The events narrated in the last chapter were not without lasting
effects on most of the persons immediately concerned in them. Michael
McAravey was an altered man. His proud reserve seemed changing into
petulant self-vindication. He began to look fully his age, and, like
many other men of so-called iron constitution, when his strength began
to give way it collapsed at once. He also conceived a violent
antipathy to George Hendrick. The children were forbidden to attend
the class, which had now been resumed; and although they came twice
surreptitiously, Mr. Hendrick was no sooner aware of this than he felt
obliged to tell them that their first duty was obedience to their
guardians. It was a hard parting both for teacher and pupils. It cost
George Hendrick no slight effort to dismiss his two favourite scholars,
nor could he at once see his duty plain in the matter. As for the
children they were broken-hearted and rebellious; but the quiet,
sympathetic tenderness of their friend at length reconciled them to
their lot. Except on this point, McAravey was far more considerate
with the children than formerly. He was now a good deal in the house,
having become very asthmatic, and often shielded Elsie and Jim from
Mrs. McAravey's harsh tongue.
The effect of what they had gone through was no less evident in the
children, though they were very differently affected. Jim never
recovered the panic of that March day. Nothing could induce him to go
near the shore alone, and the very sight of the sea excited the lad.
It was otherwise with Elsie. That solitary interview with the dead had
sobered her. The dead woman's face was seldom absent from her
thoughts. Elsie had grown to love it, and to regard it as something
mysterious and superhuman. She had never before seen so refined and
beautiful a countenance; and there was something in the rigid aspect of
death that quieted and awed, while it did not the least terrify the
child. As the months went by, and the actual event began to fade in
the distance, the pale sweet face, with the dripping brown hair drawn
back from it, became more and more of an ideal for veneration and love.
Thus, while Jim could never be induced to pass near the sandy cove
alone, Elsie ceased to have any special association with the actual
scene of the occurrence. But in her moments of passion or heedlessness
she ever saw before her the dead face--kind, but so calm and firm, that
it repressed in an instant her most impetuous outbursts.
As the autumn drew on it became evident that Michael McAravey was
dying. That he knew it himself was gathered from the fact that more
than once, during the summer, he had walked over to Ballycastle to
attend Mass. There seemed a weight on the old man's mind, which he was
unable or unwilling to shake off. 'Lisbeth, who for years had suffered
severely from "rheumatics," and who had made up her mind that she was
to die before the "old man," was but an indifferent nurse. Elsie,
however, more than took her place. Michael had become much attached to
the child, and as he daily grew weaker he came to look to her for
everything.
"Ye 'r a brave wee lass, Elsie," he used to say, "and I doubt I 've not
been over kind to ye, but I can't do without ye now."
One gloomy September afternoon, when the blustering winds were again
celebrating the return of the equinox, Michael, who had been sleeping
heavily all day, suddenly started up and astonished his wife by an
eager request that she would send at once for George Hendrick and
Father Donnelly.
"I doubt you 're raving, Mike, to send for such a pair. What do you
want with either, not to say both? Nice company they 'd be for each
other."
"I tell you I'm dying, and I must see them both," cried her husband,
rising, gaunt and excited, in the bed. "I say, Elsie," he continued,
"this is Wednesday; run down and see can you find Mr. Hendrick anywhere
about."
Elsie departed at once, while 'Lisbeth tried to soothe the invalid,
muttering all the time, however, her scorn of "Readers" and hatred of
"Papish priests."
George Hendrick was easily found, and in a few minutes was sitting by
the old man's side, soothing him with simple, kindly words, and waiting
for an opening through which to approach the inner man.
"I 've not treated you fair, my mon, and I didn't wish to die without
tellin' you so. Besides, there 's a thing or two I 've been thinkin'
long to speak about, and now the time's come. I 've sent for Father
Donnelly."
"It's far to send and long to wait, Mike; do you not think we can do as
well without him?" asked the reader.
"I've not sent for him, and ye may be sure I 'll have none o' your
Papish priests coomin' about the house, leastways whiles I 'm in it,"
interrupted Mrs. McAravey.
"Then you 'd better get out of it," said the old man; "I never
interfered with you and your Ranters and Covenanters, and I don't mean
to be interfered with. I tell ye, George Hendrick, I'll die in the
Church of my fathers, even if I 'm----"
"Hush!" cried Hendrick, putting his hand to the excited man's mouth;
"we 'll send for the priest if you wish. God forbid that I should
stand between you. Young Jim McAuley is going over to Ballycastle, and
will take a message if Elsie gives it him; but he can't be here for
three or four hours at least, so let us be quiet a wee bit now. You
said you wanted to see me, Mike; and perhaps while we are waiting you
'd like to hear the message of God out of His own book--you needn't
wait to send to Ballycastle for it."
"You may read a bit if ye like," responded McAravey, leaning back on
the bed, quite satisfied now that the priest had been sent for; "only
no controversy; it's not fit for a dyin' man--or for any man, for the
matter o' that."
"No controversy!" said Hendrick, smiling; "well, will this suit you?
'_Without controversy_ great is the mystery of godliness. God was
manifest in the flesh, justified in the spirit, seen of angels,
preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up into
glory.' Do you believe that, Mike?"
"Aye, aye; it's wonderful to think on," murmured the dying man, in his
deep, solemn voice. "I doubt I 've been a bit hard sometimes, but I
've always been honest and paid my way." Then after a pause, "Ye may
go on with your readin'; I 'm no ways prejudiced. I think Prodestan
and Catholic is pretty much alike with God."
