CHAPTER II. DARBY THE "BLAST."
If there are dreams which, by their vividness and accuracy of detail,seem altogether like reality, so are there certain actual passages inour lives which, in their indistinctness while occurring, and in thefaint impression they leave behind them, seem only as mere dreams. Mostof our early sorrows are of this kind. The warm current of our younghearts would appear to repel the cold touch of affliction; nor can griefat this period do more than breathe an icy chill upon the surface of ouraffections, where all is glowing and fervid beneath. The strugglethen between the bounding heart and the depressing care renders ourimpressions of grief vague and ill defined.
A stunning sense of some great calamity, some sorrow without hope,mingled in my waking thoughts with a childish notion of freedom.Unloved, uncared for, my early years presented but few pleasures. Myboyhood had been a long struggle to win some mark of affection from onewho cared not for me, and to whom still my heart had clung, as does thedrowning man to the last plank of all the wreck. The tie that bound meto him was now severed, and I was without-one in the wide world to lookup to or to love.
I looked out from my window upon the bleak country. A heavy snowstormhad fallen during the night. A lowering sky of leaden hue stretchedabove the dreary landscape, across which no living thing was seen tomove. Within doors all was silent. The doctor and the attorney had bothtaken their departure; the deep wheel-track in the snow marked theroad they had followed. The servants, seated around the kitchen fire,conversed in low and broken whispers. The only sound that broke thestillness was the ticking of the clock upon the stair. There wassomething that smote heavily on my heart in the monotonous ticking ofthat clock: that told of time passing beside him who had gone; thatseemed to speak of minutes close to one whose minutes were eternity. Icrept into the room where the dead body lay, and as my tears ran fast, Ibent over it. I thought sometimes the expression of those cold featureschanged,--now frowning heavily, now smiling blandly on me. I watchedthem, till in my eager gaze the lips seemed to move and the cheek toflush. How hard is it to believe in death! how difficult to think that"there is a sleep that knows no waking!" I knelt down beside the bedand prayed. I prayed that now, as all of earth was nought to him who wasdeparted, he would give me the affection he had not bestowed in life.I besought him not to chill the heart that in its lonely desolation hadneither home nor friend. My throat sobbed to bursting as in my words Iseemed to realize the fulness of my affliction. The door opened behindme as with bent-down head I knelt. A heavy footstep slowly moved alongthe floor; and the next moment the tottering figure of old Lanty stoodbeside me, gazing on the dead man. There was that look of vacancy in hisfilmy eye that showed he knew nothing of what had happened.
"Is he asleep. Master Tommy?" said the old man, in a faint whisper.
My lips trembled, but I could not speak the word.
"I thought he wanted the 'dogs' up at Meelif; but I 'm strained hereabout the loins, and can't go out myself. Tell him that, when he wakes."
"He'll never wake now, Lanty; he's dead!" said I, as a rush of tearshalf choked my utterance.
"Dead!" said he, repeating the word two or three times,--"dead! Well,well! I wonder will Master George keep the dogs now. There seldom comesa better; and 'twas himself that liked the cry o' them."
He tottered from the room as he spoke, and I could hear him mutteringthe same words over and over, as he crept slowly down the stair.
I have said that this painful stroke of fortune was as a dream to me;and so for three days I felt it. The altered circumstances of everythingabout me were inexplicable to my puzzled brain. The very kindness of theservants, so unusual to me, struck me forcibly. They felt that the timewas past when any sympathy for me had been the passport to disfavor, andthey pitied me.
The funeral took place on the third morning. Mr. Basset havingacquainted my brother that there was no necessity for his presence, eventhat consolation was denied me,--to meet him who alone remained of allmy name and house belonging to me. How I remember every detail of thatmorning! The silence of the long night broken in upon by heavy footstepsascending the stairs; strange voices, not subdued like those of all inour little household, but loud and coarse; even laughter I could hear,the noise increasing at each moment. Then the muffled sound of wheelsupon the snow, and the cries of the drivers as they urged their horsesforward. Then a long interval, in which nought was heard save the happywhistle of some poor postilion, who, careless of his errand, whiled awaythe tedious time with a lively tune. And lastly, there came the dullnoise of feet moving step by step down the stair, the muttered words,the shuffling sound of feet as they descended, and the clank of thecoffin as it struck against the wall.
The long, low parlor was filled with people, few of whom I had everseen before. They were broken up into little knots, chatting cheerfullytogether while they made a hurried breakfast. The table and sideboardwere covered with a profusion I had never witnessed previously.Decanters of wine passed freely from hand to hand; and although thevoices fell somewhat as I appeared amidst them, I looked in vain for onetouch of sorrow for the dead, or even respect for his memory.
