journey's end. It shone from the deep shadow of a little glen, in
which his cabin stood. The seclusion of the spot was in Owen's eyes its
greatest charm. Like all men who have lived much alone, he set no common
store by the pleasures of solitude, and fancied that most if not all of
his happiness was derived from this source. At this moment his gratitude
was more than usual, as he muttered to himself, “Thank God for it! we've
a snug little place away from the sickness, and no house near us at
all;” and with this comforting reflection he drew near the cabin. The
door, contrary to custom at nightfall, lay open; and Owen, painfully
alive to any suspicious sign, from the state of anxiety his mind had
suffered, entered hastily.
“Father! where are you?” said he quickly, not seeing the old man in his
accustomed place beside the fire; but there was no answer. Laying the
child down, Owen passed into the little chamber which served as the
old man's bedroom, and where now he lay stretched upon the bed in his
clothes. “Are ye sick, father? What ails ye, father dear?” asked the
young man, as he took his hand in his own.
“I'm glad ye've come at last, Owen,” replied his father feebly. “I've
got the sickness, and am going fast.”
“No--no, father! don't be down-hearted!” cried Owen, with a desperate
effort to suggest the courage he did not feel; for the touch of the cold
wet hand had already told him the sad secret. “'Tis a turn ye have.”
“Well, maybe so,” said he, with a sigh; “but there's a cowld feeling
about my heart I never knew afore. Get me a warm drink, anyway.”
While Owen prepared some cordial from the little store he usually
dispensed among the people, his father told him, that a boy from a sick
house had called at the cabin that morning to seek for Owen, and from
him, in all likelihood, he must have caught the malady. “I remember,”
said the old man, “that he was quite dark in the skin, and was weak in
his limbs as he walked.”
“Ayeh!” muttered Owen, “av it was the 'disease' he had, sorra bit of
this mountain he'd ever get up. The strongest men can't lift a cup of
wather to their lips, when it's on them; but there's a great scarcity in
the glen, and maybe the boy eat nothing before he set out.”
Although Owen's explanation was the correct one, it did not satisfy the
old man's mind, who, besides feeling convinced of his having the malady,
could not credit his taking it by other means than contagion. Owen never
quitted his side, and multiplied cares and attentions of every kind; but
it was plain the disease was gaining ground, for ere midnight the old
man's strength was greatly gone, and his voice sunk to a mere whisper.
Yet the malady was characterised by none of the symptoms of the
prevailing epidemic, save slight cramps, of which from time to time he
complained. His case seemed one of utter exhaustion. His mind was clear
and calm; and although unable to speak, except in short and broken
sentences, no trait of wandering intellect appeared. His malady was
a common one among those whose fears, greatly excited by the disease,
usually induced symptoms of prostration and debility, as great, if
not as rapid, as those of actual cholera. Meanwhile his thoughts were
alternately turning from his own condition to that of the people in the
glen, for whom he felt the deepest compassion. “God help them!” was his
constant expression. “Sickness is the sore thing; but starvation
makes it dreadful. And so Luke Clancy's dead! Poor ould Luke! he was
seventy-one in Michaelmas. And Martin, too! he was a fine man.”
The old man slept, or seemed to sleep, for some hours, and on waking
it was clear daylight. “Owen, dear! I wish,” said he, “I could see the
Priest; but you mustn't lave me: I couldn't bear that now.”
Poor Owen's thoughts were that moment occupied on the same subject,
and he was torturing himself to think of any means of obtaining Father
John's assistance, without being obliged to go for him himself.
“I'll go, and be back here in an hour--ay, or less,” said he, eagerly;
for terrible as death was to him, the thought of seeing his father die
unanointed, was still more so.
“In an hour--where'll I be in an hour, Owen dear? the blessed Virgin
knows well, it wasn't my fault--I'd have the Priest av I could--and
sure, Owen, you'll not begrudge me masses, when I'm gone. What's that?
It's like a child crying out there.”
“'T'is poor Martin's little boy I took home with me--he's lost father
and mother this day;” and so saying, Owen hastened to see what ailed
the child. “Yer sarvent, sir,” said Owen, as he perceived a stout-built,
coarse-looking man, with a bull-terrier at his heels, standing in the
middle of the floor; “Yer sarvent, sir. Who do ye want here?”
“Are you Owen Connor?” said the man, gruffly.
