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CHAPTER XXXIII. THE PRIEST’S GIG

I am by no means certain that the prejudices of my English education were sufficiently overcome to prevent my feeling a kind of tingling shame as I took my place beside Father Tom Loftus in his gig. Early as it was, there were still some people about; and I cast a hurried glance around to see if our equipage was not as much a matter of amusement to them as of affliction to me.

When Father Tom first spoke of his ‘dennet,’ I innocently pictured to myself something resembling the indigenous productions of Loughrea. ‘A little heavy or so,’ thought I; ‘strong for country roads; mayhap somewhat clumsy in the springs, and not over-refined about the shafts.’ Heaven help my ignorance! I never fancied a vehicle whose component parts were two stout poles, surmounting a pair of low wheels, high above which was suspended, on two lofty C springs, the body of an ancient buggy – the lining of a bright scarlet, a little faded and dimmed by time, bordered by a lace of the most gaudy pattern; a flaming coat-of-arms, with splendid blazonry and magnificent quarterings, ornamented each panel of this strange-looking tub, into which, for default of steps, you mounted by a ladder.

‘Eh, father,’ said I, ‘what have we here? This is surely not the – ’

‘Ay, Captain,’ said the good priest, as a smile of proud satisfaction curled his lip, ‘that’s “the convaniency”; and a pleasanter and an easier never did man sit in. A little heavy, to be sure; but then one can always walk up the hills; and if they’re very stiff ones entirely, why it’s only throwing out the ballast.’

‘The ballast! What do you mean?’

‘Just them,’ said he, pointing with his whip to some three or four huge pieces of limestone rock that lay in the bottom of the gig; ‘there’s seven, maybe eight, stone weight, every pound of it.’

‘And for heaven’s sake,’ said I, ‘why do you carry that mass of rubbish along with you?’

‘I’ll just tell you then. The road has holes in it you could bury your father in; and when the convaniency gets into one of them, she has a way of springing up into the air, that, if you ‘re not watching, is sure to pitch you out – maybe into the bog at the side, maybe on the beast’s back. I was once actually thrown into a public-house window, where there was a great deal of fun going on, and the bishop came by before I extricated myself. I assure you I had hard work to explain it to his satisfaction.’ There was a lurking drollery in his eye, as he said these last few words, that left me to the full as much puzzled about the accident as his worthy diocesan. ‘But look at the springs,’ he continued; ‘there’s metal for you! And do you mind the shape of the body? It’s for all the world like the ancient curriculus. And look at Bathershin himself – the ould varmint! Sure, he’s classical too! Hasn’t he a Roman nose; and ain’t I a Roman myself? So get up, Captain —ascendite ad currum; get into the shay. And now for the doch-aiv-dhurrss– the stirrup-cup, Mrs. Doolan: that’s the darlin’. Ah, there’s nothing like it!

 
“Sit mihi lagena, Ad summum plena.”
 

Here, Captain, take a pull – beautiful milk-punch!’

Draining the goblet to the bottom, which I confess was no unpleasant task, I pledged my kind hostess, who, curtsying deeply refilled the vessel for Father Tom.

‘That’s it, Mary; froth it up, acushla! Hand it here, my darlin’ – my blessing on ye.’

As he spoke, the worthy father deposited the reins at his feet, and lifted the cup with both hands to his mouth; when suddenly the little window over the inn door was burst open, and a loud tally-ho was shouted out, in accents the wildest I ever listened to. I had barely time to catch the merry features of poor Tipperary Joe, when the priest’s horse, more accustomed to the hunting-field than the highroad, caught up the welcome sound, gave a wild toss of his head, cocked up his tail, and, with a hearty bang of both hind legs against the front of the chariot, set off down the street as if the devil were after him. Feeling himself at liberty, as well as favoured by the ground, which was all down hill, the pace was really terrific. It was some time before I could gather up the reins, as Father Tom, jug and all, had been thrown at the first shock on his knees to the bottom of the convaniency, where, half suffocated by fright and the milk-punch that went wrong with him, he bellowed and coughed with all his might.

‘Howld him tight I – ugh, ugh, ugh! – not too hard; don’t chuck him for the love of – ugh, ugh, ugh! – the reins is rotten and the traces no better – ugh, ugh, ugh! Bad luck to the villains, why didn’t they catch his head? And the stultus execrabilis!– the damned fool! how he yelled!’

Almost fainting with laughter, I pulled my best at the old horse, not, however, neglecting the priest’s caution about the frailty of the harness. This, however, was not the only difficulty I had to contend with; for the curriculus, participating in the galloping action of the horse, swung upwards and downwards, backwards and forwards, and from one side to the other – all at once too – in a manner so perfectly addling that it was not before we reached the first turnpike that I succeeded in arresting our progress. Here a short halt was necessary for the priest to recover himself, and to examine whether either his bones or any portion of the harness had given way. Both had happily been found proof against mishaps, and drew from the reverend father strong encomiums upon their merits; and after a brief delay we resumed our road, but at a much more orderly and becoming pace than before.

