Father and Son.
One evening in the month of March, 1798,--that dark time in Ireland’s
annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _emeutes_) is
still preserved among us, as “the year of the rebellion”--a lady and
gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned
dining-room of a large lonely mansion. They had just dined; wine and
fruit were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife
sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming
gradually more vivid as the short Spring twilight faded into darkness.
At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then
broke silence, by saying--
“Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken
up to-day for burning Cotter’s house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says
that every magistrate in the country is a marked man.”
Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance towards the windows, which opened
nearly to the ground, and gave a view of the wide tree-besprinkled lawn,
through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There
was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through
close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route.
“Listen, James!” she said, after a pause; “what noise is that?”
“Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you
must not give way to imaginary fears.”
“But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the
gable-end--I wish”--
A knock at the parlor door interrupted her.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson’s confidential steward and
right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking boy
of six years’ old, dressed in deep mourning.
“Well, Gahan, what do you want?”
“I ask your Honor’s pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I
thought it right to come tell you the bad news I heard.”
“Something about the rebels, I suppose?”
“Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there’s going to be a great
rising intirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at
Kilcrean bog, where I’m told they have a power of pikes hiding; and then
they’re to march on and sack every house in the country. I’ll engage,
when I heard it, I didn’t let the grass grow under my feet, but came off
straight to your Honor, thinking maybe you’d like to walk over this fine
evening to Mr. Warren’s, and settle with him what’s best to be done.”
“Oh, James! I beseech you, don’t think of going.”
“Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don’t intend it: not that I suppose
there would be much risk; but, all things considered, I think I’m just
as comfortable at home.”
The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced nervously towards the end
window, which, jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the
outer wall.
“Of course ’tis just as your honor plases, but I’ll warrant you there
would be no harm in going. Come, Billy,” he added, addressing the child,
who by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson, “make your bow, and
bid good night to master and mistress.”
The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson, taking his little hand in hers,
said--
“You need not go home for half-an-hour, Gahan; stay and have a chat with
the servants in the kitchen, and leave little Billy with me--and with
the apples and nuts”--she added, smiling as she filled the child’s hands
with fruit.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” said the steward hastily. “I can’t stop--I’m in a
hurry home, where I wanted to leave this brat to-night; but he _would_
follow me. Come, Billy; come this minute, you young rogue.”
Still the child looked reluctant, and Mr. Hewson said peremptorily.
“Don’t go yet, Gahan; I want to speak to you by-and-bye; and you know
the mistress always likes to pet little Billy.”
Without replying, the steward left the room; and the next moment his
hasty footsteps resounded through the long flagged passage that led to
the offices.
“There’s something strange about Gahan, since his wife died,” remarked
Mrs. Hewson. “I suppose ’tis grief for her that makes him look so
darkly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks to his child. Poor
little Billy! your mother was a sore loss to you.”
The child’s blue eyes filled with tears, and pressing closer to the
lady’s side, he said:--
“Old Peggy doesn’t wash and dress me as nicely as mammy used.”
“But your father is good to you?”
“Oh, yes, Ma’am, but he’s out all day busy, and I’ve no one to talk to
me as mammy used; for Peggy is quite deaf, and besides she’s always busy
with the pigs and chickens.”
“I wish I had you, Billy, to take care of, and to teach, for your poor
mother’s sake.”
“And so you may, Charlotte,” said her husband. “I’m sure Gahan, with all
his odd ways, is too sensible a fellow not to know how much it would be
for his child’s benefit to be brought up and educated by us, and the boy
would be an amusement to us in this lonely house. I’ll speak to him
about it before he goes home. Billy, my fine fellow, come here,” he
continued, “jump up on my knee, and tell me if you’d like to live here
always, and learn to read and write.”
“I would, Sir, if I could be with father too.”
“So you shall;--and what about old Peggy?”