M'Guire. “I didn't know him by looks, and the boys wanted me to take
some one to point him out. 'Sorra bit!' says I, 'leave that to me;' and
so I waited in the gripe of the ditch all day, till, about four in the
evening, I seen a stout man wid a white hat coming across the fields, to
where the men was planting potatoes. So I ups to him wid a letter in
my hand, this way, and my hat off--'Is yer honner Mr. Lambert?' says I.
'Yes,' says he; 'what do ye want with me?' ''Tis a bit of a note I've
for yer honner,' says I; and I gav him the paper. He tuck it and opened
it; but troth it was little matter there was no writin' in it, for he
would'nt have lived to read it through. I sent the ball through his
heart, as near as I stand to ye; the wadding was burning his waistcoat
when I left him. 'God save you!' says the men, as I went across the
potato-field. 'Save you kindly!' says I. 'Was that a shot we heard?'
says another. 'Yes,' says I; 'I was fright'ning the crows;' and sorra
bit, but that's a saying they have against me ever since.” These last
few words were said in a simper of modesty, which, whether real or
affected, was a strange sentiment at the conclusion of such a tale.
The party soon after separated, not to meet again for several nights;
for the news of Lucas's death would of course be the signal for a
general search through the country, and the most active measures to
trace the murderer. It behoved them, then, to be more than usually
careful not to be absent from their homes and their daily duties for
some days at least: after which they could assemble in safety as before.
Grief has been known to change the hair to grey in a single night; the
announcement of a sudden misfortune has palsied the hand that held the
ill-omened letter; but I question if the hours that are passed before
the commission of a great crime, planned and meditated beforehand,
do not work more fearful devastation on the human heart, than all the
sorrows that ever crushed humanity. Ere night came, Owen Connor seemed
to have grown years older. In the tortured doublings of his harassed
mind he appeared to have spent almost a lifetime since the sun last
rose. He had passed in review before him each phase of his former
existence, from childhood--free, careless, and happy childhood--to days
of boyish sport and revelry; then came the period of his first manhood,
with its new ambitions and hopes. He thought of these, and how, amid the
humble circumstances of his lowly fortune, he was happy. What would he
have thought of him who should predict such a future as this for him?
How could he have believed it? And yet the worst of all remained to
come. He tried to rally his courage and steel his heart, by repeating
over the phrases so frequent among his companions. “Sure, aint I driven
to it? is it my fault if I take to this, or theirs that compelled me?”
and such like. But these words came with no persuasive force in the
still hour of conscience: they were only effectual amid the excitement
and tumult of a multitude, when men's passions were high, and their
resolutions daring. “It is too late to go back,” muttered he, as he
arose from the spot, where, awaiting nightfall, he had lain hid for
several hours; “they mustn't call me a coward, any way.”
As Owen reached the valley the darkness spread far and near, not a star
could be seen; great masses of cloud covered the sky, and hung down
heavily, midway upon the mountains. There was no rain; but on the wind
came from time to time a drifted mist, which shewed that the air was
charged with moisture. The ground was still wet and plashy from recent
heavy rain. It was indeed a cheerless night and a cheerless hour; but
not more so than the heart of him who now, bent upon his deadly purpose,
moved slowly on towards the common.
On descending towards the lake-side, he caught a passing view of the
little village, where a few lights yet twinkled, the flickering stars
that shone within some humble home. What would he not have given to
be but the meanest peasant there, the poorest creature that toiled and
sickened on his dreary way! He turned away hurriedly, and with his hand
pressed heavily on his swelling heart walked rapidly on. “It will soon
be over now,” said Owen; he was about to add, with the accustomed piety
of his class, “thank God for it,” but the words stopped in his throat,
and the dreadful thought flashed on him, “Is it when I am about to shed
His creature's blood, I should say this?”