"Aye, Mike, alike in this, that '_all_ have sinned and come short of
the glory of God.' None of us can stand before Him as we are; but
remember what Paul says again, there could be no disputing about, 'This
is a true saying and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came
into the world to save sinners.'"
"I believe that," said McAravey; "but now I 'd like to sleep a bit;
only don't go away, for if the priest don't come in time, I must
confess to you, George. Ye won't object to hear me and give me
absolution, will you?" he added with an effort to smile.
"I won't leave you, Mike, and I'll hear what you have to say; and as
for absolution, I 'll try to point you to the great Absolver--our
Advocate with the Father--who is the propitiation for our sins."
It was after ten o'clock when Father Donnelly arrived. After a short
private interview with the patient, Hendrick was summoned to the room.
"There is a part of my confession," said the old man, "which, by your
leave, father, I 'd like my friend to hear--it will save us the time of
going over the same bit twice."
The priest nodded silently, not, however, looking very pleased at the
somewhat light tone in which McAravey spoke.
"It's about the two children, and the poor creature that was found by
them on the sands last spring. It's been heavy on my mind this long
time, and I can't go out of the world without explaining all I know
about the story. And now to begin at the beginning. It's just about
seven years ago, and a couple before we came here, that the children
came to us. We were very hard-up at that time, and 'Lisbeth and I were
down in heart about loosin' our own wains, when one day I was in the
market at Ballymena, and there I met James Kinley. He asked me, would
the missus like to make a trifle by taking charge of a couple of
children? I said I thought she might, and so he brought me to the
hotel, and I saw a young woman as said she and her husband were going
abroad, and wished to leave the two little ones with some respectable
person in the glens. Well, I saw her a second time, and then it was
all settled. She gave us 20 pounds down, and said she would write. I
didn't like to ask questions, thinking, perhaps, it wasn't all on the
square about the bairns, and so I'm not sure I ever even knew the name
rightly--it was Davis, or Davison, or Dawson, or something that way.
Tom Kinley knew all about the parties, and so I did not trouble. And
then when he went to America there was no one to inquire of. Well, we
had one letter about a year after, from some place in Inja, I think,
and in it they said they was going further, and mightn't be able to
write for some time. There was a directed envelope inside, and I sent
off a few lines to say the wains was well. After that we never heard
more, and we always thought the father and mother had got killed in the
strange parts they went to. So we never told the young 'uns anything,
but determined to make the best shift we could for them. Then came the
day they found the body, and this is where my sore trouble began.
After Elsie left me, I was still lookin' at the poor dead thing, when
it come on me like a dream that I had seen the face before. At first I
couldn't think where it was, and then I remembered the lady Kinley had
brought me to see in Ballymena. I stooped down to look at her, and
then I noticed the chain round her neck. There was no watch on it, but
a sort of wee case that opened, and inside there was a picture and a
wee bit o' paper folded. You may be sure Mike McAravey had no thought
of stealing; but when I saw some one comin', I said to myself, 'These
things belong to the wains, and if I leave 'em here they 'll not get
'em unless I tell all I knows.' And my heart bled to think of the
children hearing the first of their mother, when they saw her lying
dead. So I slipt the chain and case into my pocket, just as George
Hendrick came up. Ye remember, perhaps, I was so confused-like I
didn't know what I was doing. Maybe ye thought I was scared. Then,
when we brought up the body, I went and put the chain under the big
heap o' sea-weed. When all the fuss was made at the inquest, I was
sorry I had hid the things, but I daren't tell then. And mind ye,
Father Donnelly, I told no lie, for there was no watch, and the chain
wasn't gold at all, but an old-fashioned silver affair. Even so it was
a weight on me, so I thought the best thing I could do was to sell it,
and they gave me fifteen shillings in Coleraine. And that's how I got
the first money for the monument. The wee case--a locket, I believe,
they call it--I 've kept yet. It's made up in a parcel in the corner
of the wee box under the bed. And now that's all I 've to say; but I
knows this affair, and the way the folk has doubted me has been the
cause of my breaking up. And there 's poor Elsie--I believe she swore
she didn't see the chain just to keep me out of trouble, and that cut
me most of all to be the means o' bringin' the poor innocent lass to
tell a lie."
"I'm sorry you did not tell me all this before," said George Hendrick,
his eyes filling with tears as he gazed on the stern, deep-lined face
of the old man; "it might all have been explained."
"I'm sorry too, and often thought to do it; but you see I took a
dislike to you, because your mentioning about the watch--when after all
there was no watch--was the cause of my trouble."
"And now you see, Mike," said the priest, "the evil results of not
coming to confession; I 've often warned you."
"So you have, Father Donnelly, and it's no fault o' yours if I haven't
been a better Catholic; but I 'm punished now, so let us forget the
past."
"Aye," said the priest, "you have suffered for your fault; and now
wouldn't you like to receive the last rites, in case anything might
happen before I come again?"
It was not too soon, for when daylight dawned the proud, restless
spirit had taken flight. Long after the priest had left, Hendrick had
sat, Bible in hand, pointing the dying sinner to the Great High Priest
of our profession; and when the struggle was over he started home
across the moors in the bleak morning, cheered and thankful in heart,
believing that his labours that night had "not been in vain in the
Lord."