“‘An’ what’ll I do at all?’ says Tim.
“‘Lay it, to be sure,’ says Phil; ‘lay it on the spot — lay it, what else?’ says he. ‘Be the powers of Moll — I mane be the contints iv that book,’ says he, ‘aff I had but the use iv my limbs, I’d walk down myself, this instant minute,’ says he, ‘an’ lay it in airnest, before he’d have time to spit on the flure,’ says he.
“‘Never say it twiste,’ says Tim Bryan, takin’ him up an the word; ‘for I’ll carry you down on my back, myself,’ says he; ‘for iv you’re not afeard, neither am I,’ says he; ‘I’ve nothin’ an’ my conscience, its aisy, thank God,’ says he; ‘so up wid you on my shoulders,’ says he, ‘an’ we’ll soon see who is the coward,’ says he.
“Well, begorra, as soon as he heerd that, Phil Martin turned the colour iv a bad pittayty — savin’ your presence — with the rale fright; but he would not lave it to the sexton to say he was afeard to go along wid him, afther all he said an the head iv it; so, be the powers, havin’ nothin’ for it but to see the job through, wid a heavy heart up he gets an Tim’s back, an off wid the pair of them to the church. There was nothin’ but starlight, an’ the ould church looked twiste as big an’ as black as ever opposite them, and divil a one word they said antil they kem within seven or eight steps of the porch, an’, begorra, there was the three white rabbits, sure enough; an’ they could just see them, an hear the wires jinglin’ when they’d hop here and there in the cage.
“‘Stop — be aisy, can’t you,’ says Phil, sittin’ up an his back, an’ diggin’ his heels into Tim’s breast bone like dhrumsticks, with the rale fright, all the while— ‘stop where you are, man, we’re near enough I tell ye.’
“So wid that Tim stops where he was, an’ they both wor freckened to that degree, they neither iv them spoke one word for as good as a minute, but starin’ the three rabits for the bare life. At last says Phil Martin, says he, dhrippin’ down all the time wid the fair fright— ‘Tim,’ says he, ‘thry an’ stand an the left leg,’ says he, ‘as well as you can,’ says he; ‘for it won’t take an operation,’ says he, ‘anless you do it; for I’m goin’ to begin at wanst, God bless us an’save us, savs he; ‘an’ keep steady, you villain,’ says he, ‘or I’ll murther you; for if you fall, as sure as you do, be the powers, we’re both done for,’ says he.
“So wid that Tim Bryan claps his elbow to the churchyard wall beside him, studdying himself as well as he was able, an’ he ups wid his left leg, like a gandher asleep; an’ seein’ every thing was ready, Phil Martin — givin’ himself up for lost — opens, as well as the fright id let him, wid the Lord’s prayer backwards. Well, begorra, he made sich a noise, that he was not half way through wid it when Larry the miller, that was half asleep inside iv the porch, rises himself up, thinkin’ it was his comrade callin’ him; so up he gets, an’ out he walks, an’ seein’ the man wid the bundle an his back, av coorse who should he think it was but his friend the dancin’ masther, wid the sheep an his shouldhers. Well, when the sexton, wid the clerk an his back, seen the white thing cornin’ out iv the porch, an’ makin’ for them, the pair iv them a’most lost their sinses an the spot. The sexton stood gapin an his two legs, an’ the divil a word the clerk could spake, but wid the fright he gripped the hair iv Tim Bryan’s head wid both his hands, an’ held an for the bare life. ‘Is he fat,’ says the miller, whisperin’, an’ cornin’ towards them, still consaivin’ it was the sheep that was in it.
“‘Fat or lain,’ says the sexton, gettin’ back his speech an the instant, with the fair desperation, for he was freckened beyant all bearin’; ‘fat or lain,’ says he, screechin’ it out with the rale fright— ‘take him as he is,’ says he, pitchin’ the cripple right before him into the path, an’ away wid himself through the town like the wind, as hard as he could peg, net darin’ as much as to look behind him; but the quarest thing about it was the cripple himself; for, bedad, he was hardly an the ground when up he jumps an his legs as nimble as if he never lost the use iv them for a day, an’ away wid him afther the sexton, roarin’ as if the life was lavin’ him. But, Tim, the sexton had a long start av him; an’, bein’ in good wind, he he never tuck time as much as to say ‘God bless us!’ until he was into his own house, an’ the door shut behind him; an’ devil a word he could say, good, had, or indifferent — walkin’ up an’ down the kitchin’, wid the hat off his head, and scarce a taste iv the hair left in it, afther the wisp Phil Martin pulled out iv him; but, oh, Phil Martin! Phil Martin! the Lord have marcy on your sinful sowl — not ate a sexton! — wouldn’t he? Oh, bloody wars! it is not a sexton, sure enough, but the best clerk in Ireland’s ground he has in his belly by this time,’ says he.
