a sparkling light, that gave decided proofs of her sagacity being
intensely excited.
“All that you've said,” she replied, “is very fine; but in regard o'
the bag-pipes, an' Miss Granua Mulcahy's squeezin' the music out o'
thim--why, if it plased God to bring my son to the staff an' bag--a
common beggar--indeed, in that case, Miss Granua's bagpipes might sarve
both o' thim, an' help, maybe, to get them a night's lodgin' or so;
but until that time comes, if you respect your niece, you'll burn her
bagpipes, dhrone, chanther, an' all. If you are for a match, which I
doubt, spake out, as I said, and say what fortune you'll pay down on
the nail wid her, otherwise we're losin' our time, an' that's a loss one
can't make up.”
The priest, who thought he could have bantered Ellish into an alliance,
without pledging himself to pay any specific fortune, found that it
was necessary for him to treat the matter seriously, if he expected to
succeed. He was certainly anxious for the match; and as he really
wished to see his niece--who, in truth, was an excellent girl, and
handsome--well settled, he resolved to make a stretch and secure Dan if
possible.
“Mrs. Connell,” said he, “I will be brief with you. The most I can give
her is three hundred pounds, and even that by struggling and borrowing:
I will undertake to pay it as you say--on the nail! for I am really
anxious that my niece should be connected with so worthy and industrious
a family. What do you say?”
“I'm willin' enough,” replied Peter. It's not asy to get that and a
Catholic girl.”
“There's some thruth in what you say, aroon, sure enough,” observed
Ellish; “an' if his Reverence puts another hundhre to it, why, in
the name of goodness, let them go together. If you don't choose that,
Docthor, never breathe the subject to me agin. Dan's not an ould man
yit, an' has time enough to get wives in plenty.”
“Come,” replied the priest, “there's my hand, it's a bargain; although
I must say there's no removing you from your point. I will give four
hundred, hook or crook; but I'll have sad scrambling to get it together.
Still I'll make it good.”
“Down on the nail?” inquired Ellish.
“Ay! ay! Down on the nail,” replied the priest.
“Well, in the name o' Goodness, a bargain be it,” said Peter; “but, upon
my credit, Ellish, I won't have the bag-pipes burnt, anyhow. Faith, I
must hear an odd tune, now an' thin, when I call to see the childhre.”
“Pether, acushla, have sinse. Would you wish to see your daughter-in-law
playin' upon the bag-pipes, when she ought to be mindin' her business,
or attendin' her childhre? No, your Reverence, the pipes must be laid
aside. I'll have no pipery connection for a son of mine.”
The priest consented to this, although Peter conceded it with great
reluctance. Further preliminaries were agreed upon, and the evening
passed pleasantly, until it became necessary for Mr. Mulcahy to bid them
good-night.
When they were gone, Peter and Ellish talked over the matter between
themselves in the following dialogue:
“The fortune's a small one,” said Ellish to her husband; “an' I suppose
you wondher that I consinted to take so little.”
“Sure enough, I wondhered at it,” replied Peter, “but, for my own
part, I'd give my son to her widout a penny o' fortune, in ordher to
be connected wid the priest; an' besides, she's a fine, handsome, good
girl--ay, an' his fill of a wife, if she had but the shift to her back.”
“Four hundhre wid a priest's niece, Pether, is before double the money
wid any other. Don't you know, that when they set up for themselves,
he can bring the custom of the whole parish to them? It's unknown the
number o' ways he can sarve them in. Sure, at stations an' weddins,
wakes, marriages, and funerals, they'll all be proud to let the priest
know that they purchased whatever they wanted from his niece an' her
husband. Betther!--faix, four hundhre from him is worth three times as
much from another.”
“Glory to you, Ellish!--bright an' cute for ever! Why, I'd back you for
a woman' that could buy an' sell Europe, aginst the world. Now, isn't it
odd that I never think of these long-headed skames?”
“Ay do you, often enough, Pether; but you keep them to yourself,
abouchal.”
“Faith, I'm close, no doubt of it; an'--but there's no use in sayin' any
more about it--you said whatsomever came into my own head consarnin' it.
Faith, you did, you phanix.”
In a short time the marriage took place.