As I took my place in the carriage beside the attorney, a kind of dreamyapathy settled down on me, and I scarcely knew what was passing. I onlyremember the horrible shrinking sense of dread with which I recoiledfrom his one attempt at consolation, and the abrupt way in which hedesisted, and turned to converse with the doctor. How my heart sickenedas we drew near the churchyard, and I beheld the open gate that stoodwide awaiting us! The dusky figures, with their mournful black cloaks,moved slowly across the snow, like spirits of some gloomy world; whilethe death-bell echoed in my ears, and sent a shuddering through myframe.
"What is to become of the second boy?" said the clergyman, in a lowwhisper, but which, by some strange fatality, struck forcibly on my ear.
"It's not much matter," replied Basset, still lower; "for the present hegoes home with me. Tom, I say, you come back with me to-day."
"No," said I, boldly; "I'll go home again."
"Home!" repeated he, with a scornful laugh,--"home I And where may thatbe, youngster?"
"For shame, Basset!" said the clergyman; "don't speak that way to him.My little man, you can't go home today. Mr. Basset will take you withhim for a few days, until your late father's will is known, and hiswishes respecting you."
"I'll go home, sir!" said I, but in a fainter tone, and with tears in myeyes.
"Well, well! let him do so for to-day; it may relieve his poor heart.Come, Basset, I 'll take him back myself."
I clasped his hand as he spoke, and kissed it over and over.
"With all my heart," cried Basset. "I'll come over and fetch himto-morrow;" and then he added, in a lower tone, "and before that you'll have found out quite enough to be heartily sick of your charge."
All the worthy vicar's efforts to rouse me from my stupor or interest mefailed. He brought me to his house, where, amid his own happy children,he deemed my heart would have yielded to the sympathy of my own age. ButI pined to get back; I longed--why, I knew not--to be in my own littlechamber, alone with my grief. In vain he tried every consolation hiskind heart and his life's experience had taught him; the very happinessI witnessed but reminded me of my own state, and I pressed the moreeagerly to return.
It was late when he drew up to the door of the house, to which alreadythe closed window shutters had given a look of gloom and desertion. Weknocked several times before any one came, and at length two or threeheads appeared at an upper window, in half-terror at the unlooked-forsummons for admission.
"Good-by, my dear boy!" said the vicar, as he kissed me; "don't forgetwhat I have been telling you. It will make you bear your present sorrowbetter, and teach you to be happier when it is over."
"Come down to the kitchen, alannah!" said the old cook, as the halldoor closed; "come down and sit with us there. Sure it 's no wonder yourheart 'ud be low."
"Yes, Master Tommy; and Darby "the Blast" is there, and a tune an
d thepipes will raise you."
I suffered myself to be led along listlessly between them to thekitchen, where, around a huge fire of red turf, the servants of thehouse were all assembled, together with some neighboring cottagers;Darby "the Blast" occupying a prominent place in the party, his pipeslaid across his knees as he employed himself in concocting a smokingtumbler of punch.
"Your most obadient!" said Darby, with a profound reverence, as Ientered. "May I make so bowld as to surmise that my presence is n'tunsaysonable to your feelings? for I wouldn't be contumacious enough toadjudicate without your honor's permission."
What I muttered in reply I know not; but the whole party were speedilyreseated, every eye turned admiringly on Darby for the very neat andappropriate expression of his apology.
Young as I was and slight as had been the consideration heretoforeaccorded me, there was that in the lonely desolation of my conditionwhich awakened all their sympathies, and directed all their intereststowards me; and in no country are the differences of rank such slightbarriers in excluding the feeling of one portion of the community fromthe sorrows of the others: the Irish peasant, however humble, seemsto possess an intuitive tact on this subject, and to minister allthe consolations in his power with a gentle delicacy that cannot besurpassed.
The silence caused by my appearing among them was unbroken for some timeafter I took my seat by the fire; and the only sounds were theclinking of a spoon against the glass, or, the deep-drawn sigh of somecompassionate soul, as she wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eyewith her apron.
Darby alone manifested a little impatience at the sudden change in aparty where his powers of agreeability had so lately been successful,and fidgeted on his chair, unscrewed his pipes, blew into them, screwedthem on again, and then slyly nodded over to the housemaid, as he raisedhis glass to his lips.
"Never mind me," said I to the old cook, who, between grief and theglare of a turf fire, had her face swelled out to twice its naturalsize,--"never mind me, Molly, or I 'll go away."