“‘An’ what’s wrong wid Phil Martin?’ says his wife, Kit Bryan, sharp enough— ‘what’s wrong with him, I am axin’?’ says she, fairly bothered with the way he was goin’ an, prayin’ an’ blessin’ up an’ down the place, all as one as a fool or a ministher: ‘what is it ails him,’ save she, ‘at all, at all, you bosthoon, you?’
“‘The divil has him at last,’ says he— ‘that’s alL
“‘The divil?’ says she.
“‘Ay, the divil himself! in propria quæ maribus. Are you deaf?’ says he. ‘Oh, murdher! murdher! will I never be quit iv misfortunes? says he. ‘Why in the world couldn’t I let the boy alone?’ says he.
What kem over me at all, at all, to ax him to get up an my back?’ says he. ‘What put it into my head ever to think iv the likes V says he. ‘I have the loss iv his sinful sowl on me now/ says he; ‘an’ Ins sperit’ill be afther me every hour iv the night,’ says he, ‘as long as I’m alive; an’ I won’t say agin it, but I desarve the likes,’ says he; ‘for I’ll never deny but I was guilty iv a dirty turn — bad luck to myself!’ says he; ‘for I never was done before. His sperit ‘ill be afther me, I tell ye, night an’ mornin’, wherever I go,’ says he.
“An’ just with them words, Phil Martin himself pushes in the door, as white as a sheet, an’ in wid him into the middle iv them.
“‘The sperit!’ says Tim, lettin’ a roar you’d hear half a mile away, an’ leapin’ up an the table, wid his face to the wall: ‘the sperit!’ says he. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re done for!’ says he, ‘every mother’s son iv us.’
“An’ begorra, when Phil the cripple hears that, thinkin’ the sperit was behind himself, he runs right through the kitchen like a mad bull, and never stops to look round, but into the bedroom he boults, an’ into the bed wid him, head foremost, an’ before you’d have time to wink an eye, he had himself rowled up, in a ball, in the bedclothes; an’ out runs the family, screechin’ like mad; an’, the more they screeched, the tighter Phil rowled himself round in the clothes, until he rowled fairly off the bed, right into the washing tub, and stuck in it fast, in a ball, antil he was tuck up an hour afther, wid scarce any breath or sinses left in his body.
“Well, all the time the clerk an’ the sexton was runnin’ away, Larry the miller was just as much freckened as themselves; for nothin’ id persuade him but what it was the divil himself he seen carryin’ away black Paddy Morgan, body an’ bones, an his back; and what put it beya it all doubts wid him, was the way the clerk kept screechin’ every step he run.
“The divil has me,’ he’d roar out iv him, an’
‘oh, murdher, the devil has hould iv me fast,’ an’ such other violent injections an’ expressions all the way. ‘Tare an owns,’ says the miller, turnin’ could all over him, ‘I’ll never be the betther iv that the longest day I have to live,’ says he, ‘it’s a rale lesson to sinners iv all soarts. God bless us,’ says he, ‘it’s amosttuck the sinses out iv me,’ says he, crassin’ himself, ‘an’ I hope I’ll have grace to mend my ways an’ take warnin’ by what I seen an’ heerd this blessed night,’ says he. ‘Bad luck to them rabbits,’ says he, rising the cage wid one kick, ‘they’re throublin’ my canscience,’ says he, ‘and I’d give the hat off my head I never stole one iv them,’ says he; ‘but begorra, ther
e’s no use in frettin about it now,’ says he, ‘for there’s no way iv preventin’ the past barrin’ confession alone,’ says he, ‘an’ I’ll go to Father Murphy this blessed minute,’ says he, ‘an I’ll tell him what I seen an’ heerd; though, begorra, it’s a bad case, I’m afeard,’ says he, ‘an’ a bad way things is in wid you, Paddy Morgan, you unfortunate sinner,’ says he, ‘an”ill take the divil’s sthrong allowance iv masses all out; but don’t give in,’ says he, ‘for if any one’s up to the thricks of the divil it’s the clargy, God reward them,’ says he.
