St. Patrick's Eve
Page 5
pronounced it, than in absolute praise of theobject itself. The cabin consisted of a single room, and which, thoughremarkably clean in comparison with similar ones, had no evidence ofanything above very narrow circumstances. A little dresser occupiedthe wall in front of the door, with its usual complement of crockery,cracked and whole; an old chest of drawers, the pride of the house,flanked this on one side; a low settle-bed on the other; various printsin very florid colouring decorated the walls, all religious subjects,where the Apostles figured in garments like bathing-dresses; thesewere intermixed with ballads, dying speeches, and suchlike ghostlyliterature, as form the most interesting reading of an Irish peasant;a few seats of unpainted deal, and a large straw chair for the old man,were the principal articles of furniture. There was a gun, minus thelock, suspended over the fireplace; and two fishing-rods, with a gaffand landing-net, were stretched upon wooden pegs; while over the bed wasan earthenware crucifix, with its little cup beneath, for holy water;the whole surmounted by a picture of St. Francis Xavier in the act ofblessing somebody: though, if the gesture were to be understood withoutthe explanatory letter-press, he rather looked like a swimmer preparingfor a dive. The oars, mast, and spritsail of a boat were lashed to therafters overhead; for, strange as it may seem, there was a lake at thatelevation of the mountain, and one which abounded in trout and perch,affording many a day's sport to both Owen and his father.
Such were the details which, sheltered beneath a warm roof ofmountain-fern, called forth the praise we have mentioned; and, poor asthey may seem to the reader, they were many degrees in comfort beyondthe majority of Irish cabins.
The boys--for so the unmarried men of whatever age are called--havingleft one of the party to watch over Owen, now quitted the house, andbegan their return homeward. It was past midnight when the old manreturned; and although endeavouring to master any appearance of emotionbefore the "strange boy," he could with difficulty control his feelingson beholding his son. The shirt matted with blood, contrasting withthe livid colourless cheek--the heavy irregular breathing--the frequentstartings as he slept--were all sore trials to the old man's nerve; buthe managed to seem calm and collected, and to treat the occurrence as anordinary one.
"Harry Joyce and his brother Luke--big Luke as they call him--has sorebones to-night; they tell me that Owen didn't lave breath in theirbodies," said he, with a grim smile, as he took his place by the fire.
"I heerd the ribs of them smashing like an ould turf creel," replied theother.
"'Tis himself can do it," said the old fellow, with eyes glistening withdelight; "fair play and good ground, and I'd back him agin the Glen."
"And so you might, and farther too; he has the speret in him--that'sbetter nor strength, any day."
And thus consoled by the recollection of Owen's prowess, and gratifiedby the hearty concurrence of his guest, the old father smoked andchatted away till daybreak. It was not that he felt any want ofaffection for his son, or that his heart was untouched by the sadspectacle he presented,--far from this; the poor old man had no othertie to life--no other object of hope or love than Owen; but years of asolitary life had taught him rather to conceal his emotions within hisown bosom, than seek for consolation beyond it; besides that, even inhis grief the old sentiment of faction-hatred was strong, and vengeancehad its share in his thoughts also.
It would form no part of our object in this story, to dwell longereither on this theme, or the subject of Owen's illness; it will beenough to say, that he soon got better, far sooner perhaps than if allthe appliances of luxury had ministered to his recovery; most certainlysooner than if his brain had been ordinarily occupied by thoughts andcares of a higher order than his were. The conflict, however, had lefta deeper scar behind, than the ghastly wound that marked his brow. Thepoor fellow dwelt upon the portions of the conversation he overheard asthey carried him up the mountain; and whatever might have been his fearsbefore, now he was convinced that all prospect of gaining Mary's lovewas lost to him for ever.
This depression, natural to one after so severe an injury, excitedlittle remark from the old man; and although he wished Owen might makesome effort to exert himself, or even move about in the air, he left himto himself and his own time, well knowing that he never was disposed toyield an hour to sickness, beyond what he felt unavoidable.
