Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent Part 15

"Yes--but the consequences of this cold and bitter journey may fall upon you at another time--and before long, too--so be advised by me, and don't refuse to take them."

"It's not aisy to do that, sir," she replied with a faint smile, for as she spoke, his servant had the cloak already about her shoulders; "it appears," she continued, "that this kind woman must have her will and way in everything."

"To be sure I will," said Katty, "espis.h.i.+ally in everything that's right, any how--come here now, and while his reverence is getting his staff and mittens in the room above, I'll help you on with the shoes and stockings. Now," she added, in one of those touching and irresistible whispers that are produced by kindness and not by secrecy, "if anything happens--as G.o.d forbid there should--but if anything does happen, keep these till afther everything is over. Before strangers you know one wouldn't like to appear too bare, if they could help it."

The tone in which these words were spoke could not fail in at once reaching the poor woman's heart. She wept as much from grat.i.tude as the gloomy alternative involved in Katty's benevolent offer.

"G.o.d bless you," she exclaimed, "but I trust in the Almighty, there may be hope and that they won't be wanted. Still, how can I hope when I think of the way he's in? But G.o.d is good, blessed be his holy name!"

So saying, the priest came down,and they both set out on their bleak and desolate journey.

The natural aspect of the surrounding country was in good keeping with the wild and stormy character of the morning. Before them, in the back ground, rose a magnificent range of mountains, whose snowy peaks were occasionally seen far above the dusky clouds which drifted rapidly across their bosoms. The whole landscape, in fact, teemed with a spirit of savage grandeur. Many of the glens on each side were deep and precipitous, where rock beetled over rock, and ledge projected over ledge, in a manner so fearful that the mind of the spectator, excited and rapt into terror by the contemplation of them, wondered why they did not long ago tumble into the chasm beneath, so slight was their apparent support. Even in the mildest, seasons desolation brooded over the lesser hills and mountains about them; what then must it not have been at the period we are describing? From a hill a little to the right, over which they had to pa.s.s, a precipitous headland was visible, against which the mighty heavings of the ocean could be heard hoa.r.s.ely thundering at a distance, and the giant billows, in periods of storm and tempest, seen s.h.i.+vering themselves into white; foam that rose nearly to the summit of their immovable barriers.

Such was the toilsome country over which our two travellers had to pa.s.s.

It was not without difficulty and fatigue that the priest and his companion wended their way towards one of the moors we have, mentioned.

The snow beat against them with great violence, sometimes rendering it almost impossible for them to keep their eyes open or to see their proper path across the hills. The woman, however, trod her way instinctively, and whilst the, priest aided her by his superior strength, she in return guided him by a clearer sagacity. Neither spoke much, for in truth each had enough to do in combating with the toil and peril of the journey, as well as in thinking of the melancholy scene to which they were hastening. Words of consolation and comfort he did from time to time utter; but he felt that his situation was one of difficulty. To inspire hope where there was probably no hope, might be only to deepen her affliction; and, on the other hand, to weigh down a heart already heavy laden by unnecessarily adding one gloomy forboding to its burthen, was not in his nature. Such comfort as he could give without bearing too strongly upon either her hopes or her fears he did give; and we do not think that an apostle, had he been in his place, could or ought to have done more.

They had now arrived within half a mile of the moor, when they felt themselves overtaken by a man whose figure was of a very singular and startling description, being apparently as wild and untamed as the barren waste on which he made his appearance. He was actually two or three inches above the common height, but in addition to this fact, and as if not satisfied with it, he wore three hats, one sheathed a little into the other, so that they could not readily separate, and the under one he kept always fastened to his head, in order to prevent the whole pyramid from falling off. His person seemed to gain still greater height from the circ.u.mstance of his wearing a long surtout that reached to his heels, and which he kept constantly b.u.t.toned closely about him. His feet were cased in a tight pair of leather buskins, for it was one of his singularities that he could endure neither boot nor shoe, and he always wore a glove of some kind on his left hand, but never any on his right.

His features might be termed regular, even handsome; and his eyes were absolutely brilliant, yet, notwithstanding this, it was impossible to look for a moment upon his _tout ensemble_ without perceiving that that spirit which stamps the impress of reason and intellect upon the human countenance, was not visible in his. Like a new and well-proportioned house which had never been occupied, everything seemed externally regular and perfect, whilst it was evident by its still and lonely character, as contrasted with the busy marks of on-going life in those around it, that it was void and without an inhabitant.