“So wid that he med the best iv his way to Father Murphy’s’ blessin’ himself every second step he took, an’ afther his raverence heard it all, “‘Are you sure,’ says he, ‘they went clane out iv the cliurch-yard?’ says he, “I am, your raverence,’ says he.
“‘Take care what you say, you bliggard,’ says his raverence,’
‘for you’ll never have a day’s luck iv you desave your clargy,’ says he, ‘an I ax you again, you villian, are you sure an’ sartin they went out iv the churchyard, both iv them, quite an’ clane?’ says he.
“‘Sure an’ sartin as I am standin’ here, your raverence,’ says the miller, ‘didn’t I see them as plain as I see you V says he, ‘an’ didn’t I hear him screechin’ murdher the whole way through the town?’
“‘Well, then,’ says his raverence, turnin’ to the mass boy he had wid him, ‘get the things ready,’ says he, ‘for it’s only my duty to do what I can for his poor wandherin’ soul,’ says he, ‘and if the family chooses to consider my throuble,’ says he, ‘it’ill be all the betther for themselves hereafter when they are in a siœiliar situation; as we must all iv us come to it, airly or late,’ says he.
“Well, whin all was ready, sure enough himself an’ his sarvint, an’ the mass-boy, wid holy wather an’ all soarts, an’ two blessed candles, an’ the priest’s robes, an’ everything complate, an’ Larry the miller along wid them to show them the place where it happened, an’ a tindher-box to light the candles — God bless us — an’ the mass-boy’s dhress on him, an’ the prayer-books, an’ all; so Larry bein’ afeard to go into the churchyard agin, stopped outside, an’ his raverence an’ all the rest iv them lights the candles and rises the prayers, though begorra there was not one iv them but was wishin’ it was fairly over; so into the porch with them, sliakin’ an’ trimblin,’ with the candles, an’ all; an’ they wor blessin’ in Latin, an’ sprinklin’ their (vather, av coorse, an everything before them, when who should come quietly round but sportin’ Terence, the dancin’ masther, with a murdherin’ fat sheep on his back, thinkin’ to find his comrade an’ the rabbits in the porch, where they were all to meet; but when he seen the light, and heerd the quare sounds goin’ an’ inside, in spite is all he could do, the thoughts iv black Paddy Morgan kem into his head; but he would not let an; an’ says he to himself, ‘It’s only that schamin’ Larry,’ says he, ‘that’s thinkin’ to frighten me — the bliggard,’ says he.
“Well, while he was cornin’ an quite an easy— ‘baah,’ says the sheep on his back:
“Did yez hear nothin’ outside,’ says his raverence, turnin’ the colour iv a scalded pig, an’ stoppin’ in the middle iv the prayer; ‘did yez or no, ye villians — did yez hear it — yes or no,’ says he.
“‘Ba-a-ah,’ says the sheep, again, twiste as loud as before.
“‘Oh, bloody wars! I mane holy Saint Christipher!’ says the priest, says he, ‘what is it at all, at all; did not that thevin’ bliggard, Larry the miller tell us, God bless us, it was gone complately out iv the churchyards, sweet bad luck to him — the villian, an’ here it is as sthrong as a bull — all as one — and we jammed up in this little bit iv a corner, wid no where to run to — bad luck — I mane God bless us all,’ says he.
“‘Ba-a-ah,’ says the sheep again.