Once more en route, I bethought me it was high time to inquire about the direction we were to travel, and the probable length of our journey; for I confess I was sadly ignorant as to the geography of the land we were travelling, and the only point I attempted to keep in view was the number of miles we were distant from the capital The priest’s reply was, however, anything but instructive to me, consisting merely of a long catalogue of names, in which the syllables ‘kill,’ ‘whack,’ ‘nock,’ ‘shock,’ and ‘bally’ jostled and elbowed one another in the rudest fashion imaginable – the only intelligible portion of his description being, that a blue mountain scarcely perceptible in the horizon lay about half-way between us and Murranakilty.

My attention was not, however, permitted to dwell on these matters; for my companion had already begun a narrative of the events which had occurred during my illness. The Dillons, I found, had left for Dublin soon after my mishap. Louisa Bellew returned to her father; and Mr. Burke, whose wound had turned out a more serious affair than was at first supposed, was still confined to his bed, and a lameness for life anticipated as the inevitable result of the injury.

‘Sir Simon, for once in his life,’ said the priest, ‘has taken a correct view of his nephew’s character, and has, now that all danger to life is past, written him a severe letter, reflecting on his conduct. Poor Sir Simon! his life has been one tissue of trial and disappointment throughout. Every buttress that supported his venerable house giving way, one by one, the ruin seems to threaten total downfall, ere the old man exchanges the home of his fathers for his last narrow rest beside them in the churchyard. Betrayed on every hand, wronged and ruined, he seems merely to linger on in life – like the stern-timbers of some mighty wreck, that marks the spot where once the goodly vessel perished, and are now the beacon of the quicksand to others. You know the sad story, of course, that I alluded to – ’

‘No; I am completely ignorant of the family history,’ said I.

The priest blushed deeply, as his dark eyebrows met in a heavy frown; then turning hastily towards me, he said, in a voice whose thick, low utterance bespoke his agitation —

‘Do not ask me, I beseech you, to speak further of what, had I been more collected, I had never alluded to! An unhappy duel, the consequence of a still more unhappy event, has blasted every hope in life for my poor friend. I thought – that is, I feared lest the story might have reached you. As I find this is not so, you will spare my recurring to that the bare recollection of which comes like a dark cloud over the happiest day of my existence. Promise me this, or I shall not forgive myself.’

I readily gave the pledge he required; and we pursued our road – not, however, as before, but each sunk in his own reflections, silent, reserved, and thoughtful.

‘In about four days,’ said Father Tom, at last breaking the silence, ‘perhaps five, we’ll be drawing near Murranakilty. He then proceeded, at more length, to inform me of the various counties through which we were to pass, detailing with great accuracy the several seats we should see, the remarkable places, the ruined churches, the old castles, and even the very fox-covers that lay on our route. And although my ignorance was but little enlightened by the catalogue of hard names that fell as glibly from his tongue as Italian from a Roman, yet I was both entertained and pleased with the many stories he told – some of them legends of bygone days, some of them the more touching and truth-dealing records of what had happened in his own time. Could I have borrowed any portion of his narrative power, were I able to present in his strong but simple language any of the curious scenes he mentioned, I should perhaps venture on relating to my reader one of his stories; but when I think how much of the interest depended on his quaint and homely but ever-forcible manner, as, pointing with his whip to some ruined house with blackened walls and fallen chimneys, he told some narrative of rapine and of murder, I feel how much the force of reality added power to a story that in repetition might be weak and ineffective.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE MOUNTAIN PASS

On the whole, the journey was to me a delightful one, and certainly not the least pleasant portion of my life in Ireland. Endowed – partly from his individual gifts, partly from the nature of his sacred functions – with influence over all the humble ranks in life, the good priest jogged along with the assurance of a hearty welcome wherever he pleased to halt – the only look of disappointment being when he declined some proffered civility, or refused an invitation to delay his journey. The chariot was well known in every town and village, and scarcely was the rumble of its wheels heard coming up the ‘street’ when the population might be seen assembling in little groups and knots, to have a word with ‘the father,’ to get his blessing, to catch his eye, or even obtain a nod from him. He knew every one and everything, and with a tact which is believed to be the prerogative of royalty, he never miscalled a name nor mistook an event. Inquiring after them, for soul and body, he entered with real interest into all their hopes and plans, their fears and anticipations, and talked away about pigs, penances, purgatory, and potatoes in a way that showed his information on any of these matters to be of no mean or common order.

By degrees our way left the more travelled highroad, and took by a mountain tract through a wild, romantic line of country beside the Shannon. No villages now presented themselves, and indeed but little trace of any habitation whatever; large misshapen mountains, whose granite sides were scarce concealed by the dark fern, the only vegetation that clothed them, rose around and about us. In the valleys some strips of bog might be seen, with little hillocks of newly-cut turf, the only semblance of man’s work the eye could rest on. Tillage there was none. A dreary silence, too, reigned throughout. I listened in vain for the bleating of a lamb or the solitary tinkle of a sheep-bell; but no – save the cawing of the rooks or the mournful cry of the plover, I could hear nothing. Now and then, it is true, the heavy flapping of a strong wing would point the course of a heron soaring towards the river; but his low flight even spoke of solitude, and showed he feared not man in his wild and dreamy mountains. At intervals we could see the Shannon winding along, far, far down below us, and I could mark the islands in the bay of Scariff, with their ruined churches and one solitary tower; but no sail floated on the surface, nor did an oar break the sluggish current of the stream. It was, indeed, a dreary scene, and somehow my companion’s manner seemed coloured by its influence; for scarcely had we entered the little valley that led to this mountain track than he became silent and thoughtful, absorbed in reflection, and when he spoke, either doing so at random or in a vague and almost incohérent way that showed his ideas were wandering.