[Illustration: 202]
He sat down upon a large stone beside the lake, at a spot where the road
came down to the water's edge, and where none could pass unobserved by
him. He had often fished from that very rock when a boy, and eaten his
little dinner of potatoes beneath its shelter. Here he sat once more;
saying to himself as he did so, “'Tis an ould friend, anyway, and I'll
just spend my last night with him;”, for so in his mind he already
regarded his condition. The murder effected, he determined to make
no effort to escape. Life was of no value to him. The snares of the
conspiracy had entangled him, but his heart was not in it.
As the night wore on, the clouds lifted, and the wind, increasing to
a storm, bore them hurriedly through the air; the waters of the lake,
lashed into waves, beat heavily on the low shore; while the howling
blast swept through the mountain-passes, and over the bleak, wide
plain, with a rushing sound. The thin crescent of a new moon could be
seen from time to time as the clouds rolled past: too faint to shed any
light upon the earth, it merely gave form to the dark masses that moved
before it.
“I will do it here,” said Owen, as he stood and looked upon the dark
water that beat against the foot of the rock; “here, on this spot.”
He sat for some moments with his ear bent to listen, but the storm was
loud enough to make all other sounds inaudible; yet, in every noise he
thought he heard the sound of wheels, and the rapid tramp of a horse's
feet. The motionless attitude, the cold of the night, but more than
either, the debility brought on by long fasting and hunger, benumbed his
limbs, so that he felt almost unable to make the least exertion, should
any such be called for.
He therefore descended from the rock and moved along the road; at first,
only thinking of restoring lost animation to his frame, but at length,
in a half unconsciousness, he had wandered upwards of two miles beyond
the little hovel where the change of horses was to take place. Just as
he was on the point of returning, he perceived at a little distance, in
front, the walls of a now ruined cabin, once the home of the old smith.
Part of the roof had fallen in, the doors and windows were gone, the
fragment of an old shutter alone remained, and this banged heavily back
and forwards as the storm rushed through the wretched hut.
Almost without knowing it, Owen entered the cabin, and sat down beside
the spot where once the forge-fire used to burn. He had been there, too,
when a boy many a time--many a story had he listened to in that same
corner; but why think of this now? The cold blast seemed to freeze
his very blood--he felt his heart as if congealed within him. He sat
cowering from the piercing blast for some time; and at last, unable
to bear the sensation longer, determined to kindle a fire with the
fragments of the old shutter. For this purpose he drew the charge of
the pistol, in which there were three bullets, and not merely two, as
Heffernan had told him. Laying these carefully down in his handkerchief,
he kindled a light with some powder, and, with the dexterity of one not
unaccustomed to such operations, soon saw the dry sticks blazing on the
hearth. On looking about he discovered a few sods of turf and some dry
furze, with which he replenished his fire, till it gradually became a
warm and cheering blaze. Owen now reloaded the pistol, just as he had
found it. There was a sense of duty in his mind to follow out every
instruction he received, and deviate in nothing. This done, he held his
numbed fingers over the blaze, and bared his chest to the warm glow of
the fire.
The sudden change from the cold night-air to the warmth of the cabin
soon made him drowsy. Fatigue and watching aiding the inclination to
sleep, he was obliged to move about the hut, and even expose himself to
the chill blast, to resist its influence. The very purpose on which he
was bent, so far from dispelling sleep, rather induced its approach;
for, strange as it may seem, the concentration with which the mind
brings its powers to bear on any object will overcome all the interest
and anxiety of our natures, and bring on sleep from very weariness.
He slept, at first, calmly and peacefully--exhaustion would have its
debt acquitted--and he breathed as softly as an infant. At last, when
the extreme of fatigue was passed, his brain began to busy itself with
flitting thoughts and fancies,--some long-forgotten day of boyhood, some
little scene of childish gaiety, flashed across him, and he dreamed of
the old mountain-lake, where so often he watched the wide circles of
the leaping trout, or tracked with his eye the foamy path of the wild
water-hen, as she skimmed the surface. Then suddenly his chest heaved
and fell with a strong motion, for with lightning's speed the current
of his thoughts was changed; his heart was in the mad tumult of a
faction-fight, loud shouts were ringing in his ears, the crash of
sticks, the cries of pain, entreaties for mercy, execrations and
threats, rung around him, when one figure moved slowly before his
astonished gaze, with a sweet smile upon her lips, and love in her
long-lashed eyes. She murmured his name; and now he slept with a
low-drawn breath, his quivering lips repeating, “Mary!”
