Dermot promised Lady Sophy to read all the books she had given him.
When they left his mother's hut he begged leave to accompany her and
Lady Nora, in order that he might see them across the downs. He had
discovered during his visits to the castle that the young Lady Nora was
the Earl of Kilfinnan's only daughter. He had a son also; a noble
little boy he had heard. He was away at school in England; his father
being fully conscious that an Irish castle in those days was not a place
favourable to education. The Earl had a great affection for his boy,
the heir to his title and estates. The former, indeed, should the young
Lord Fitz Barry die without male descendants, would pass away, though
the Lady Nora would inherit the chief part of his estate.
Lady Sophy was a relation of his late wife's, for he was a widower, and
she remained with him as a companion to his young daughter, though
considerably older than she was. The rest of the persons seen at the
castle were guests, with the exception of a lady of middle age, a Mrs
Rollings, who acted as governess and chaperone to the young ladies.
Dermot continued his visits to the castle. Sometimes the Earl saw him,
and seemed amused at the interest taken in him by his young niece and
daughter. He observed also, that the boy was somewhat out of the common
way, and he suggested that after they had left the west of Ireland, he
should be sent to obtain instruction from a neighbouring clergyman, a
friend of his, and the only person capable of imparting it.
At that time schools and missions were not known in the west of Ireland.
The priests, almost as ignorant as their flocks, had unbounded sway
among the population. Often the Protestant clergyman was the only
person for miles round who possessed any education whatever. The
peasantry were consequently ignorant and superstitious, and easily
imposed upon by any one who chose to go among them with that object.
Lady Sophy was delighted with the suggestion made by the Earl, and
insisted on at once carrying out the arrangement.
"Yes, indeed it is a pity that so intelligent a boy should be left in
ignorance," remarked the Earl. "Here is a five-pound note; do you take
it from me to Mr Jamieson, and beg that he will do his best to instil
some knowledge into the mind of the fisher-boy."
There was a dash of romance, it must be owned, in the Earl's
composition, and he was besides a kind-hearted and liberal man. Dermot
O'Neil might well have considered himself fortunate in having fallen
among such friends.
Lady Sophy and Lady Nora instantly set off to call upon Mr Jamieson,
whose vicarage was about three miles distant from the castle, though
somewhat nearer to Dermot's abode. The clergyman was rather amused at
first with the account given him by the young ladies. He promised,
however, to follow out the Earl's wishes, and begged that Dermot might
come to him directly they left the country; "And I shall be ready to
undertake his education at once, Lady Sophy," he said.
"No, no!" was the answer; "we cannot give him up yet; it is quite a
pleasure teaching him. He already reads English with tolerable fluency,
though we have not attempted yet to teach him to write. We must leave
that to you."
Dermot, with a grief he had not expected to feel, saw the party take
their departure from the castle. The young ladies kindly nodded to him
as their carriage rolled past the spot where he stood.
"There's a bright light gone from amongst us," he said to himself. "Did
I ever before dream that such creatures existed on earth."
He returned to his home in a mood totally strange to him. His mother,
however, had reason to congratulate herself on the Earl's visit, for it
enabled her, from the payment she received for her fish, to provide in a
way she had never before done for the coming winter. This made her the
more willingly consent that Dermot should go over every day to obtain
instruction from Mr Jamieson, the good clergyman, who was so pleased
with the fisher-boy, that he took particular pains in instructing him,
and not only was Dermot in a short time able to read any book that was
put into his hands, but he also learned to write with considerable ease.
His mind naturally expanded with the books given him to study, and as
he obtained information, he became greedy for more.
Although Mr Jamieson had at first only intended teaching him the simple
rudiments of reading and writing, he became so interested in the
progress made by his pupil, that he felt desirous of imparting all the
knowledge Dermot was capable of acquiring.
Thus the winter passed away. Dermot, in spite of wind and rain, or
sleet or cold, persevered in his visits to the vicarage. He gained also
an acquaintance with religious truth, of which before he had been
profoundly ignorant. It was not very perfect, perhaps, but Mr Jamieson
put the Bible into his hands, and he thus obtained a knowledge of its
contents possessed by few of those around. Had the neighbouring parish
priest, Father O'Rourke, discovered whither he was going, and the change
that was constantly taking place in him, he would probably have
endeavoured to interfere, and prevent him from paying his visits to the
Protestant clergyman. Although he might not have hindered Dermot from
doing as he chose, he probably would have alarmed his mother, who,
though tolerably intelligent, was too completely under the influence of
superstition to have understood clearly the cause of the priest's
interference. In a certain sense, to Dermot's mind, the advantage he
possessed was not so great as at first sight might appear. As he
advanced in knowledge he became less and less contented with his lot in
life, or rather the wish increased that he might be able to raise
himself above it. By what means, however, was this to be accomplished?
