Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent Part 18

"There it is again;" said he, looking eagerly and delightfully about him, "my father's voice;--that's three times it called, me, but it didn't come from the bed, although he's in it. I will kiss him and then sleep--but I will miss his arms from about me, I think."

He then fixed himself beside that loving parent, aided by his mother, and getting his arm around his pulseless neck, he kissed him, and laying down his fair head, he fell asleep in that affecting posture. There was a solemn stillness for some minutes, and a strange feeling of fear crept over his mother's heart. She looked into the eyes of those who were about her, but the looks they returned to her carried, no consolation to her spirit.

"My child," she exclaimed--"Oh, my child, what is this? Bryan, my life--my light, what ails you?" She stooped, and gently turning him about so as to see his face, she looked keenly into it for a few moments, and there certainly was the same seraphic expression which so lately lit it tip. Still she felt dissatisfied, till putting her ear to his mouth and her hand to his heart, the woeful truth became known to her. The guiltless spirit of her fair-haired son had followed, that of his father.

When the afflicted widow saw the full extent of her loss, she clasped her hands together, and rose up with something of a hasty movement. She looked about the miserable cabin for a moment, and then peered into the face of every one in the room--all of whom, with the exception of Raymond, were in tears. She then pressed her temples, as if striving to recollect what had happened--sat down again beside her husband and child, and to their astonishment began to sing an old and melancholy Irish air, in a voice whose wild sweetness was in singular keeping with its mournful spirit.

To the bystanders this was more affecting a thousand times than the most vehement and outrageous grief. Father Roche, however, who had had a much more comprehensive experience than his companion, knew, or at least hoped that it would not last long.

Several of the neighbors, having seen the dead body of the constable borne away, suspected that something extraordinary had occurred on the mountain, and consequently came flocking to the cabin, anxious to know the truth. By this means, their acquaintances were brought about them--aid in every shape, as far as it could be afforded, was administered, and in a short time they had a little stock of meal, b.u.t.ter, milk, candles, and such other simple comforts as their poor friends and neighbors had to bestow. Such is the usual kindness of the Irish people to each other in moments of dest.i.tution and sorrow.

Nothing, on the present occasion, could surpa.s.s their anxiety in ascertaining the wants of this unhappy family: and in such circ.u.mstances it is that the honest prompting of the humble heart, and its sincere partic.i.p.ation in the calamities of its kindred poor, are known to s.h.i.+ne forth with a l.u.s.tre, which nothing but its distance from the observation of the great, or their own wilful blindness to it, could prevent it from being seen and appreciated as it ought.

Having seen her surrounded by friends and neighbors, Father Roche, after first offering as far as he thought he could reasonably attempt it, some kind advice and consolation, prepared to take his departure with Harman, leaving Raymond behind them, who indeed refused to go. "No," said he, "I can feed d.i.c.key here--but sure they'll want me to run messages--I'm active and soople, an I'll go to every place, for the widow can't. But tell me, is the purty boy, the fair haired boy asleep, or what?--tell me?"

"Why do you ask, Raymond?" said Father Rocche.

"Bekase I love him," replied Raymond, "and I hope he'll waken! I would like to see him kiss his father again--but I'm afeared somehow I never will. If he awakens I'll give him the c.o.c.k any how--bad luck to me but I will."

"Hush," said the priest, whilst a tear started to his eye at this most artless exhibition of affection for the child--"don't swear, Raymond.

The sweet boy will never waken in this world; but he will in heaven, where he is awake already, and where you will see him again."

"I would rather see him here," replied the other; "and I wish I had gev him the c.o.c.k first, when he came out of the room; but what'd she do without his white head before her?--what'll she do, and not have that to look at? But stop," said Raymond--"wait a minute, and we'll soon see whether he'll waken or not."

He then went into the little room where the poor child had lain during his illness, and immediately returned, bearing the c.o.c.k in his hands--

"Wait," said he; "I was bringing the bird to poor little Brian, for I promised it to him. We'll see--we'll see."

As he uttered the words, he placed the bird down on the child's bosom and called out--

"Brian, here's your present for you, that I promised you--won't you waken?--spake open your blue eyes, achora machree, and look at the fine bird I brought you."

It was a most affecting little incident; for the contrast between the fiery scintillations flashed from the eye of the n.o.ble bird, the utter unbroken stillness of death, as character was so mournfully impressed upon the fair sweet features of innocence, was indeed such as few parental hearts could withstand. Raymond looked awhile as if even he had been struck by it.

"Ah no," said he, going down to his mother; "no, Mary, he will never waken--and then what will you do for Brian's white head?"

"Whisht!" she replied; "whisht, and I'll sing you a song. I have nothing else to do now but to sing and be happy--

"'Farewell father, farewell mother, Farewell friends, and farewell foes!

I now will go and court some other, For love it was the causer of all my woes."

"An' so it was," she said; "for I did love some one, I think; but who they were, or where they are gone to, I cannot tell. Is your name,"

she added, her eye blazing as she spoke to Raymond, "is your, name M'Clutchy?"