Another and a sadder change was coming. He was on the mountains, in
the midst of a large assemblage of wild-looking and haggard men, whose
violent speech and savage gestures well suited their reckless air. A
loud shout welcomed him as he came amongst them, and a cry of “Here's
Owen Connor--Owen at last!” and a hundred hands were stretched out to
grasp his, but as suddenly withdrawn, on seeing that his hands were not
bloodstained nor gory.
He shuddered as he looked upon their dripping fingers; but he shuddered
still more as they called him “Coward!” What he said he knew not; but in
a moment they were gathered round him, and clasping him in their arms;
and now, his hands, his cheeks, his clothes, were streaked with blood;
he tried to wipe the foul stains out, but his fingers grew clotted,
and his feet seemed to plash in the red stream, and his savage comrades
laughed fiercely at his efforts, and mocked him.
“What am I, that you should clasp me thus?” he cried; and a voice from
his inmost heart replied, “A murderer!” The cold sweat rolled in great
drops down his brow, while the foam of agony dewed his pallid lips, and
his frame trembled in a terrible convulsion. Confused and fearful images
of bloodshed and its penalty, the crime and the scaffold, commingled,
worked in his maddened brain. He heard the rush of feet, as if thousands
were hurrying on, to see him die, and voices that swelled like the sea
at midnight. Nor was the vision all unreal: for already two men had
entered the hut.
The dreadful torture of his thoughts had now reached its climax, and
with a bound Owen sprang from his sleep, and cried in a shriek of
heart-wrung anguish, “No, never--I am not a murderer. Owen Connor can
meet his death like a man, but not with blood upon him.”
“Owen Connor! Owen Connor, did you say?” repeated one of the two who
stood before him; “are you, then, Owen Connor?”
“I am,” replied Owen, whose dreams were still the last impression on his
mind. “I give myself up;--do what ye will with me;--hang, imprison, or
transport me; I'll never gainsay you.”
“Owen, do you not know me?” said the other, removing his travelling cap,
and brushing back the hair from his forehead.
“No, I know nothing of you,” said he, fiercely.
“Not remember your old friend--your landlord's son, Owen?”
Owen stared at him without speaking; his parted lips and fixed gaze
evidencing the amazement which came over him.
“You saved my life, Owen,” said the young man, horror-struck by the
withered and wasted form of the peasant.
“And you have made me this,” muttered Owen, as he let fall the pistol
from his bosom. “Yes,” cried he, with an energy very different from
before, “I came out this night, sworn to murder that man beside
you--your agent, Lucas; my soul is perjured if my hands are not bloody.”
Lucas instantly took a pistol from the breast of his coat, and cocked
it; while the ghastly whiteness of his cheek shewed he did not think the
danger was yet over.
“Put up your weapon,” said Owen, contemptuously. “What would I care for
it, if I wanted to take your life? do you think the likes of me has any
hould on the world?” and he laughed a scornful and bitter laugh.
“How is this, then?” cried Leslie; “is murder so light a crime that a
man like this does not shrink from it?”
“The country,” whispered Lucas, “is indeed in a fearful state. The
rights of property no longer exist among us. That fellow--because he
lost his farm--”
“Stop, sir!” cried Owen, fiercely; “I will deny nothing of my guilt--but
lay not more to my charge than is true. Want and misery have brought me
low--destitution and recklessness still lower--but if I swore to have
your life this night, it was not for any vengeance of my own.”
“Ha! then there is a conspiracy!” cried Lucas, hastily. “We must have it
out of you--every word of it--or it will go harder with yourself.”
Owen's only reply was a bitter laugh; and from that moment, he never
uttered another word. All Lucas's threats, all Leslie's entreaties, were
powerless and vain. The very allusion to becoming an informer was too
revolting to be forgiven, and he firmly resolved to brave any and every
thing, rather than endure the mere proposal.