He had no claim upon the Earl, who, although wishing that he might be
taught reading and writing, had not the slightest intention of raising
him above his present occupation. Mr Jamieson gave him no
encouragement; although perhaps, the idea had occurred to the worthy
minister, that the boy was fitted for something above the mere life of
an ordinary fisherman. Still the matter had not as yet troubled
Dermot's mind. It probably only occasionally passed through his
thoughts, that there was an existence, even in this world, something
above that to which it appeared he was doomed. Mr Jamieson had now
resided for a considerable number of years at the vicarage. He came
there with high anticipations of the amount of good he was likely to
effect in that neighbourhood. By degrees, however, he found that his
efforts to raise the people out of the state of ignorance in which they
had been brought up were likely to prove abortive. The parish priest
did not indeed offer him any open opposition, but he set an under
current to work, which silently, though effectually nullified all the
vicar's efforts. Not one proselyte had he made, and at length he
abandoned his previous intentions in despair of success, and consoled
himself with the thought that at least he would perform thoroughly all
the duties of his station. To such a conclusion many persons in his
position have arrived, whether rightly or wrongly it need not here be
said. Mr Jamieson had an only niece, who had of late years come to
reside with him. She was no longer very young, but was a gentle, quiet
woman, whose great desire was to do any good to her fellow-creatures
which lay in her power.
Miss O'Reilly had been for some time aware that a severe affliction was
about to overtake her. When she first arrived at the vicarage, she used
to go among the neighbouring peasantry, carrying a basket to relieve the
sick or starving, or to administer such comfort as she was able. She
enjoyed the beautiful scenery by which she was surrounded. Now,
however, she found that when she took a book the letters were dim and
indistinct, while all distant scenes were shut out from her view, as if
a thick mist hung over them. Blindness she felt was coming on. A
journey to Dublin was in those days a long and tedious, if not somewhat
dangerous undertaking. Still, at her uncle's desire, accompanied by
him, she performed it. But no hope was given by the oculist whom she
consulted, and she returned home with the knowledge that in a short time
she would require some one to lead her by the hand whenever she might
wish to move from the immediate neighbourhood of the house.
Dermot had made frequent visits to the vicarage before Miss O'Reilly was
aware who he was. One day he met her while she was trying to find her
way a short distance from the house. He had seen her and knew who she
was. Seeing her in doubt as to the path she was to take, he, with the
native gallantry of the Irish, sprang forward and begged that he might
be allowed to lead her.
"And who are you, boy?" she asked. "What brings you to the vicarage?"
Dermot told her his short history.
"You are then a pupil of my uncle's?"
"Yes, his reverence has been teaching me, and I love to learn from him,"
answered Dermot.
This led to further conversation, and Dermot told her of his mother, who
lived down in the little cottage in Blackwater cove.
"And have you any brothers, sisters, or relations?" she asked.
"Except Uncle Shane, none that I know of," said Dermot.
"Your mother, then, lives all alone."
"Yes, since my father's death, twelve years ago, she has lived by
herself, with me alone to take care of, in her little hut."
"And you never wish to leave your home, and go and see the great world?"
asked Miss O'Reilly. Why she put the question it was difficult to say.
It might not have been a very judicious one, as far as the boy was
concerned, and yet it was but natural to suppose that a boy of Dermot's
character would wish to go forth into the great world, that he might
inspect its wonders.
"It may be, lady; I may have wished to go and see the world, though not
to leave my mother; for who would care for her if I was gone? Uncle
Shane would, but he is old and couldn't protect her for long. Besides
you know that not a year passes but that some of the men on our coast
lose their lives."
"And does your mother know the truth? Can she read the Bible, boy?"
asked Miss O'Reilly.
"No, she cannot read the Bible, but the priest takes care that she
should know what he believes to be the truth, I am sure."