“That same,” replied Owen, as sturdily.
“Then this is notice for you to come up to Mr. Lucas's office in Galway
before the twenty-fifth, with your rent, or the receipt for it, which
ever you like best.”
“And who is Mr. Lucas when he's at home?” said Owen, half-sneeringly.
“You'll know him when you see him,” rejoined the other, turning to leave
the cabin, as he threw a printed paper on the dresser; and then, as if
thinking he had not been formal enough in his mission, added, “Mr.
Lucas is agent to your landlord, Mr. Leslie; and I'll give you a bit of
advice, keep a civil tongue in your head with him, and it will do you no
harm.”
This counsel, delivered much more in a tone of menace than of friendly
advice, concluded the interview, for having spoken, the fellow left the
cabin, and began to descend the mountain.
Owen's heart swelled fiercely--a flood of conflicting emotions were
warring within it; and as he turned to throw the paper into the fire,
his eye caught the date, 16th March. “St. Patrick's Eve, the very day
I saved his life,” said he, bitterly. “Sure I knew well enough how it
would be when the landlord died! Well, well, if my poor ould father
doesn't know it, it's no matter.--Well, Patsy, acushla, what are ye
crying for? There, my boy, don't be afeard, 'tis Nony's with ye.”
The accents so kindly uttered quieted the little fellow in a moment, and
in a few minutes after he was again asleep in the old straw chair beside
the fire. Brief as Owen's absence had been, the old man seemed much
worse as he entered the room. “God forgive me, Owen darling,” said he,
“but it wasn't my poor sowl I was thinking of that minit. I was thinking
that you must get a letter wrote to the young landlord about this little
place--I'm sure he'll never say a word about rent, no more nor his
father; and as the times wasn't good lately--”
“There, there, father,” interrupted Owen, who felt shocked at the old
man's not turning his thoughts in another direction; “never mind those
things,” said he; “who knows which of us will be left? the sickness
doesn't spare the young, no more than the ould.”
“Nor the rich, no more nor the poor,” chimed in the old man, with a kind
of bitter satisfaction, as he thought on the landlord's death; for of
such incongruous motives is man made up, that calamities come lighter
when they involve the fall of those in station above our own. “'Tis
a fine day, seemingly,” said he, suddenly changing the current of his
thoughts; “and elegant weather for the country; we'll have to turn in
the sheep over that wheat; it will be too rank: ayeh,” cried he, with a
deep sigh, “I'll not be here to see it;” and for once, the emotions, no
dread of futurity could awaken, were realised by worldly considerations,
and the old man wept like a child.
“What time of the month is it?” asked he, after a long interval in which
neither spoke; for Owen was not really sorry that even thus painfully
the old man's thoughts should be turned towards eternity.
“'Tis the seventeenth, father, a holy-day all over Ireland!”
“Is there many at the 'station?'--look out at the door and see.”
Owen ascended a little rising ground in front of the cabin, from which
the whole valley was visible; but except a group that followed a funeral
upon the road, he could see no human thing around. The green where the
“stations” were celebrated was totally deserted. There were neither
tents nor people; the panic of the plague had driven all ideas of
revelry from the minds of the most reckless; and, even to observe the
duties of religion, men feared to assemble in numbers. So long as the
misfortune was at a distance, they could mingle their prayers in common,
and entreat for mercy; but when death knocked at every door, the terror
became almost despair.
“Is the 'stations' going on?” asked the old man eagerly, as Owen
re-entered the room. “Is the people at the holy well?”
“I don't see many stirring at all, to-day,” was the cautious answer; for
Owen scrupled to inflict any avoidable pain upon his mind.
“Lift me up, then!” cried he suddenly, and with a voice stronger, from
a violent effort of his will. “Lift me up to the window, till I see the
blessed cross; and maybe I'd get a prayer among them. Come, be quick,
Owen!”
Owen hastened to comply with his request; but already the old man's eyes
were glazed and filmy. The effort had but hastened the moment of his
doom; and, with a low faint sigh, he lay back, and died.