"And why would you, darlin'? Troth, no! sure there 's nobody feels foryou like them that was always about you. Take a cup of tay, alannah; it'll do you good."
"Yes, Master Tom," said the butler; "you never tasted anything sinceTuesday night."
"Do, sir, av ye plaze!" said the pretty housemaid, as she stood beforeme, cup in hand.
"Arrah! what's tay?" said Darby, in a contemptuous tone of voice. "Afew dirty laves, with a drop of water on top of them, that has neitherbeatification nor invigoration. Here 's the _fons animi_!" said he,patting the whisky bottle affectionately. "Did ye ever hear of theancients indulging in tay? D'ye think Polyphamus and Jupither took tay?"
The cook looked down abashed and ashamed.
"Tay's good enough for women,--no offence, Mrs. Cook!--but you mightboil down Paykin, and it'd never be potteen. _Ex quo vis ligno non fitMercurius_,--'You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' That'sthe meaning of it; ligno 's a sow."
Heaven knows I was in no mirthful mood at that moment; but I burst intoa fit of laughing at this, in which, from a sense of politeness, theparty all joined.
"That's it, acushla!" said the old cook, as her eyes sparkled withdelight; "sure it makes my heart light to see you smilin' again. MaybeDarby would raise a tune now, and there 's nothing equal to it for thespirits."
"Yes, Mr. M'Keown," said the housemaid; "play 'Kiss me twice!' MasterTom likes it."
"Devil a doubt he does!" replied Darby, so maliciously as to make poorKitty blush a deep scarlet; "and no shame to him! But you see my fingersis cut. Master Tom, and I can't perform the reduplicating intonationswith proper effect."
"How did that happen. Darby?" said the butler.
"Faix, easy enough. Tim Daly and myself was hunting a cat the otherevening, and she was under the dhresser, and we wor poking her with aburnt stick and a raypinghook, and she somehow always escaped us, andexcept about an inch of her tail, that we cut off, there was no gettingat her; and at last I hated a toastin'-fork and put it in, when outshe flew, teeth and claws, at me. Look, there 's where she stuckher thieving nails into my thumb, and took the piece clean out. Theonnatural baste!"
"Arrah!" said the old cook, with a most reflective gravity, "there 'snothing so treacherous as a cat! "--a moral to the story which I foundmet general assent among the whole company.
"Nevertheless," observed Darby, with an air of ill-dissembledcondescension, "if it isn't umbrageous to your honor, I 'll intonatesomething in the way of an ode or a canticle."
"One of your own. Darby," said the butler, interrupting.
"Well, I've no objection," replied Darby, with an affected modesty;"for you see, master, like Homer, I accompany myself on the pipes,though--glory be to God!--I'm not blind. The little thing I 'll giveyou is imitated from the ancients--like Tibullus or Euthropeus--in thenatural key."
Mister M'Keown, after this announcement, pushed his empty tumblertowards the butler with a significant glance gave a few preparatorygrunts with the pipes, followed by a long dolorous quaver, and then astill more melancholy cadence, like the expiring bray of an asthmaticjackass; all of which sounds, seeming to be the essential preliminariesto any performance on the bagpipes, were listened to with greatattention by the company. At length, having assumed an imposingattitude, he lifted up both elbows, tilted his little finger affectedlyup, dilated his cheeks, and began the following to the well-known air of"Una:"--
MUSIC.
Of all the arts and sciences, 'T is music surely takes the sway; It has its own appliances To melt the heart or make it gay. To raise us, Or plaze us, There 's nothing with it can compare; To make us bowld, Or hot or cowld, Just as suits the kind of air.
There 's not a woman, man, or child. That has n't felt its powers too; Don't deny it!--when you smiled Your eyes confess'd, that so did you.
The very winds that sigh or roar; The leaves that rustle, dry and sear; The waves that beat upon the shore,-- They all are music to your ear. It was of use To Orpheus,-- He charmed the fishes in the say; So everything Alive can sing,-- The kettle even sings for tay!
There's not a woman, man, or child. That hau n't felt its power too; Don't deny it!--when you smiled Your eyes confess'd, that so did you.
I have certainly since this period listened to more brilliant musicalperformances, but for the extent of the audience, I do not think it waspossible to reap a more overwhelming harvest of applause. Indeed, theold cook kept repeating stray fragments of the words to every air thatcrossed her memory for the rest of the evening; and as for Kitty, Iintercepted more than one soft glance intended for Mister M'Keown as areward for his minstrelsy.