"Say it is," suggested one of the neighbors; "may be it may startle the poor thing into her senses."

"That's not very likely," replied another, "for it has startled her out of them--G.o.d in his mercy pity her!"

Raymond, however, adopted the first suggestion, without knowing why; and said in a loud voice--

"Ay is it; my name is Val the Vulture, that commands the blood-hounds."

The creature started--became for a moment as if convulsed--then proceeded at a speed that was incredible, screaming frightfully, across the dark and desolate scenery that surrounded the house. It was vain to pursue her; for there was none there capable of doing it with success, unless Raymond, who understood not that she had become insane.

CHAPTER IX.--A Dialogue, exhibiting Singular Principles of Justice

--Solomon's Tracts and Triumph--A Sincere Convert--Darby's Views of Religion--Poll Doolin's Honesty--Solomon's Christian Generosity to a Man in Difficulty--M'Loughlin and his Family.

The extraordinary scene which we have just detailed as occurring in the mountain hut, took place on Sat.u.r.day morning and about twelve on the subsequent Monday, the following dialogue pa.s.sed between honest Val! and his son, Philip the graceful.

"That was a most unlucky accident that happened Harpur on Sat.u.r.day,"

said Val, dryly, and looking with a good deal of significance at the other.

"Unlucky," said Phil, "faith and honor, my good father, I don't know what to think."

"You don't, Phil!" replied Val; "why, what the deuce could you deem more unlucky than to be shot stone dead, without a moment's notice."

Phil's color went a little at the bare notion of such a fate; but on observing an expression of peculiar complacency lurking in his father's eye, it returned again, and after a little a.s.surance settled down into its original hue.

"To himself certainly," said Phil, "it was a bad business; no one can deny that."

"But, my excellent son, Phil, it may turn out a very lucky incident for us in the mean time. He is, Phil, a wise man in this world who can turn the misfortunes or crimes of others to his own advantage. There is Harman for instance, Phil; now I believe you are not excessively attached to him."

"I hate him as I do h.e.l.l," replied Phil.

"Very good--you hate him as you do h.e.l.l--well, on the other hand, there is M'Loughlin, his partner in the manufactory, and his joint lessee in their farm--now I hate him as I do--I was about to say the devil--but I feel loth to render that misrepresented gentleman an injustice--that is, if there be such a gentleman--which, with my worthy father, I much doubt. Don't you think now it is a fortunate thing that we can indict Harman for Harpur's murder. I really think, and it is said, he murdered him. We would include the priest in the indictment as accessory, but that might be attended with personal danger--and the less real danger we incur the better for ourselves."

"Faith and honor, father, that doctrine's worthy of an oracle--as, indeed, most of what you say is."

"But mark me, Phil; our object is simply his ruin, not his death. Let us beggar M'Loughlin and him, and drive them out of the country.

No--no--not the death of either of them; on the contrary, I should wish them to live, if it was only that they might feel my revenge--and that I knew they felt it. I would not hang them if I could, for my own sake."

He got pale, ground his teeth, knit his black beetle brow, and exhibited the diabolical cast of features for which he was remarkable whenever his evil pa.s.sions began to stir in his heart.

"Now," said he to Phil, "keep a close mouth above all things, for we must proceed with caution. I have here a letter from Lord c.u.mber, in which, at my private suggestion, he declines to renew their leases.

Indeed, on serious consideration, I have recently advised him to grant no renewals, except in cases where every reliance can be placed upon the principles of the parties. The want of a lease is a very wholesome restriction on the conduct of our enemies. M'Slime opposes me in this, because he cannot pocket as much as usual; but though I cannot readily break with him, still, I trust, that in a short time I shall be able to turn his flank in a manner for which he is but little prepared. I have reason to think he is tampering with O'Drive--in fact O'Drive told me as much--O'Drive, however, is at work for me, although honest Solomon does not suspect him. The pious attorney, who is bestowing more of his attention to religion than ever, has got bitten by the Conversion mania, and thinks he will be charged with a neglect of his gifts, as he calls them, unless he can produce a live convert actually made by his own hands. I accordingly suggested to O'Drive to consult him on some religious scruples that he is supposed to have felt from the perusal of a tract written by M'Slime himself.

"Why," said Phil, "are you not aware that he gave me three or four dozen of them for gratuitous distribution, as he calls it. Yes, it is called 'The Religious Attorney,' being a reconcilement between honesty and law, or a blessed union between light and darkness; by Solomon M'Slime, attorney at law.

"Which tract," continued Val, "was written for the sole purpose of recommending himself to the notice of the religious world aforesaid, more, by the way, as an attorney than as a Christian. And a very good speculation it proved, for, whereas he was then scarcely able to make both ends meet by mere professional roguery, and dressed in a black gown--which you know he always wears in court--yet he no sooner threw the cloak of religion over that, than he advanced rapidly--and the consequence is that he is now privately a usurious discounter of bills."

"Faith and honor, now, father, do you,tell me so?"

"It's a fact, Philip, my son, and what is more--but the truth is, that neither he nor I can afford to quarrel with each other."

"Why, father? what's that 'more' you were going to add?"