Like many others of his unhappy cla.s.s, Poll Doolin's son, "Raymond-na-hattha," for it was he, and so had he been nick-named, in consequence of his wearing such a number of hats, had a remarkable mixture of humor, simplicity, and cunning. He entertained a great penchant, or rather a pa.s.sion for c.o.c.k-fighting, and on the present occasion carried a game one under his arm. Throughout the country no man possessed a bird of that species, with whose pedigree he was not thoroughly acquainted; and, truth to tell, he proved himself as great a thief as he was a genealogist among them. Many a time the unfortunate foxes from some neighboring cover were cursed and banned, when, if the truth had been known, the only fox that despoiled the roost was Raymond-na-hattha. One thing, however, was certain, that unless the c.o.c.k was thoroughly game he might enjoy his liberty and ease long enough without molestation from Raymond. We had well nigh forgotten to say that he wore on the right side of his topmost hat a c.o.c.kade of yellow cloth, from which two or three ribbons of a scarlet color fluttered down to his shoulder, a bit of vanity which added very much to the fantastic nature of his general costume.

"Ha! Raymond, my good boy," said the priest, "how does it happen that you are so early up this stormy morning? would you not be more comfortable in your bed?"

"Airly up," replied Raymond, "airly up! that's good--to be sure you're a priest, but you don't know everything."

"Why, what am I ignorant of now, Raymond?"

"Why, that I didn't go to bed yet--so that it's up late, instead of early, I am--d'ye hear? ha, ha, now take that."

"When, where, and how did you spend the night then, Raymond; but you seem in a hurry--surely if you trot on at this fate we cannot keep up with you." The truth is, Raymond's general rate of travelling was very rapid. "Where did you spend the night, Raymond," continued the priest.

"Wid a set o' jolly c.o.c.ks--ha, ha,--now make money of that, d'ye hear."

"You're a riddle, Raymond; you're a riddle; there's no understanding you--where did you get the c.o.c.k?--but I needn't ask; of course you stole him."

"Then why do you ax if you think so?"

"Because you're notorious for stealing c.o.c.ks--every one knows as much."

"No, never steal 'em,--fond o' me--come wid me themselves. Look." The words were scarcely uttered when he tossed the bird up into the air, and certainly, after flying about for a few yards, he alit, and tottering against the wind towards Raymond, stretched out his neck, as if he wished to be again taken up by him.

"I see," said the priest, "but answer me--where did you spend last night now?"

"I tould you," said Raymond, "wid de jolly c.o.c.ks--sure I mostly roost it; an' better company too than most people, for they're fond o' me.

Didn't you see? ha, ha!"

"I believe I understand you now," said Father Roche; "you've slept near somebody's hen roost, and have stolen the c.o.c.k--to whom are you carrying it?"

"You won't tell to-morrow; ha, ha, there now, take a rub too--that's one."

"Poor creature," said the priest to his companion, "I am told he is affectionate, and where he takes a fancy or has received a kindness, very grateful."

The parish where the circ.u.mstances we are describing occurred, having been that in which Raymond was born, of course the poor fool was familiar to every one in it, as indeed every one in it, young and old, was to him.

During the short dialogue between him and the priest, the female, absorbed in her own heavy sorrow, was observed by Raymond occasionally to wipe the tears from her eyes; a slight change, a shade of apparent compa.s.sion came over his countenance, and turning to her, he gently laid his hand upon her shoulder, and said, in a voice different from, his flighty and abrupt manner--

"Don't cry, Mary, he has company, and good things that were brought to him--he has indeed, Mary; so don't be crying now."

"What do you mean, poor boy?" asked the woman; "I don't understand you, Raymond."

"It is difficult to do that at all times," said Father Roche, "but notwithstanding the wildness of his manner, he is seldom without meaning. Raymond will you tell me where you came from now?" he asked.

"From your house," he replied; "I went to fetch you to him; but you were both gone, and I overtook you--I could aisy do that--ha ha."

"But what is the company that's with him, Raymond?" asked the female, naturally anxious to understand this part of his communication. Raymond, however, was now in one of his silent moods, and appeared not to hear her; at all events, he did not think it worth his while to give her any reply. For a short period he kept murmuring indistinctly to himself, or if a word or two became audible, it was clear that his favorite sport of c.o.c.k-fighting had altogether engrossed his attention.