To the Irish peasantry, who, more than any other people of Europe, are
accustomed to bestow care and attention on the funerals of their friends
and relatives, the Cholera, in its necessity for speedy interment, was
increased in terrors tenfold. The honours which they were wont to lavish
on the dead--the ceremonial of the wake--the mingled merriment and
sorrow--the profusion with which they spent the hoarded gains of
hard-working labour--and lastly, the long train to the churchyard,
evidencing the respect entertained for the departed, should all be
foregone; for had not prudence forbid their assembling in numbers, and
thus incurring the chances of contagion, which, whether real or not,
they firmly believed in, the work of death was too widely disseminated
to make such gatherings possible. Each had some one to lament within the
limits of his own family, and private sorrow left little room for public
sympathy. No longer then was the road filled by people on horseback and
foot, as the funeral procession moved forth. The death-wail sounded
no more. To chant the _requiem_ of the departed, a few--a very
few--immediate friends followed the body to the grave, in silence
unbroken. Sad hearts, indeed, they brought, and broken spirits; for in
this season of pestilence few dared to hope.
By noon, Owen was seen descending the mountain to the village, to make
the last preparations for the old man's funeral. He carried little Patsy
in his arms; for he could not leave the poor child alone, and in the
house of death. The claims of infancy would seem never stronger than in
the heart sorrowing over death. The grief that carries the sufferer in
his mind's eye over the limits of this world, is arrested by the tender
ties which bind him to life in the young. There is besides a hopefulness
in early life--it is, perhaps, its chief characteristic--that combats
sorrow, better than all the caresses of friendship, and all the
consolations of age. Owen felt this now--he never knew it before. But
yesterday, and his father's death had left him without one in the world
on whom to fix a hope; and already, from his misery, there arose that
one gleam, that now twinkled like a star in the sky of midnight. The
little child he had taken for his own was a world to him; and as he
went, he prayed fervently that poor Patsy might be spared to him through
this terrible pestilence.
When Owen reached the carpenter's, there were several people there;
some, standing moodily brooding over recent bereavements; others, spoke
in low whispers, as if fearful of disturbing the silence; but all were
sorrow-struck and sad.
“How is the ould man, Owen?” said one of a group, as he came forward.
“He's better off than us, I trust in God!” said Owen, with a quivering
lip. “He went to rest this morning.”
A muttered prayer from all around shewed how general was the feeling of
kindness entertained towards the Connors.
“When did he take it, Owen?”
“I don't know that he tuk it at all; but when I came home last night he
was lying on the bed, weak and powerless, and he slept away, with scarce
a pain, till daybreak; then--”
“He's in glory now, I pray God!” muttered an old man with a white beard.
“We were born in the same year, and I knew him since I was a child, like
that in your arms; and a good man he was.”
“Whose is the child, Owen?” said another in the crowd.
“Martin Neale's,” whispered Owen; for he feared that the little fellow
might catch the words. “What's the matter with Miles? he looks very low
this morning.”
This question referred to a large powerful-looking man, who, with a
smith's apron twisted round his waist, sat without speaking in a corner
of the shop.
“I'm afeard he's in a bad way,” whispered the man to whom he spoke.
“There was a process-server, or a bailiff, or something of the kind,
serving notices through the townland yesterday, and he lost a shoe off
his baste, and would have Miles out, to put it on, tho' we all tould him
that he buried his daughter--a fine grown girl--that mornin'. And what
does the fellow do, but goes and knocks at the forge till Miles comes
out. You know Miles Regan, so I needn't say there wasn't many words
passed between them. In less nor two minutes--whatever the bailiff
said--Miles tuck him by the throat, and pulled him down from the horse,
and dragged him along to the lake, and flung him in. 'Twas the Lord's
marcy he knew how to swim; but we don't know what'll be done to Miles
yet, for he was the new agent's man.”
“Was he a big fellow, with a bull-dog following him?” asked Owen.
“No; that's another; sure there's three or four of them goin' about. We
hear, that bad as ould French was, the new one is worse.”
“Well--well, it's the will of God!” said Owen, in that tone of
voice which bespoke a willingness for all endurance, so long as the
consolation remained, that the ill was not unrecorded above; while he
felt that all the evils of poverty were little in comparison with the
loss of those nearest and dearest. “Come, Patsy, my boy!” said he at
last, as he placed the coffin in the ass-cart, and turned towards the
mountain; and, leading the little fellow by the hand, he set out on his
way--“Come home.”
