ye think she has the spirit of her faction in her as
well as another?”
This, however, was not listened to. The father would hear of no apology
for his son's cowardice but an instant challenge. Either that or to be
driven from his father's roof the only alternatives left him.
“Come out here,” said the old man, for the son had not left his humble
bed-room, “an' in presence of them that you have brought to shame
and disgrace, take the only plan that s left to you, an' send him a
challenge.”
“Father,” said the young man, “I have too much of your own blood in me
to be afraid of any man--but for all that, I neither will nor can fight
Meehaul Neil.”
“Very well,” said the father, bitterly, “that's enough. _Dher Manim_,
Oonagh, you're a guilty woman; that boy's no son of mine. If he had
my blood in him, he couldn't act as he did. Here, you intherloper, the
door's open for you; go out of it, an' let me never see the branded
face of you while you live.” The groans of the son were audible from his
bed-room.
“I will go, father,” he replied, “an' I hope the day will come when
you'll all change your opinion of me. I can't, however, stir out till I
send a message a mile or so out of town.”
The old man in the mean time, wept as if his son had been dead; his
tears, however, were not those of sorrow, but of shame and indignation.
“How can I help it,” he exclaimed, “when I think of the way that the
Neils will clap their wings and crow over us! If it was from any other
family he tuck it so inanely, I wouldn't care so much; but from them!
Oh, Chiernah! it's too bad! Turn out, you villain!”
A charge of deeper disgrace, however, awaited the unhappy young man.
The last harsh words of the father had scarcely been uttered, when three
constables came in, and inquired if his son were at home.
“He is at home,” said the father, with tears in his eyes, “and I never
thought he would bring the blush to my face as he did by his conduct
last night.”
“I am sorry,” said the principal of them, “for what has happened, both
on your account and his. Do you know this hat?”
“I do know it,” replied the old man; “it belongs to John. Come out
here,” said he, “here's Tom Breen wid your hat.”
The son left his room, and it was evident from his appearance that he
had not undressed at all during the night. The constables immediately
observed these circumstances, which they did not fail to interpret to
his disadvantage.
“Here is your hat,” said the man who bore it; “one would think you were
travelin' all night, by your looks.”
The son thanked him for his civility, got clean stockings, and after
arranging his dress, said to his father--
“I'm now ready to go, father, an' as I can't do what you want me to do,
there's nothing for me but to leave the country for a while.”
“He acknowledged it himself,” said the father, turning to Breen; “an' in
that case, how could I let the son that shamed me live undher my roof?”
“He's the last young man in the country I stand in,” said Breen, “that
any one who knew him would suspect to be guilty of robbery. Upon my
soul, Lamh Laudher More, I'm both grieved an' distressed at it. We're
come to arrest him,” he added, “for the robbery he committed last
night.”
“Robbery!” they exclaimed with one voice.
“Ay,” said the man, “robbery, no less--an' what is more, I'm afraid
there's little doubt of his guilt. Why did he lave his hat at the place
where the attempt was first made? He must come with us.”
The mother shrieked aloud, and clapped her hands like a distressed
woman; the father's brow changed from the flushed hue of indignation,
and became pale with apprehension.
“Oh! no, no,” he exclaimed, “John never did that. Some qualm might come
over him in the other business, but--no, no--your father knows you're
innocent of robbery. Yes, John, my blood is in you, and there you're
wronged, my son. I know you too well, in spite of all I've said to you,
to believe that, my true-hearted boy.”
He grasped his son's hand as he spoke.
And his mother at the same moment caught him in her arms, whilst both
sobbed aloud. A strong sense of innate dignity expanded the brow of
young Lamh Laudher. He smiled while his parents wept, although his
sympathy in their sorrow brought a tear at the same time to his
eye-lids. He declined, however, entering into any explanation, and the
father proceeded--
“Yes! I know you are innocent, John; I can swear that you didn't leave
this house from nine o'clock last night up to the present minute.”
“Father,” said Lamh Laudher, “don't swear that, for it would not be
true, although you think it would. I was out the greater part of last
night.”
His father's countenance fell again, as did those of his friends who
were present, on hearing what appeared to be almost an admission of his
guilt.
“Go,” said the old man, “go; naburs, take him with you. If he's guilty
of this, I'll never more look upon his face. John, my heart was crushed
before, but you're likely to break it out an' out.”
Lamh Laudher Oge's deportment, on hearing himself charged with robbery,
became dogged and sullen. The conversation, together with the sympathy
and the doubt it excited among his friends, he treated with silent
indignation and scorn. He remembered that on the night before, the
strange woman assured him she had not been robbed, and he felt that the
charge was exceedingly strange and unaccountable.
“Come,” said he, “the sooner this business is cleared up the better.
For my part, I don't know what to make of it, nor do I care much how it
goes. I knew since yesterday evening, that bad luck was before me, at
all events, an' I suppose it must take its course, an' that I must bear
it.”
The father had sat down, and now declined uttering a single word in
vindication of his' son. The latter looked towards him, when about to
pass out, but the old man waved his hand with sorrowful impatience,
and pointed to the door, as intimating a wish that he should forthwith
depart from under his roof. Loaded with twofold disgrace, he left his
family and his friends, accompanied by the constables, to the profound
grief and astonishment of all who knew him.
They then conducted him before a Mr. Brooldeigh, an active magistrate of
that day, and a gentleman of mild and humane character.