“I’d like to give her a pen’north of snuff and a piece of tobacco every
week, for she said the other day that _that_ would make her quite
happy.”
Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prattled on, still seated on his knee;
when a noise of footsteps on the ground, mingled with low suppressed
talking, was heard outside.
“James, listen! there’s the noise again.”
It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Hewson, still holding the boy in his
arms, walked towards the window and looked out.
“I can see nothing,” he said--“stay--there are figures moving off among
the trees, and a man running round to the back of the house--very like
Gahan he is too!”
Seizing the bell-rope he rang it loudly, and said to the servant who
answered his summons:--
“Fasten the shutters and put up the bars, Connell; and then tell Gahan I
want to see him.”
The man obeyed; candles were brought, and Gahan entered the room.
Mr. Hewson remarked that, though his cheeks were flushed, his lips were
very white, and his bold dark eyes were cast on the ground.
“What took you round the house just now, Tim?” asked his master, in a
careless manner.
“What took me round the house is it? Why, then, nothing in life, Sir,
but that just as I went outside the kitchen door to take a smoke, I saw
the pigs that Shaneen forgot to put up in their stye, making right for
the mistress’ flower-garden; so I just put my _dudheen_, lighting as it
was, into my pocket, and ran after them. I caught them on the grand walk
under the end window, and indeed, Ma’am, I had my own share of work
turning them back to their proper spear.”
Gahan spoke with unusual volubility, but without raising his eyes from
the ground.
“Who were the people,” asked his master, “whom I saw moving through the
western grove?”
“People! your Honor--not a sign of any people moving there, I’ll be
bound, barring the pigs.”
“Then,” said Mr. Hewson, smiling, to his wife, “the miracle of Circe
must have been reversed and swine turned into men; for, undoubtedly, the
dark figures I saw were human beings.”
“Come, Billy,” said Gahan, anxious to turn the conversation, “will you
come home with me now? I am sure ’twas very good of the mistress to give
you all them fine apples.”
Mrs. Hewson was going to propose Billy’s remaining, but her husband
whispered:--“Wait till to-morrow.” So Gahan and his child were allowed
to depart.
Next morning the magistrates of the district were on the alert, and
several suspicious-looking men found lurking about, were taken up. A hat
which fitted one of them was picked up in Mr. Hewson’s grove; the gravel
under the end window bore many signs of trampling feet; and there were
marks on the wall as if guns had rested against it. Gahan’s information
touching the intended meeting at Kilcrean bog proved to be totally
without foundation; and after a careful search not a single pike or
weapon of any description could be found there. All these circumstances
combined certainly looked suspicious; but, after a long investigation,
as no guilt could be actually brought home to Gahan, he was dismissed.
One of his examiners, however, said privately, “I advise you take care
of that fellow, Hewson. If I were in your place, I’d just trust him as
far as I could throw him, and not an inch beyond.”
An indolent hospitable Irish country gentleman, such as Mr. Hewson, is
never without an always shrewd and often roguish prime minister, who
saves his master the trouble of looking after his own affairs, and
manages everything that is to be done in both the home and foreign
departments,--from putting a new door to the pig-stye, to letting a farm
of an hundred acres on lease. Now in this, or rather these capacities,
Gahan had long served Mr. Hewson; and some seven years previous to the
evening on which our story commences, he had strengthened the tie and
increased his influence considerably by marrying Mrs. Hewson’s favorite
and faithful maid. One child was the result of this union; and Mrs.
Hewson, who had no family of her own, took much interest in little
Billy,--more especially after the death of his mother, who, poor thing!
the neighbors said, was not very happy, and would gladly, if she dared,
have exchanged her lonely cottage for the easy service of her former
mistress.
Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs. Hewson regarded Gahan with some
doubt, the feeling gradually wore away, and the steward regained his
former influence.
After the lapse of a few stormy months the rebellion was quelled: all
the prisoners taken up were severally disposed of by hanging,
transportation or acquittal, according to the nature and amount of the
evidence brought against them; and the country became as peaceful as it
is in the volcanic nature of our Irish soil ever to be.
The Hewsons’ kindness towards Gahan’s child was steady and unchanged.
They took him into their house, and gave him a plain but solid
education; so that William, while yet a boy, was enabled to be of some
use to his patron, and daily enjoyed more and more of his confidence.
* * * * *
Another Evening, the twentieth anniversary of that with which this
narrative commenced, came round. Mr. and Mrs. Hewson were still hale and
active, dwelling in their hospitable home. About eight o’clock at night,
Tim Gahan, now a stooping, gray-haired man, entered Mr. Hewson’s
kitchen, and took his seat on the corner of the settle, near the fire.
The cook directing a silent significant glance of compassion towards her
fellow-servants, said:
“Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or will you wait and take a cup
of tay with myself and Kitty?”
The old man’s eyes were fixed on the fire, and a wrinkled hand was
planted firmly on each knee, as if to check their involuntary trembling.