It was not until he arrived at that part of the road from which the
cabin was visible, that Owen knew the whole extent of his bereavement;
then, when he looked up and saw the door hasped on the outside, and
the chimney from which no smoke ascended, the full measure of his lone
condition came at once before him, and he bent over the coffin and wept
bitterly. All the old man's affection for him, his kind indulgence and
forbearance, his happy nature, his simple-heartedness, gushed forth from
his memory, and he wondered why he had not loved his father, in life,
a thousand times more, so deeply was he now penetrated by his loss. If
this theme did not assuage his sorrows, it at least so moulded his heart
as to bear them in a better spirit; and when, having placed the body in
the coffin, he knelt down beside it to pray, it was in a calmer and more
submissive frame of mind than he had yet known.
It was late in the afternoon ere Owen was once more on the road down
the mountain; for it was necessary--or at least believed so--that the
internment should take place on the day of death.
“I never thought it would be this way you'd go to your last home, father
dear,” said Owen aloud and in a voice almost stifled with sobs; for the
absence of all his friends and relatives at such a moment, now smote
on the poor fellow's heart, as he walked beside the little cart on which
the coffin was laid. It was indeed a sight to move a sterner nature than
his: the coffin, not reverently carried by bearers, and followed by its
long train of mourners, but laid slant-wise in the cart, the spade and
shovel to dig the grave beside it, and Patsy seated on the back of the
ass, watching with infant glee the motion of the animal, as with careful
foot he descended the rugged mountain. Poor child! how your guileless
laughter shook that strong man's heart with agony!
[Illustration: 120]
It was a long and weary way to the old churchyard. The narrow road,
too, was deeply rutted and worn by wheel-tracks; for, alas, it had been
trodden by many, of late. The grey daylight was fast fading as Owen
pushed wide the old gate and entered. What a change to his eyes did the
aspect of the place present! The green mounds of earth which marked
the resting-place of village patriarchs, were gone; and heaps of
fresh-turned clay were seen on every side, no longer decorated, as of
old, with little emblems of affectionate sorrow; no tree, nor stone,
not even a wild flower, spoke of the regrets of those who remained. The
graves were rudely fashioned, as if in haste--for so it was--few dared
to linger there!
Seeking out a lone spot near the ruins, Owen began to dig the grave,
while the little child, in mute astonishment at all he saw, looked on.
“Why wouldn't you stay out in the road, Patsy, and play there, till I
come to you? This is a cowld damp place for you, my boy.”
“Nony! Nony!” cried the child, looking at him with an affectionate
smile, as though to say he'd rather be near him.
“Well, well, who knows but you're right? if it's the will of God to take
me, maybe you might as well go too. It's a sore thing to be alone in
the world, like me now!” And as he muttered the last few words he ceased
digging, and rested his head on the cross of the spade.
“Was that you, Patsy? I heard a voice somewhere.”
The child shook his head in token of dissent.
“Ayeh! it was only the wind through the ould walls; but sure it might
be nat'ral enough for sighs and sobs to be here: there's many a one has
floated over this damp clay.”
He resumed his work once more. The night was falling fast as Owen
stepped from the deep grave, and knelt down to say a prayer ere he
committed the body to the earth.
“Kneel down, darlin', here by my side,” said he, placing his arm round
the little fellow's waist; “'tis the likes of you God loves best;”
and joining the tiny hands with his own, he uttered a deep and fervent
prayer for the soul of the departed. “There, father!” said he, as he
arose at last, and in a voice as if addressing a living person at his
side; “there, father: the Lord, he knows my heart inside me; and if
walking the world barefoot would give ye peace or ease, I'd do it, for
you were a kind man and a good father to me.” He kissed the coffin as he
spoke, and stood silently gazing on it.
Arousing himself with a kind of struggle, he untied the cords, and
lifted the coffin from the cart. For some seconds he busied himself in
arranging the ropes beneath it, and then ceased suddenly, on remembering
that he could not lower it into the grave unassisted.
“I'll have to go down the road for some one,” muttered he to himself;
but as he said this, he perceived at some distance off in the churchyard
the figure of a man, as if kneeling over a grave. “The Lord help him, he
has his grief too!” ejaculated Owen, as he moved towards him. On coming
nearer he perceived that the grave was newly made, and from its size
evidently that of a child.
“I ax your pardon,” said Owen, in a timid voice, after waiting for
several minutes in the vain expectation that the man would look up; “I
ax your pardon for disturbing you, but maybe you'll be kind enough to
help me to lay this coffin in the ground. I have nobody with me but a
child.”