They returned to Galway as soon as the post-boys had succeeded in
repairing the accidental breakage of the harness, which led to the
opportune appearance of the landlord and his agent in the hut; Owen
accompanying them without a word or a gesture.
So long as Lucas was present, Owen never opened his lips; the dread
of committing himself, or in any way implicating one amongst his
companions, deterred him; but when Leslie sent for him, alone, and asked
him the circumstances which led him to the eve of so great a crime, he
confessed all--omitting nothing, save such passages as might involve
others--and even to Leslie he was guarded on this topic.
The young landlord listened with astonishment and sorrow to the
peasant's story. Never till now did he conceive the mischiefs neglect
and abandonment can propagate, nor of how many sins mere poverty can be
the parent. He knew not before that the very endurance of want can teach
another endurance, and make men hardened against the terrors of the law
and its inflictions. He was not aware of the condition of his tenantry;
he wished them all well off and happy; he had no self-accusings of a
grudging nature, nor an oppressive disposition, and he absolved himself
of any hardships that originated with “the agent.”
The cases brought before his notice rather disposed him to regard the
people as wily and treacherous, false in their pledges and unmindful
of favours; and many, doubtless, were so; but he never inquired how far
their experience had taught them, that dishonesty was the best policy,
and that trick and subtlety are the only aids to the poor man. He
forgot, above all, that they had neither examples to look up to, nor
imitate, and that when once a people have become sunk in misery, they
are the ready tools of any wicked enough to use them for violence, and
false enough to persuade them, that outrage can be their welfare; and,
lastly, he overlooked the great fact, that in a corrupt and debased
social condition, the evils which, under other circumstances, would be
borne with a patient trust in future relief, are resented in a spirit
of recklessness; and that men soon cease to shudder at a crime, when
frequency has accustomed them to discuss its details.
I must not--I dare not dwell longer on this theme. Leslie felt all the
accusations of an awakened conscience. He saw himself the origin of many
misfortunes--of evils of whose very existence he never heard before.
Ere Owen concluded his sad story, his mind was opened to some of the
miseries of Ireland; and when he had ended, he cried, “I will live at
home with ye, amongst ye all, Owen! I will try if Irishmen cannot learn
to know who is their true friend; and while repairing some of my own
faults, mayhap I may remedy some of theirs.”
“Oh! why did you not do this before I came to my ruin?” cried Owen, in
a passionate burst of grief; for the poor fellow all along had given
himself up for lost, and imagined, that his own plea of guilt must bring
him to the gallows. Nor was it till after much persuasion and great
trouble, that Leslie could reconcile him to himself, and assure him,
that his own fortunate repentance had saved him from destruction.
“You shall go back to your mountain-cabin, Owen; you shall have your own
farm again, and be as happy as ever,” said the young man. “The law must
deal with those who break it, and no one will go farther than myself to
vindicate the law; but I will also try if kindness and fair-dealing will
not save many from the promptings of their own hearts, and teach men
that, even here, the breach of God's commandments can bring neither
peace nor happiness.”
My object in this little story being to trace the career of one humble
man through the trials and temptations incident to his lot in life,
I must not dwell upon the wider theme of national disturbance. I
have endeavoured--how weakly, I am well aware--to shew, that social
disorganisation, rather than political grievances, are the source of
Irish outrage; that neglect and abandonment of the people on the part
of those who stood in the position of friends and advisers towards them,
have disseminated evils deeper and greater than even a tyranny could
have engendered. But for this desertion of their duties, there had
been no loss of their rightful influence, nor would the foul crime
of assassination now stain the name of our land. With an educated and
resident proprietary, Ireland could never have become what she now is;
personal comfort, if no higher motive could be appealed to, would have
necessitated a watchful observance of the habits of the people--the
tares would have been weeded from the wheat; the evil influence of bad
men would not have been suffered to spread its contagion through the
land.