They had now reached a rough, dark knoll of heath, which brought them in view of the cabin to which they were going, and also commanded an extensive and glorious prospect of the rich and magnificent inland country which lay behind them. The priest and his now almost exhausted companion, to whom its scenery was familiar, waited not to look back upon its beauty or its richness. Not so Raymond, who, from the moment they began to ascend the elevation, kept constantly looking back, and straining his eyes in one particular direction. At length he started, and placing his right hand upon the priest's shoulder, said in a suppressed but eager voice--

"Go on--go on--they're coming." Then, turning to the female--"Come,"

said he; "come, Mary,--I'll help you."

"Who is coming?" she exclaimed, whilst the paleness of death and terror settled in her face; "for G.o.d's mercy, Raymond, who is coming?"

"I saw them," said he; "I saw them. Come--come fast--I'll help you--don't thrimble--don't thrimble."

"Let us be guided by him," said the priest. "Raymond," he added, "we cannot go much faster through this marshy heath, but do you aid Mary as well as you can; as for me, I will try if it be possible to quicken my pace."

He accordingly proceeded in advance of the other two for a little; but it was only for a little. The female--who seemed excited by some uncommon terror, and the wild, apprehensive manner of her companion, into something not unlike the energy of despair--rushed on, as if she had been only setting out, or gained supernatural strength. In a few minutes she was beside the priest, whom she encouraged, and besought, and entreated--ay, and in some moments of more vehement feeling, absolutely chided, for not keeping pace with herself. They had now, however, came within about a hundred yards of the cabin, which they soon reached--the female entering it about a minute or two before the others, in order to make those humble arrangements about a sick-bed, which, however poverty may be forced to overlook on ordinary occasions, are always attended to on the approach of the doctor, or the minister of religion. In the instance before us, she had barely time to comfort her sick husband, by an a.s.surance that the priest had arrived, after which she hastily wiped his lips and kissed them, then settled his head more easily; after which she spread out to the best advantage the poor quilt which covered him, and tucked it in about his lowly bed, so as to give it something of a more tidy appearance.

The interior of the cottage, which the priest and Raymond entered together, was, when the bitter and inclement nature of the morning, and the state of the miserable inmates is considered, enough to make any heart possessing humanity shudder. Two or three stools; a couple of pots; a few shelves, supported on pegs driven into the peat wall; about a bushel of raw potatoes lying in a corner; a small heap of damp turf--for the foregoing summer had been so incessantly wet, that the turf, unless when very early cut, could not be saved; a few wooden noggins and dishes; together with a bundle of straw, covered up in a corner with the sick man's coat, which, when shaken out at night, was a bed; and those, with the exception of their own simple domestic truth and affection, were their only riches. The floor, too, as is not unusual in such mountain cabins, was nothing but the natural peat, and so damp and soft was it, that in wet weather the marks of their feet were visibly impressed on it at every step. With the exception of liberty to go and come, pure air, and the light of the blessed day, they might as well have dragged out their existence in a subterraneous keep belonging to some tyrannical old baron of the feudal ages.

There was one small apartment in this cabin, but what it contained, if it did contain anything, could not readily be seen, for the hole or window, which in summer admitted the light, was now filled with rags to keep out the cold. From this little room, however, the priest as he entered, was surprised to see a young man come forth, apparently much moved by some object which he had seen in it.

"Mr. Harman," said the priest, a good deal surprised, "who could have expected to find you here?"

They shook hands as he spoke, each casting his eyes upon this woeful scene of misery. "G.o.d pity them," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the priest, clasping his hands, and looking upwards, "and sustain them!"

"I owe it to poor Raymond, here," replied the other, "and I feel obliged to him; but," said he, taking Father Roche over to the door, "here will be a double death--father and son."

"Father and son, how is that?--she mentioned nothing of the son."

"It is very possible," said Harman, "that they are not conscious of his danger. I fear, however, that the poor boy has not many hours to live."

All that we have just described, occurred in three minutes; but short as was the time, the wife's impatience to have the rites of the church administered, could scarcely be restrained; nor was poor Raymond's anxiety much less.

"They're comin'," said he, "Mr. Harman, they are comin'; hurry, hurry, I know what they'll do."