It was about eight or nine days after the fair, that the father wassitting mending a fishing-net at the door of his cabin, to catch thelast light of the fading day. Owen was seated near him, sometimeswatching the progress of the work, sometimes patting the old sheep-dogthat nestled close by, when the sound of voices attracted them: theylistened, and could distinctly hear persons talking at the opposite sideof the cliff, along which the pathway led; and before they could evenhazard a guess as to who they were, the strangers appeared at theangle of the rock. The party consisted of two persons; one, a gentlemansomewhat advanced in life, mounted on a stout but rough-lookingpony--the other, was a countryman, who held the beast by the bridle, andseemed to take the greatest precaution for the rider's safety.
The very few visitors Owen and his father met with were for the mostpart people coming to fish the mountain-lake, who usually hired poniesin the valley for the ascent; so that when they perceived the animalcoming slowly along, they scarce bestowed a second glance upon them, theold man merely remarking, "They're three weeks too early for this water,any how;" a sentiment concurred in by his son. In less than five minutesafter, the rider and his guide stood before the door.
"Is this where Owen Connor lives?" asked the gentleman.
"That same, yer honor," said old Owen, uncovering his head, as he roserespectfully from his low stool.
"And where is Owen Connor himself?"
"'Tis me, sir," replied he; "that's my name."
"Yes, but it can scarcely be you that I am looking for; have you a sonof that name?"
"Yes, sir, I'm young Owen," said the young man, rising, but not withoutdifficulty; while he steadied himself by holding the door-post.
"So then I am all right: Tracy, lead the pony about, till I call you;"and so saying, he dismounted and entered the cabin.
"Sit down, Owen; yes, yes--I insist upon it, and do you, also. I havecome up here to-day to have a few moments' talk with you about anoccurrence that took place last week at the fair. There was a younggentleman, Mr. Leslie, got roughly treated by some of the people: let mehear your account of it."
Owen and his father exchanged glances; the same idea flashed acrossthe minds of both, that the visitor was a magistrate come to takeinformation against the Joyces for an assault; and however gladly theywould have embraced any course that promised retaliation for theirinjuries, the notion of recurring to the law was a degree of basenessthey would have scorned to adopt.
"I'll take the 'vestment' I never seen it at all," said the old maneagerly, and evidently delighted that no manner of cross-questioning orbadgering could convert him into an informer.
"And the little I saw," said Owen, "they knocked out of my memory withthis;" and he pointed to the half-healed gash on his forehead.
"But you know something of how the row begun?"
"No, yer honor, I was at the other side of the fair."
"Was young Mr. Leslie in fault--did you hear that?"
"I never heerd that he did any thing--unagreeable," said Owen, afterhesitating for a few seconds in his choice of a word.
"So then, I'm not likely to obtain any information from either of you."
They made no reply, but their looks gave as palpable a concurrence tothis speech, as though they swore to its truth.
"Well, I have another question to ask. It was you saved this younggentleman, I understand; what was your motive for doing so? when, as byyour own confession, you were at a distance when the fight begun."
"He was my landlord's son," said Owen, half roughly; "I hope there is nolaw agin that."
"I sincerely trust not," ejaculated the gentleman; "have you been longon the estate?"
"Three generations of us now, ye
r honor," said the old man.
"And what rent do you pay?"
"Oh, musha, we pay enough! we pay fifteen shillings an acre for the bitof callows below, near the lake, and we give ten pounds a year for themountain--and bad luck to it for a mountain--it's breaking my heart,trying to make something out of it."
"Then I suppose you'd be well pleased to exchange your farm, and takeone in a better and more profitable part of the country?"
Another suspicion here shot across the old man's mind; and turning toOwen he said in Irish: "He wants to get the mountain for sporting over;but I'll not lave it."
The gentleman repeated his question.
"Troth, no then, yer