Let me not be supposed for a moment as joining in the popular cry
against the landlords of Ireland. As regards the management of their
estates, and the liberality of their dealings with their tenantry, they
are, of course with the exceptions which every country exhibits, a class
as blameless, and irreproachable as can be found any where--their real
dereliction being, in my mind, their desertion of the people. To this
cause, I believe, can be traced every one of the long catalogue of
disasters to which Ireland is a prey: the despairing poverty, reckless
habits, indifference to the mandates of the law, have their source here.
The impassioned pursuit of any political privilege, which they are given
to suppose will alleviate the evils of their state, has thrown them
into the hands of the demagogue, and banded them in a league, which they
assume to be National. You left them to drift on the waters, and you may
now be shipwrecked among the floating fragments!
My tale is ended. I have only one record more to add. The exercise of
the law, assisted by the energy and determination of a fearless and
resident landlord, at length suppressed outrage and banished those who
had been its originators. Through the evidence of Gavan Daly, whose
treachery had been already suspected, several of the leaders were found
guilty, and met the dreadful penalty of their crimes. The fact of an
informer having been found amongst them, did, however, far more to break
up this unholy league than all the terrors of the law, unassisted by
such aid; but it was long before either peace or happiness shed their
true blessings on that land: mutual distrust, the memory of some lost
friend, and the sad conviction of their own iniquity, darkened many a
day, and made even a gloomier depth than they had ever known in their
poverty.
There came, however, a reverse for this. It was a fine day in
spring--the mountain and the lake were bright in the sunshine--the
valley, rich in the promise of the coming year, was already green with
the young wheat--the pleasant sounds of happy labour rose from the
fields fresh-turned by the plough--the blue smoke curled into thin air
from many a cabin, no longer mean-looking and miserable as before, but
with signs of comfort around, in the trim hedge of the little garden and
the white walls that glistened in the sun.
Towards the great mountain above the lake, however, many an eye was
turned from afar, and many a peasant lingered to gaze upon the scene
which now marked its rugged face.
Along the winding path which traced its zigzag course from the lake-side
to the little glen where Owen's cabin stood, a vast procession could
be seen moving on foot and some on horseback. Some, in country cars,
assisted up the steep ascent by men's strong shoulders; others, mounted
in twos and threes upon some slow-footed beast; but the great number
walking, or rather, clambering their way--for in their eagerness to
get forward, they, each moment, deserted the path to breast the ferny
mountain-side. The scarlet cloaks of the women, as they fluttered in the
wind, and their white caps, gave a brilliancy to the picture, which, as
the masses emerged from the depth of some little dell and disappeared
again, had all the semblance of some gorgeous panorama. Nor was eye the
only sense gladdened by the spectacle--for even in the valley could be
heard the clear ringing laughter as they went along, and the wild cheer
of merriment that ever and anon burst forth from happy hearts, while,
high above all, the pleasant sounds of the bagpipe rose, as, seated
upon an ass, and entrusted to the guidance of a boy, the musician moved
along; his inspiriting strains taken advantage of at every spot of level
ground, by some merry souls, who would not “lose so much good music.”
[Illustration: 218]
As the head of the dense column wound its way upward, one little group
could be seen by those below, and were saluted by many a cheer and
the waving of handkerchiefs. These were a party, whose horses and gear
seemed far better than the rest; and among them rode a gentleman mounted
on a strong pony,-his chief care was bestowed less on his own beast,
than in guiding that of a young country girl, who rode beside him. She
was enveloped in a long blue cloak of dark cloth, beneath which she wore
a white dress; a white ribbon floated through her dark hair, too; but
in her features and the happy smile upon her lip, the bride was written
more palpably than in all these.
High above her head, upon a pinnacle of rock, a man stood, gazing at the
scene; at his side a little child of some four or five years old, whose
frantic glee seemed perilous in such a place, while his wild accents
drew many an upward glance from those below, as he cried--
“See, Nony, see! Mary is coming to us at last!” This, too, was a “St.
Patrick's Eve,” and a happy one.--May Ireland see many such!
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's St. Patrick's Eve, by Charles James Lever