"Your mother loves you?"
"Oh! indeed she does," answered Dermot; "she would spill her heart's
blood for my sake, though she often sits melancholy and sad when alone,
yet the moment I return, her eye brightens, and she opens her arms to
receive me. Yes, lady, my mother does love me, that I know."
"I should like to come and talk to your mother," said the blind lady.
"Will you lead me to her some day? I should not be afraid to descend
the cliff with so strong an arm as yours to rest on."
A few days after this, Dermot having finished his lesson with the vicar,
met Miss O'Reilly close to the house, and expressed his readiness to
take her to his mother's cottage, the sea at the time happening to be
far too rough to allow their boat to go forth to fish.
"I am ready to go with you," said the blind lady; "but remember you must
lead me all the way back, Dermot."
"That will just double the honour, lady," was the young Irishman's
reply. Dermot talked much of his mother to the blind lady, as he led
her down to the cottage.
The widow's voice pleased Miss O'Reilly, and all she said increased the
interest she was inclined to take in her. Perhaps more than all, was
that deep love which she felt for her only boy, and which had become, as
it were, part of her being.
Dermot carefully conducted Miss O'Reilly back to the vicarage, and this
was the first of many visits which she afterwards paid to the fishwife's
hut.
Dermot was never idle. He had no associates; indeed from his earliest
days he had kept aloof from boys of his own age. It was not that he was
morose, or proud or ill-tempered, but he appeared to have no sympathy
with them, and thus, though possessed of many qualities which would have
won him friends, he had not a single friend of his own rank or age in
the neighbourhood. Whenever he was not out fishing, he was engaged with
his book, either at the vicarage or at home.
He was thus employed one afternoon in his mother's hut, when Father
O'Rourke, the parish priest, made his appearance at the door.
"Come in, your reverence," said the widow, placing a stool for him near
the hearth; "it is a long day since your reverence has been seen down
the cove."
"May be you haven't seen me often enough," said Father O'Rourke, a stout
broad-faced man, with a countenance of the ordinary low Irish type.
"How is it that Dermot there has so many books? Ah! I have heard about
his doings; he often goes up, I am told, to the Protestant minister's.
What good can he get by going there?"
"Much good, your reverence," observed Dermot; "I have been learning to
read and write, and gain other knowledge such as I had no other means of
obtaining."
"Such knowledge may be bad for one like you," said Father O'Rourke;
"there is no good can come from the place where you go to get it."
"Pardon me, Father O'Rourke," said Dermot, with spirit; "the knowledge I
get there is good, and the gentleman who gives it is kind and good too.
I will not hear him spoken against."
"What, lad! do you dare to speak to me in that way?" exclaimed the
priest. "You will be going over to the Protestants, and then the curse
of Saint Patrick and all the holy saints will rest upon you,--you too,
who are born to be a priest of the holy faith. Look; you were marked
before you came into the world with the emblem of our faith, and if your
mother had followed the wishes of her true friends, you would even now
be training for the priesthood, instead of being a poor fisher-boy, as
you now must be for ever, and nothing more." The priest as he spoke
seized Dermot's hand, and bared his arm to the shoulder. There,
curiously enough, above the elbow, was a red mark which might easily
have been defined as a cross.
The boy drew away his hand indignantly: "I tell you, Father O'Rourke, I
am as true a son of the Holy Church as ever I was. Mr Jamieson is no
bigot; he gives me instruction, but does not ask me to turn to his
faith, and yet, Father O'Rourke, I tell you, to my mind it is a pure and
holy faith, whatever you may say to the contrary."
The boy spoke boldly and proudly, as he again drew down the sleeve of
his shirt.
Many years before, when the red mark on Dermot's arm had first been seen
by the neighbours, it was suggested that it was evidently placed there
as a sign from heaven that he should become a priest, and that in all
probability he would rise to be a bishop, if not a cardinal. When,
however, Dermot grew a little older, and the idea was suggested to him,
he indignantly refused to accept the offers made him. In the first
place, nothing would induce him to leave his mother, and in the second,
he had no ambition to become like Father O'Rourke, for whom it must be
confessed, that at a very early age the boy had entertained a
considerable antipathy. Even with the widow, though she was ignorant
and superstitious, Father O'Rourke had never been a favourite; still
when she could get so far as the chapel, she went to hear mass, and
attended confession, as did her neighbours. The feeling which governed
her was fear, rather than love for the parish priest. Father O'Rourke
was excessively indignant at being thus addressed by the young
fisher-boy. He turned from him, however, to his mother, and began to
pour out his abuse on her head. He had not proceeded far, however, when
Dermot again sprang to his feet.