“I’ll not drink anything this night, thank you kindly, Nelly,” he said,
in a slow musing manner, dwelling long on each word.
“Where’s Billy?” he asked, after a pause, in a quick hurried tone,
looking up suddenly at the cook, with an expression in his eyes, which,
as she afterwards said, “took away her breath.”
“Oh, never heed Billy! I suppose he’s busy with the master.”
“Where’s the use, Nelly,” said the coachman, “in hiding it from him?
Sure, sooner or later he must know it. Tim,” he continued, “God knows
’tis sorrow to my heart this blessed night to make yours sore,--but the
truth is, that William has done what he oughtn’t to do to the man that
was all one as a father to him.”
“What has he done? what will you _dar_ say again my boy?”
“Taken money, then,” replied the coachman, “that the master had marked
and put by in his desk; for he suspected this some time past that gold
was missing. This morning ’twas gone; a search was made, and the marked
guineas were found with your son William.”
The old man covered his face with his hands, and rocked himself to and
fro.
“Where is he now?” at length he asked, in a hoarse voice.
“Locked up safe in the inner store-room; the master intends sending him
to gaol early to-morrow morning.”
“He will not,” said Gahan slowly, “kill the boy that saved his
life!--no, no.”
“Poor fellow! the grief is setting his mind astray--and sure no wonder!”
said the cook, compassionately.
“I’m not astray!” cried the old man, fiercely.
“Where’s the master?--take me to him.”
“Come with me,” said the butler, “and I’ll ask him will he see you?”
With faltering steps the father complied; and when they reached the
parlor, he trembled exceedingly, and leant against the wall for support,
while the butler opened the door, and said:
“Gahan is here, Sir, and wants to know will you let him speak to you for
a minute?”
“Tell him to come in,” said Mr. Hewson, in a solemn tone of sorrow, very
different from his ordinary cheerful voice.
“Sir,” said the steward, advancing, “they tell me you are going to send
my boy to prison,--is it true?”
“Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who was reared in my house, whom my
wife watched over in health, and nursed in sickness--whom we loved
almost as if he were our own, has _robbed_ us, and that not once or
twice, but many times. He is silent, and sullen, too, and refuses to
tell why he stole the money, which was never withheld from him when he
wanted it. I can make nothing of him, and must only give him up to
justice in the morning.”
“No, Sir, no. The boy saved your life; you can’t take his.”
“You’re raving, Gahan.”
“Listen to me, Sir, and you won’t say so. You remember this night
twenty years? I came here with my motherless child, and yourself and the
mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him. Well for us all you
did so! That night--little you thought it!--I was banded with them that
were sworn to take your life. They were watching you outside the window,
and I was sent to inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. A faint
heart I had for the bloody business, for you were ever and always a good
master to me; but I was under an oath to them that I darn’t break,
supposing they ordered me to shoot my own mother. Well! the hand of God
was over you, and you wouldn’t come with me. I ran out to them, and I
said--“Boys, if you want to shoot him, you must do it through the
window,” thinking they’d be afeard of that; but they weren’t--they were
daring fellows, and one of them, sheltered by the angle of the window,
took deadly aim at you. That very moment you took Billy on your knee,
and I saw his fair head on a line with the musket. I don’t know exactly
then what I said or did, but I remember I caught the man’s hand, threw
it up, and pointed to the child. Knowing I was a determined man, I
believe they didn’t wish to provoke me; so they watched you for awhile,
and when you didn’t put him down they got daunted, hearing the sound of
soldiers riding by the road, and they stole away through the grove. Most
of that gang swung on the gallows, but the last of them died this
morning quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday he used to make me give him
money,--sums of money to buy his silence--and it was for that I made my
boy a thief. It was wearing out his very life. Often he went down on his
knees to me, and said: ‘Father, I’d die myself sooner than rob my
master, but I can’t see _you_ disgraced. Oh, let us fly the country!’
Now, Sir, I have told you all--do what you like with me--send me to
gaol, I deserve it--but spare my poor, deluded, innocent boy!”
It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson’s feelings, but his wife’s
first impulse was to hasten to liberate the prisoner. With a few
incoherent words of explanation she led him into the presence of his
master, who, looking at him sorrowfully but kindly, said:
“William, you have erred deeply, but not so deeply as I supposed. Your
father has told me everything. I forgive him freely and you also.”
The young man covered his face with his hands, and wept tears more
bitter and abundant than he had ever shed since the day when he followed
his mother to the grave. He could say but little, but he knelt on the
ground, and clasping the kind hand of her who had supplied to him that
mother’s place, he murmured:
“Will _you_ tell him I would rather die than sin again.”
Old Gahan died two years afterwards, truly penitent, invoking blessings
on his son and on his benefactors; and the young man’s conduct, now no
longer under evil influence, was so steady and so upright, that his
adopted parents felt that their pious work was rewarded, and that, in
William Gahan, they had indeed a son.