“‘Holy Virgin, Saint Anthony, an’ Nebechadnaser,’ says the priest, tumblin’ his robe over his head wid the foosther he was in, ‘is there no way out iv this, right or left, up or down, iv any soart, body or sowl,’ says he, dhrivin’ himself agin’ the church door, thinking to have a run through the aisle, an’ a jump through the windy for his life; down goes the sarvint boy on his hunkers, an’ the little mass boy a top iv him. Ba-a-ah goes the sheep again; an’
‘holy Saint Jupether — Saint Bridget assist us,’ says the priest, an’ wid that up walks Terence, not knowin’ what in the world was the matter, an’ right into the front iv the porch wid him. Well, when his raverence seen him wid the white thing bundled up on his shoulders, he lets one roar like a dying pig, an’ he flings the candle right into Terence’s eye; an’ begorra Terence himself wasn’t one taste betther, for the minute he seen the priest, before ever his raverence had time to fling the candle — with all his robes, and the little boy dhressed out — an’ all the rest iv the coothriments — he lets one bawl out iv him, you’d hear over Kilworth mountain, wid the rale madness iv fright. ‘It’s black Paddy Morgan himself says he, flingin’ the sheep head foremost among them, an’ cuttin’ acrass the yard, an’ over the wall like a greyhound. ‘Take him wid you,’ says the priest, jumpin’ back, an’ knockin’ down the little mass boy, an’ puttin’ out the light wid the boult he made— ‘take him wid you in God’s name,’ says he, ‘to hell, or anywhere else out iv this an’ makin a charge in rale desperation, his raverance jumped right over the sheep, as clane as a slitther, an’ never stopped runnin’ until he got home — no one ever knew how — more dead than alive; an’ begorra, he tuck to his bed, an’ wasn’t the better iv it for a full year; an’ the end iv the whole iv it was, there was no less than seven indiveedials that was ready to sware, next mornin’, they seen the divil — God bless us — or the ghost iv black Paddy — or the two iv them together; an’ there was so many ins an’ outs in the story, that it bothered the whole kit iv them to make head or tail iv it, for a good five months afther the fair iv Ballymaquinlan an’ in the mane time, the miller changed his coorses, and tuk te mass an’ good company, an’ all other soarts iv mortification; an next mornin’ his raverince sint the coadjuthor with a half pint of holt-wather to complate the job, as he said himself; an’ so, Misther Gosliis, you see to a monstheration, be the mains iv this story, that it’s oftentimes there’s a power iv good fright goes for nothin’ — and a dale more holy wather scatthered, than there’s quite occasion for; an’ take warnin’ by Larry the miller, an’ don’t be frightened out iv your fun, nor runnin’ blindfold into dacency an’ religion, before you know the rason why.’” As Tim Dwyer concluded his story, which has, perhaps, too long interrupted ours, the shadows of night were stealing fast over the landscape; and yielding with prompt goodwill to Con Donovan’s suggestion, “to be thinkin’ about supper,” the little party had soon effected a comfortable retreat within the castle walls.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE FORGET-ME-NOT.
THE moon shone gloriously from the soft summer clouds, and silvered the woods and towers of Glindarragh, as Percy Neville, overtaken by the nightfall in his ramble, found himself once more under the shadow of the oaks and thorns. The presence of the king’s soldiers in the castle, however in other respects undesirable, was attended at least with this good result — that no predatory invasion was any longer to be apprehended from the wild peasantry; and thus the ancient mansion and its surrounding woods were now as secure and peaceful as in the happiest times of civil quiet.
As the young invalid slowly approached the bridge of Glindarragh, he heard upon the sequestered bye-road which debouched at its extremity, the rapid tread of a horse’s hoof; and pausing by the battlement, he saw beneath the stooping boughs, the advancing form of a horseman.
“God save you, sir,” said the cavalier, gravely drawing up upon the bridge, beside the young gentleman, and raising his hat with a formal salutation— “I bear with me some letters for the castle — and some, if I mistake not, intended for your own hand; may I ask your name? Even as I suspected,” continued O’Gara, his question answere
d— “I have two letters addressed to you.”
Percy Neville, with a courteous acknowledgment, took the letters which the young priest extended toward him, and, leaning against the battlement of the bridge, as the horseman rode up the steep ascent to the castle gate, he read their contents in the bright moonlight. Sir Hugh’s letter was a hurried one, and intentionally made light of his own present difficulties. In the belief, therefore, that the old knight was undergoing no more than the inconvenient formalities of a temporary confinement, the young gentleman, without much anxiety, passed on to the next. This was from his father, Sir Thomas Neville; one passage from it we shall quote; it was couched in the following terms: —
“On receipt of these, it is my pleasure you shall set forth from Glindarragh, and crossing the Shannon into Clare, by which course you will be less like to meet interruption, than were you to take the long road through Dublin; so to pass on for Antrim in the north, where I shall expect your arrival, as doth my honoured friend, Sir John Campbel. You can get a protection from any general officer; but, as Sir John is known to be a Whig, you had best not mention your exact destination. It is now high time you were settled in life. I have let my cousin Hugh know my opinion of his weakness in suffering a wilful young hussey to disappoint both him and me. Mayhap, however, it is better so. I have at present in view such an alliance as will be, in point of rank, more honourable, and no less desirable in the matter of wealth; but I will more fully unfold my purpose when he had accosted her before. “We have read the petition, young lady.” a fortnight.”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 81