Dan, under the advice of his mother, purchased a piece of ground most
advantageously located, as the site of a mill, whereon an excellent
one was built; and as a good mill had been long a desideratum in the
country, his success was far beyond his expectations. Every speculation,
in fact, which Ellish touched, prospered. Fortune seemed to take
delight, either in accomplishing or anticipating her wishes. At least,
such was the general opinion, although nothing could possibly be more
erroneous than to attribute her success to mere chance. The secret of
all might be ascribed to her good sense, and her exact knowledge of the
precise moment when to take the tide of fortune at its flow. Her son,
in addition to the mill, opened an extensive mercantile establishment in
the next town, where he had ample cause to bless the instructions of
his mother, and her foresight in calculating upon the advantage of being
married to the priest's niece.
Soon after his marriage, the person who had for many years kept the
head inn of the next town died, and the establishment was advertised
for sale. Ellish was immediately in action. Here was an opportunity of
establishing the second son in a situation which had enabled the late
proprietor of it to die nearly the richest man in the parish. A few
days, therefore, before that specified for the sale, she took her
featherbed car, and had an interview with the executors of the late
proprietor. Her character was known, her judgment and integrity duly
estimated, and, perhaps, what was the weightiest argument in her favor,
her purse was forthcoming to complete the offer she had made. After some
private conversation between the executors, her proposal was accepted,
and before she returned home, the head inn, together with its fixtures
and furniture, was her property.
The second son, who was called after his father, received the
intelligence with delight. One of his sisters was, at his mother's
suggestion, appointed to conduct the housekeeping department, and
keep the bar, a duty for which she was pretty well qualified by her
experience at home.
“I will paint it in great style,” said Peter the Younger. “It must be a
head Inn no longer; I'll call it a Hotel, for that's the whole fashion.”
“It wants little, avourneen,” said his mother; “it was well kept--some
paintin' an other improvements it does want, but don't be extravagant.
Have it clane an' dacent, but, above all things, comfortable, an'
the attindance good. That's what'll carry you, an--not a flourish o'
paintin' outside, an' dirt, an' confusion, an' bad attindance widin.
Considher, Pether darlin', that the man who owned it last, feathered
his nest well in it, but never called it a Hotill. Let it appear on the
outside jist as your old customers used to see it; but improve it widin
as much as you can, widout bein' lavish an it, or takin' up the place
wid nonsense.”
“At all evints, I'll have a picture of the Liberator over the door, an'
O'Connell' written under it. It's both our names, and besides it will be
'killin' two birds with one stone.'”
“No, avourneen. Let me advise you, if you wish to prosper in life, to
keep yourself out of party-work. It only stands betune you an' your
business; an' it's surely wiser for you to mind your own affairs than
the affairs of the nation. There's rason in everything. No man in trade
has a right, widout committin' a sin, to neglect his family for politics
or parties. There's Jack Cummins that was doin' well in his groceries
till he began to make speeches, an' get up public meetins, an' write
petitions, an' now he has nothin' to throuble him but politics, for his
business is gone. Every one has liberty to think as they plase. We can't
expect Protestants to think as we do, nor Protestants can't suppose that
we ought to think as they'd wish; an' for that same rason, we should
make allowance on both sides, an' not be like many we know, that have
their minds up, expectin' they don't know, what, instead of workin' for
themselves and their families as they ought to do. Pether, won't you
give that up, avillish?”
“I believe you're right, mother. I didn't see it before in the light
you've placed it in.”
“Then, Pether darlin', lose no time in gettin' into your place--you an'
Alley; an' faix, if you don't both manage it cleverly, I'll never spake
to yez.”
Here was a second son settled, and nothing remained but to dispose
of their two daughters in marriage to the best and most advantageous
offers. This, in consequences of their large fortunes, was not a matter
of much difficulty. The eldest, Alley, who assisted her brother to
conduct the Inn, became the wife of an extensive grazier, who lived in
an adjoining county. The younger, Mary, was joined to Father Mulcahy's
nephew, not altogether to the satisfaction of the mother, who feared
that two establishments of the same kind, in the same parish, supported
by the same patronage, must thrive at the expense of each other. As it
was something of a love-match, however, she ultimately consented.
“Avourneen,” said she, “the parish is big enough, an' has customers
enough to support two o' them; an' I'll engage his Reverence will do
what he can for them both.”
In the meantime, neither she nor her husband was dependent upon their
children. Peter still kept the agricultural department in operation;
and although the shop and warehouse were transferred to Mr. Mulcahy, in
right of his wife, yet it was under the condition of paying a yearly sum
to Mrs. Connell and her husband, ostensibly as a provision, but really
as a spur to their exertions. A provision they could not want, for their
wealth still amounted to thousands, independently of the large annual
profits arising out of their farms.