Darby, to do him justice, seemed fully sensible of his triumph, andsat back in his chair and imbibed his liquor like a man who had won hislaurels, and needed no further efforts to maintain his eminent positionin life.
As the wintry wind moaned dismally without, and the leafless treesshook and trembled with the cold blast, the party drew in closer to thecheerful turf fire, with that sense of selfish delight that seemsto revel in the contrast of indoor comfort with the bleakness anddreariness without.
"Well, Darby," said the butler, "you weren't far wrong when you took myadvice to stay here for the night; listen to how it 's blowing."
"That 's hail!" said the old cook, as the big drops came pattering downthe chimney, and hissed on the red embers as they fell. "It 's a cruelnight, glory be to God!" Here the old lady blessed herself,--a ceremonywhich the others followed.
"For all that," said Darby, "I ought to be up at Crocknavorrigha thisblessed evening. Joe Neale was to be married to-day."
"Joe! is it Joe?" said the butler.
"I wish her luck of him, whoever she is!" added the cook.
"Faix, and he's a smart boy!" chimed in the house
maid, with somethingnot far from a blush as she spoke.
"He was a raal devil for coortin', anyhow!" said the butler.
"It's just for peace he's marrying now, then," said Darby; "the womennever gave him any quietness. Just so, Kitty; you need n't be lookingcross that way,--it 's truth I'm telling you. They were always comingabout him, and teasing him, and the like, and he could n't bear it anylonger."
"Arrah, howld your prate!" interrupted the old cook, whose indignationfor the honor of the sex could not endure more. "He's the biggest liarfrom this to himself; and that same 's not a small word. Darby M'Keown."
There was a pointedness in the latter part of this speech which mighthave led to angry consequences, had I not interposed by asking Mr.M'Keown himself if he ever was in love.
"Arrah, it 's wishing it, I am, the same love. Sure my back and sidesis sore with it; my misfortunes would fill a book. Did n't I bind myselfapprentice to a carpenter for love of Molly Scraw, a niece he had, justto be near her and be looking at her; and that 's the way I shaved offthe top of my thumb with the plane. By the mortial, it was near killingme. I usedn't to eat or drink; and though I was three years at thethrade, faix, at the end of it, I could n't tell you the gimlet from thehandsaw!"
"And you wor never married, Mister M'Keown?" said Kitty.
"Never, my darling, but often mighty near it. Many 's the quare thinghappened to me," said Darby, meditatingly; "and sure if it was n't myguardian angel, or something of the kind, prevented it, I 'd maybe havemore wives this day than the Emperor of Roossia himself."
"Arrah, don't be talking!" grunted out the old cook, whose passion couldscarcely be restrained at the boastful tone Mister M'Keown assumed indescanting on his successes.
"There was Biddy Finn," continued Darby, without paying any attentionto the cook's interruption; "she might be Mrs. M'Keown this day, av itwasn't for a remarkable thing that happened."
"What was that?" said Kitty, with eager curiosity.
"Tell us about it. Mister M'Keown," said the butler.
"The devil a word of truth he'll tell you," grumbled the cook, as sheraked the ashes with a stick.
"There 's them here does not care for agreeable intercoorse," saidDarby, assuming a grand air.
"Come, Daxby; I 'd like to hear the story," said I.
After a few preparatory scruples, in which modesty, offended dignity,and conscious merit struggled, Mr. M'Keown began by informing us thathe had once a most ardent attachment to a certain Biddy Finn, ofBallyclough,--a lady of considerable personal attractions, to whom for along time he had been constant, and at last, through the intervention ofFather Curtin, agreed to marry. Darby's consent to the arrangements wasnot altogether the result of his reverence's eloquence, nor indeed thejustice of the case; nor was it quite owing to Biddy's black eyes andpretty lips; but rather to the soul-persuading powers of some fourteentumblers of strong punch which he swallowed at a _seance_ in Biddy'sfather's house one cold evening in November, after which he betookhimself to the road homewards, where--But we must give his story in hisown words:
"Whether it was the prospect of happiness before me, or the potteen,"quoth Darby, "but so it was,--I never felt a step of the road home thatnight, though it was every foot of five mile. When I came to a stile, Iused to give a whoop, and over it; then I'd run for a hundred yardsor two, flourish my stick, cry out, 'Who 'll say a word against BiddyFinn?' and then over another fence, flying. Well, I reached home atlast, and wet enough I was; but I did n't care for that. I opened thedoor and struck a light; there was the least taste of kindling on thehearth, and I put some dry sticks into it and some turf, and knelt downand began blowing it up.