The man started and looked round. Their eyes met; it was Phil Joyce and
Owen who now confronted each other. But how unlike were both to what
they were at their last parting! Then, vindictive passion, outraged
pride, and vengeance, swelled every feature and tingled in every fibre
of their frames. Now, each stood pale, care-worn, and dispirited,
wearied out by sorrow, and almost brokenhearted. Owen was the first to
speak.
“I axed your pardon before I saw you, Phil Joyce, and I ax it again now,
for disturbing you; but I didn't know you, and I wanted to put my poor
father's body in the grave.”
“I didn't know he was dead,” said Phil, in a hollow voice, like one
speaking to himself. “This is poor little Billy here,” and he pointed to
the mound at his feet.
“The heavens be his bed this night!” said Owen, piously; “Good night!”
and he turned to go away; then stopping suddenly, he added, “Maybe,
after all, you'll not refuse me, and the Lord might be more merciful to
us both, than if we were to part like enemies.”
“Owen Connor, I ask your forgiveness,” said Phil, stretching forth his
hand, while his voice trembled like a sick child's. “I didn't think the
day would come I'd ever do it; but my heart is humble enough now, and
maybe 'twill be lower soon. Will you take my hand?”
“Will I, Phil? will I, is it? ay, and however ye may change to me after
this night, I'll never forget this.” And he grasped the cold fingers in
both hands, and pressed them ardently, and the two men fell into each
other's arms and wept.
Is it a proud or a humiliating confession for humanity--assuredly it is
a true one--that the finest and best traits of our nature are elicited
in our troubles, and not in our joys? that we come out purer through
trials than prosperity? Does the chastisement of Heaven teach us better
than the blessings lavished upon us? or are these gifts the compensation
sent us for our afflictions, that when poorest before man we should
be richest before God? Few hearts there are which sorrow makes not
wiser--none which are not better for it. So it was here. These men,
in the continuance of good fortune, had been enemies for life; mutual
hatred had grown up between them, so that each yearned for vengeance on
the other; and now they walked like brothers, only seeking forgiveness
of each other, and asking pardon for the past.
The old man was laid in his grave, and they turned to leave the
churchyard.
“Won't ye come home with me, Owen?” said Phil, as they came to where
their roads separated; “won't ye come and eat your supper with us?”
Owen's throat filled up: he could only mutter, “Not to-night,
Phil--another time, plaze God.” He had not ventured even to ask for
Mary, nor did he know whether Phil Joyce in his reconciliation might
wish a renewal of any intimacy with his sister. Such was the reason of
Owen's refusal; for, however strange it may seem to some, there is a
delicacy of the heart as well as of good breeding, and one advantage it
possesses--it is of all lands, and the fashion never changes.
Poor Owen would have shed his best blood to be able to ask after
Mary--to learn how she was, and how she bore up under the disasters of
the time; but he never mentioned her name: and as for Phil Joyce, his
gloomy thoughts had left no room for others, and he parted from Owen
without a single allusion to her. “Good night, Owen,” said he, “and don't
forget your promise to come and see us soon.”
“Good night, Phil,” was the answer; “and I pray a blessing on you and
yours.” A slight quivering of the voice at the last word was all he
suffered to escape him; and they parted.
[Illustration: 128]
THIRD ERA
From that day, the pestilence began to abate in violence. The cases of
disease became fewer and less fatal; and at last, like a spent bolt, the
malady ceased to work its mischief. Men were slow enough to recognise
this bettered aspect of their fortune. Calamity had weighed too heavily
on them to make them rally at once. They still walked like those who
felt the shadow of death upon them, and were fearful lest any imprudent
act or word might bring back the plague among them.
With time, however, these features passed off: people gradually resumed
their wonted habits; and, except where the work of death had been more
than ordinarily destructive, the malady was now treated as “a thing that
had been.”
If Owen Connor had not escaped the common misfortune of the land,
he could at least date one happy event from that sad period--his
reconciliation with Phil Joyce. This was no passing friendship. The
dreadful scenes he had witnessed about him had made Phil an altered
character. The devotion of Owen--his manly indifference to personal
risk whenever his services were wanted by another--his unsparing
benevolence,--all these traits, the mention of which at first only
irritated and vexed his soul, were now remembered in the day of
reconciliation; and none felt prouder to acknowledge his friendship than
his former enemy.