For some time after the marriage of her youngest daughter, Mrs. Connell
took a very active part in her son-in-law's affairs. He possessed
neither experience, nor any knowledge of business whatsoever, though he
was not deficient in education, nor in capacity to acquire both.
This pleased Mrs. Connell very much, who set herself to the task of
instructing him in the principles of commercial life, and in the best
methods of transacting business.
“The first rules,” said she to him, “for you to obsarve is these: tell
truth; be sober; be punctual; rise early; persavere; avoid extravagance;
keep your word; an watch your health. Next: don't be proud; give no
offince; talk sweetly; be ready to oblage, when you can do it widout
inconvanience, but don't put yourself or your business out o' your ways
to sarve anybody.
“Thirdly: keep an appearance of substance an' comfort about your place,
but don't go beyant your manes in doin' it; when you make a bargain,
think what a corrocther them you dale wid bears, an' whether or not you
found them honest before, if you ever had business wid them.
“When you buy a thing, appear to know your own mind, an' don't be
hummin' an' hawin', an' higglin', an' longin' as if your teeth wor
watherin' afther it; but be manly, downright, an' quick; they'll then
see that you know your business, an' they won't be keepin' off an' an,
but will close wid you at wanst.
“Never drink at bargain makin'; an' never pay money in a public-house if
you can help it; if you must do it, go into an inn, or a house that you
know to be dacent.
“Never stay out late in a fair or market; don't make a poor mouth; on
the other hand, don't boast of your wealth; keep no low company; don't
be rubbin' yourself against your betthers, but keep wid your aquils.
File your loose papers an' accounts, an' keep your books up to the day.
Never put off anything that can be done, when it ought to be done. Go
early to bed; but be the last up at night, and the first in the mornin',
and there's no fear o' you.”
Having now settled all her children in comfort and independence, with
each a prospect of rising still higher in the world, Mrs. Connell felt
that the principal duties devolving upon her had been discharged. It was
but reasonable, she thought, that, after the toil of a busy life, her
husband and herself should relax a little, and enjoy with lighter minds
the ease for which they had labored so long and unremittingly.
“Do you know what I'm thinkin' of, Pether?” said she, one summer evening
in their farm-yard.
“Know, is it?” replied Peter--“some long-headed plan that none of us 'ud
ever think of, but that will stare us in the face the moment you mintion
it. What is it, you ould sprig o' beauty?”
“Why, to get a snug jauntin'-car, for you an' me. I'd like to see you
comfortable in your old days, Peter. You're gettin' stiff, ahagur, an'
will be good for nothin' by an' by.”
“Stiff! Arrah, by this an' by--my reputation, I'm younger nor e'er a one
o' my sons yet, you----eh?” said Peter, pausing--
“Faith, then I dunna that. Upon my credit, I think, on second thoughts,
that a car 'ud be a mighty comfortable thing for me. Faith, I do, an'
for you, too, Ellish.”
“The common car,” she continued, “is slow and throublesome, an' joults
the life out o' me.”
“By my reputation, you're not the same woman since you began to use it,
that you wor before at all. Why, it'll shorten your life. The pillion's
dacent enough; but the jauntin'-car!--faix, it's what 'ud make a fresh
woman o' you--divil a lie in it.”
“You're not puttin' in a word for yourself now, Pether?”
“To be sure I am, an' for both of us. I'd surely be proud to see
yourself an' myself sittin' in our glory upon our own jauntin'-car. Sure
we can afford it, an' ought to have it, too. Bud-an'-ager! what's the
rason I didn't, think of it long ago?”
“Maybe you did, acushla; but you forgot, it. Wasn't that the way wid
you, Pether? Tell the thruth.”
“Why, thin, bad luck to the lie in it, since you must know. About this
time twelve months--no, faix, I'm wrong, it was afore Dan's marriage--I
had thoughts o' spakin' ta you about it, but somehow it left my head.
Upon my word, I'm in airnest, Ellish.”
“Well, avick, make your mind asy; I'll have one from Dublin in less nor
a fortnight. I can thin go about of an odd time, an' see how Dan an'
Pether's comin' an. It'll be a pleasure to me to advise an' direct them,
sure, as far an' as well as I can. I only hope? God will enable thim to
do as much for their childher, as he enabled us to do for them, glory be
to his name!”