"'Troth,' says I to myself, 'if I wor married, it isn't this way I'dbe,--on my knees like a nagur; but when I 'd come home, there 'ud bea fine fire blazin' fornint me, and a clean table out before it, anda beautiful cup of tay waiting for me, and somebody I won't mintion,sitting there, looking at me, smilin'.'
"'Don't be making a fool of yourself, Darby M'Keown,' said a gruff voicenear the chimley.
"I jumped at him, and cried out, 'Who 's that?' But there was no answer;and at last, after going round the kitchen, I began to think it was onlymy own voice I heard; so I knelt down again, and set to blowing away atthe fire.
"'And it's yerself, Biddy,' says I, 'that would be an ornament to adacent cabin; and a purtier leg and foot--'
"'Be the light that shines, you're making me sick. Darby M'Keown,' saidthe voice again.
"'The heavens be about us!' says I, 'what 's that? and who are you atall?' for someways I thought I knew the voice.
"'I 'm your father!' says the voice.
"'My father!' says I. 'Holy Joseph, is it truth you 're telling me?'
"'The divil a word o' lie in it,' says the voice. 'Take me down, andgive me an air o' the fire, for the night 's cowld.'
"'And where are you, father,' says I, 'av it's plasing to ye?'
"'I 'm on the dhresser,' says he. 'Don't you see me?'
"'Sorra bit o' me. Where now?'
"'Arrah, on the second shelf, next the rowling-pin. Don't you see thegreen jug?--that's me.'
"'Oh, the saints in heaven be about us!' says I; 'and are you a greenjug?'
"'I am,' says he; 'and sure I might be worse. Tim Healey's mother isonly a cullender, and she died two years before me.'
"'Oh! father, darlin',' says I, 'I hoped you wor in glory; and you onlya jug all this time!'
"'Never fret about it,' says my father; 'it 's the transmogrificationof sowls, and we 'll be right by and by. Take me down, I say, and put menear the fire.'
"So I up and took him down, and wiped him with a clean cloth, and puthim on the hearth before the blaze.
"'Darby,' says he, 'I'm famished with the druth. Since you took tocoortin' there 's nothing ever goes into my mouth; haven't you a tasteof something in the house?'
"I wasn't long till I hated some wather, and took down the bottle ofwhiskey and some sugar, and made a rousing jugful, as strong as need be.
"'Are you satisfied, father?' says I.
"'I am,' says he; 'you 're a dutiful child, and here 's your health,and don't be thinking of Biddy Finn,'
"With that my father began to explain how there was never any rest norquietness for a man after he married,--more be token, if his wife wasfond of talking; and that he never could take his dhrop of drink incomfort afterwards.
"'May I never,' says he, 'but I 'd rather be a green jug, as I am now,than alive again wid your mother. Sure it 's not here you'd be sittingto-night,' says he, 'discoorsing with me, av you wor married; devil abit. Fill me,' says my father, 'and I 'll tell you more.'
"And sure enough I did, and we talked away till near daylight; and thenthe first thing I did was to take the ould mare out of the stable, andset off to Father Curtin, and towld him all about it, and how my fatherwould n't give his consent by no means.
"'We'll not mind the marriage,' says his rivirence; 'but go back andbring me your father,--the jug, I mean,--and we 'll try and get him outof trouble; for it 's trouble he 's in, or he would n't be that way.Give me the two pound ten,' says the priest; 'you had it for thewedding, and it will be better spent getting your father out ofpurgatory than sending you into it. '"
"Arrah, aren't you ashamed of yourself?" cried the cook, with a look ofineffable scorn, as he concluded.
"Look now," said Darby, "see this; if it is n't thruth--"
"And what became of your father?" interrupted the butler.
"And Biddy Finn, what did she do?" said the housemaid.
Darby, however, vouchsafed no reply, but sat back in his chair with anoffended look, and sipped his liquor in silence.
A fresh brew of punch under the butler's auspices speedily, however,dispelled the cloud that hovered over the conviviality of the party; andeven the cook vouchsafed to assist in the preparation of some rashers,which Darby suggested were beautiful things for the thirst at thishour of the night; but whether in allaying or exciting it, he did n'texactly la
y down. The conversation now became general; and as theyseemed resolved to continue their festivities to a late hour, I took thefirst opportunity I could, when unobserved, to steal away and return tomy own room.
No sooner alone again than all the sorrow of my lonely state came backupon me; and as I laid my head on my pillow, the full measure of mymisery flowed in upon my heart, and I sobbed myself to sleep.
Tom Burke Of Ours, Volume I Page 3