"Father O'Rourke!" he exclaimed; "you may say what you like to me; you
may curse me, and if you like you may threaten me with excommunication
even, but do not lift up your tongue against my poor old mother. There
are things a man can bear and some he ought not to bear, and I tell you,
boy as I am, I will not have her spoken against. Your words may
frighten her, and she may fancy that your curses may fall upon her head,
but I tell you when uttered against a poor helpless widow, they will
fall back on him who dares to speak them. There, Father O'Rourke, I
have had my say, and I defy you."
The priest had never before been spoken to in this manner by one of his
flock, and he found no words to reply. At first he felt inclined to
anathematise both the widow and her son, but doubts as to the effects it
might produce upon Dermot restrained him, or perhaps a better feeling
came into his heart.
"Very well, boy, remember I have warned you," he exclaimed, "I have told
you that by going to that Protestant minister, you may be led to turn
heretic, and forsake our holy faith, and if you should, do not forget
the heavy curses that will follow you. I do not wish you ill, nor do I
wish your mother ill, but I cannot stand by and see one of my flock
carried the downward way to destruction."
Having thus delivered himself, Father O'Rourke left the hut and took the
path up the steep glen, which led inland from the sea.
Often Dermot's mind reverted to the days when the castle was inhabited,
and he thought of the beautiful and kind ladies he had seen there, and
of the fair little girl who had smiled so sweetly when she spoke to him.
He felt the immeasurable distance between them and him, and yet he
longed for their return, that he might gaze on them at a distance, and
again hear their voices. He was generally too much occupied to go to
the castle to inquire when the Earl was likely to return, because when
not engaged in fishing, he was constantly at the house of Mr Jamieson.
More than once he had ventured to ask him whether he thought the Earl
was likely to come back again, but the minister replied that he was
ignorant of the Earl's movements, and had not heard that any orders had
been received at the castle to make preparations for the reception of
the family. The time was approaching when they had come on the previous
year, and Dermot, though he scarcely acknowledged his feelings to
himself, became more and more anxious for their arrival. After leaving
Mr Jamieson, though the round was a long one, and he had to prepare his
nets for the day's fishing, he could not resist the temptation of going
to the castle before he returned home. From his frequent visits during
the previous summer, he was not a stranger there, and the housekeeper,
pleased with his good looks and his unaffected manner, was not sorry to
see him.
"Wait a bit, boy, wait a bit, and I think I can tell you when the ladies
will come back and make another likeness of you," she said, putting her
hand on his head. "Ah! they will spoil you if we don't take care, but
do not be led away by them, boy. They look upon you, likely enough, as
they do upon a pet dog, or any other animal, and when they are away, it
is little they trouble their heads about you."
These remarks were made in kindness by good Mrs Rafferty. She had
heard all about the boy, and knew very well that if it became the custom
to have him up at the castle, and to make much of him, as she thought
was likely to be the case, he would inevitably be spoiled.
"When you come we will buy your fish, no fear of that, and take my
advice, get a supply of the finest you can by to-morrow or the day
after, and may be when you come there will be mouths enough at the
castle to eat them."
"What! are the family coming so soon then?" exclaimed Dermot, and a
thrill of pleasure ran through his frame; "and the beautiful lady who
draws so well, and all the others! I will go and catch the fish, never
fear, Mrs Rafferty, and it will not be my fault if I don't bring a
basket of as fine as ever were caught up to the castle to-morrow."
"I did not say `to-morrow,' boy; I said the day after, and that will be
time enough."
Mrs Rafferty, to prove her kind feelings, took the boy into her own
room, and placed before him several articles of food and delicacies,
such as had never before passed his lips. She watched him while he ate.
"It is strange if there's not gentle blood in that boy," she remarked to
herself, "I have heard what the young ladies think about it, and by the
way he sits at table and eats, I would never believe that he is a mere
fisher-boy."
Dermot did not hear her remarks. Having finished his repast, he rose
and wishing her good-bye, hastened home with the good news to his
mother.