Peter's eye rested upon her as she spoke--a slight shade passed over
his face, but it was the symptom of deep feeling and affection, whose
current had run smooth and unbroken during the whole life they had spent
together.
“Ellish,” said he, in a tone of voice that strongly expressed what
he felt, “you wor one o' the best wives that ever the Almighty gev to
mortual man. You wor, avourneen---you wor, you wor!”
“I intind, too, to begin an' make my sowl, a little,” she continued; “we
had so much to do, Pether, aroon, that, indeed, we hadn't time to think
of it all along; but now, that everything else is settled, we ought to
think about that, an' make the most of our time--while we can.”
“Upon my conscience, I've strong notions myself o' the same thing,”
replied Peter. “An' I'll back you in that, as well as in every thing
else. Never fear, if we pull together, but we'll bring up the lost time.
Faith, we will! Sowl, if you set about it, let me see them that 'ud
prevint you goin' to heaven!”
“Did Paddy Donovan get the bay filly's foot aised, Pether?”
“He's gone down wid her to the forge: the poor crathur was very lame
to-day.”
“That's right; an' let Andy Murtagh bring down the sacks from Drumdough
early to-morrow. That what ought to go to the market on Thursday, an'
the other stacks ought to be thrashed out of hand.”
“Well, well; so it will be all done. Tare alive! if myself knows how
you're able to keep an eye on everything. Come in, an' let us have our
tay.”
For a few months after this, Ellish was perfectly in her element. The
jaunting-car was procured; and her spirits seemed to be quite elevated.
She paid regular visits to both her sons, looked closely into their
manner of conducting business, examined their premises, and subjected
every fixture and improvement made or introduced without her sanction,
to the most rigorous scrutiny. In fact, what, between Peter's farm, her
daughter's shop, and the establishments of her sons, she never found
herself more completely encumbered with business. She had intended “to
make her soul,” but her time was so fully absorbed by the affairs of
those in whom she felt so strong an interest, that she really forgot the
spiritual resolution in the warmth of her secular pursuits.
One evening, about this time, a horse belonging to Peter happened to
fall into a ditch, from which he was extricated with much difficulty
by the laborers. Ellish, who thought it necessary to attend, had been
standing for some time directing them how to proceed; her dress was
rather thin, and the hour, which was about twilight, chilly, for it was
the middle of autumn. Upon returning home she found herself cold, and
inclined to shiver. At first she thought but little of these symptoms;
for having never had a single day's sickness, she was scarcely competent
to know that they were frequently the forerunners of very dangerous and
fatal maladies. She complained, however, of slight illness, and went
to bed without taking anything calculated to check what she felt. Her
sufferings during the night were dreadful: high fever had set in with a
fury that threatened to sweep the powers of life like a wreck before
it. The next morning the family, on looking into her state more closely,
found it necessary to send instantly for a physician.
On arriving, he pronounced her to be in a dangerous pleurisy, from
which, in consequence of her plethoric habit, he expressed but faint
hopes of her recovery. This was melancholy intelligence to her sons and
daughters: but to Peter, whose faithful wife she had been for thirty
years, it was a dreadful communication indeed.
“No hopes, Docthor!” he exclaimed, with a bewildered air: “did you say
no hopes, sir?--Oh! no, you didn't--you couldn't say that there's no
hopes!”
“The hopes of her recovery, Mr. Connell, are but slender,--if any.”
“Docthor, I'm a rich man, thanks be to God an' to----” he hesitated,
cast back a rapid and troubled look towards the bed whereon she lay,
then proceeded--“no matther, I'm a rich man: but if you can spare her to
me, I'll divide what I'm worth in the world wid you: I will, sir; an' if
that won't do, I'll give up my last shillin' to save her, an' thin I'd
beg my bit an' sup through the counthry, only let me have her wid me.”
“As far as my skill goes,” said the doctor, “I shall, of course, exert
it to save her; but there are some diseases which we are almost always
able to pronounce fatal at first sight. This, I fear, is one of them.
Still I do not bid you despair--there is, I trust, a shadow of hope.”
“The blessin' o' the Almighty be upon you, sir, for that word! The best
blessing of the heavenly Father rest upon you an' yours for it!”
“I shall return in the course of the day,” continued the physician; “and
as you feel the dread of her loss so powerfully, I will bring two other
medical gentlemen of skill with me.”
“Heavens reward you for that, sir! The heavens above reward you an' them
for it! Payment!--och, that signifies but little: but you and them 'll
be well paid. Oh, Docthor, achora, thry an' save her!--Och, thry an'
save her!”
“Keep her easy,” replied the doctor, “and let my directions be
faithfully followed. In the meantime, Mr. Connell, be a man and display
proper fortitude under a dispensation which is common to all men in your
state.”
To talk of resignation to Peter was an abuse of words. The poor man
had no more perception of the consolation arising from a knowledge of
religion than a child. His heart sank within him, for the prop on which
his affections had rested was suddenly struck down from under them.
Poor Ellish was in a dreadful state. Her malady seized her in the very
midst of her worldly-mindedness; and the current of her usual thoughts,
when stopped by the aberrations of intellect peculiar to her illness,
bubbled up, during the temporary returns of reason, with a stronger
relish of the world. It was utterly impossible for a woman like her,
whose habits of thought and the tendency of whose affections had been
all directed towards the acquisition of wealth, to wrench them for ever
and at once from the objects on which they were fixed. This, at any
time, would have been to her a difficult victory to achieve; but now,
when stunned by the stroke of disease, and confused by the pangs of
severe suffering, tortured by a feverish pulse and a burning brain, to
expect that she could experience the calm hopes of religion, or feel the
soothing power of Christian sorrow, was utter folly. 'Tis true, her life
had been a harmless one: her example, as an industrious and enterprising
member of society, was worthy of imitation. She was an excellent mother,
a good neighbor, and an admirable wife; but the duties arising out of
these different relations of life, were all made subservient to, and
mixed up with, her great principle of advancing herself in the world,
whilst that which is to come never engaged one moment's serious
consideration.
When Father Mulcahy came to administer the rites of the church to
Ellish, he found her in a state of incoherency. Occasional gleams of
reason broke out through the cloud that obscured her intellect, but they
carried with them the marks of a mind knit indissolubly to wealth and
aggrandizement. The same tenor of thought, and the same broken fragments
of ambitious speculation, floated in rapid confusion through the
tempests of delirium which swept with awful darkness over her spirit.
“Mrs. Connell,” said he, “can you collect yourself? Strive to compose
your mind, so far as to be able to receive the aids of religion.”
“Oh, oh!--my blood's boilin'! Is that--is that Father Mulcahy?”
“It is, dear: strive now to keep your mind calm, till you prepare
yourself for judgment.”
“Keep up his head, Paddy--keep up his head, or he'll be smothered undher
the wather an' the sludge. Here, Mike, take this rope: pull, man,--pull,
or the horse will be lost! Oh, my head!--I'm boilin'--I'm burnin'!”
“Mrs. Connell, let me entreat you to remember that you are on the
point of death, and should raise your heart to God, for the pardon and
remission of your sins.”
“Oh! Father dear, I neglected that, but I intinded--I intinded--Where's
Pether!--bring, bring--Pether to me!”
“Turn your thoughts to God, now, my dear. Are you clear enough in your
mind for confession?”
“I am, Father! I am, avourneen. Come, come here, Pether! Pether, I'm
goin' to lave you, asthore machree! I could part wid them all but--but
you.”
“Mrs. Connell, for Heaven's sake.”--.
“Is this--is this--Father Mulcahy? Oh! I'm ill--ill!”--
“It is, dear; it is. Compose yourself and confess your sins.”
“Where's Mary? She'll neglect--neglect to lay in a stock o' linen,
although I--I--Oh, Father, avourneen! won't you pity me! I'm sick--oh,
I'm very sick!”
“You are, dear--you are, God help you, very sick, but you'll be better
soon. Could you confess, dear?--do you think you could?”
“Oh, this pain--this pain!--it's killin' me!--Pether--Pether, _a
suillish, machree_, (* The light of my heart) have, have you des--have
you desarted me.”
The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his appearance she might
feel soothed, and perhaps sufficiently composed to confess, called him
in from the next room.
“Here's Peter,” said the priest, presenting him to her view--“Here's
Peter, dear.”
“Oh! what a load is on me! this pain--this pain is killin' me--won't you
bring me, Pether? Oh, what will I do? Who's there?”
The mental pangs of poor Peter were, perhaps, equal in intensity to
those which she suffered physically.