I remarked that as we stopped at a little forge shortly after daybreak, the smith had taken the priest aside and whispered to him a few words, at which he seemed strangely moved; and as they spoke together for some moments in an undertone, I perceived by the man’s manner and gesture, as well as by the agitation of the good father himself, that something of importance was being told. Without waiting to finish the little repair to the carriage which had caused our halt, he remounted hastily, and beckoning me to take my place, drove on at a pace that spoke of haste and eagerness. I confess that my curiosity to know the reason was great; but as I could not with propriety ask, nor did my companion seem disposed to give the information, I soon relapsed into a silence unbroken as his own, and we travelled along for some miles without speaking. Now and then the priest would make an effort to relieve the weariness of the way by some remark upon the scenery, or some allusion to the wild grandeur of the pass; but it was plain he spoke only from constraint, and that his mind was occupied on other and very different thoughts.

It was now wearing late, and yet no trace of any house or habitation could I see, where to rest for the night. Not wishing, however, to interrupt the current of my friend’s thoughts I maintained my silence, straining my eyes on every side – from the dark mountains that towered above me, to the narrow gloomy valley that lay several hundred feet beneath our track – but all in vain. The stillness was unbroken, and not a roof, not even a smoke-wreath, could be seen far as the view extended. The road by which we travelled was scarped from the side of a mountain, and for some miles pursued a gradually descending course. On suddenly turning the angle of a rocky wall that skirted us for above a mile, we came in sight of a long reach of the Shannon upon which the sun was now setting in all its golden lustre. The distant shore of Munster, rich in tillage and pasture-land, was lit up too with cornfield and green meadow, leafy wood and blue mountain, all glowing in their brightest hue. It was a vivid and a gorgeous picture, and I could have looked on it long with pleasure, when suddenly I felt my arm grasped by a strong finger. I turned round, and the priest, relaxing his hold, pointed down into the dark valley below us, as he said in a low and agitated voice —

‘You see the light? It is there – there.’

Quickening our pace by every effort, we began rapidly to descend the mountain by a zigzag road, whose windings soon lost us the view I have mentioned, and left nothing but the wild and barren mountains around us. Tired as our poor horse was, the priest pressed him forward; and regardless of the broken and rugged way he seemed to think of nothing but his haste, muttering between his teeth with a low but rapid articulation, while his face grew flushed and pale at intervals, and his eye had all the lustrous glare and restless look of fever. I endeavoured, as well as I was able, to occupy my mind with other thoughts; but with that invincible fascination that turns us ever to the side we try to shun, I found myself again and again gazing on my companion’s countenance. Every moment now his agitation increased; his lips were firmly closed, his brow contracted, his cheek flattened and quivering with a nervous spasm, while his hand trembled violently as he wiped the big drops of sweat that rolled from his forehead.

At last we reached the level, where a better road presented itself before us, and enabled us so to increase our speed that we were rapidly coming up with the light, which, as the evening closed in, seemed larger and brighter than before. It was now that hour when the twilight seems fading into night – a grey and sombre darkness colouring every object, but yet marking grass and rock, pathway and river, with some seeming of their noonday hues, so that as we came along I could make out the roof and walls of a mud cabin built against the very mountainside, in the gable of which the light was shining. A rapid, a momentary thought flashed across my mind as to what dreary and solitary man could fix his dwelling-place in such a spot as this, when in an instant the priest suddenly pulled up the horse, and, stretching out one hand with a gesture of listening, whispered —

‘Hark! Did you not hear that?’

As he spoke, a cry, wild and fearful, rose through the gloomy valley – at first in one prolonged and swelling note; then broken as if by sobs, it altered, sank, and rose again wilder and madder, till the echoes, catching up the direful sounds, answered and repeated them as though a chorus of unearthly spirits were calling to one another through the air.

‘O God! too late – too late!’ said the priest, as he bowed his face upon his knees, and his strong frame shook in agony. ‘O Father of Mercy!’ he cried, as he lifted his eyes, bloodshot and tearful, toward heaven, ‘forgive me this; and if unshriven before Thee – ’

Another cry, more frantic than before, here burst upon us, and the priest, muttering with rapid utterance, appeared lost in prayer. But at him I looked no longer, for straight before us on the road, and in front of the little cabin, now not above thirty paces from us, knelt the figure of a woman, whom, were it not for the fearful sounds we had heard, one could scarcely believe a thing of life. Her age was not more than thirty years; she was pale as death; not a tinge, not a ray of colour streaked her bloodless cheek; her black hair, long and wild, fell upon her back and shoulders, straggling and disordered; while her hands were clasped, as she held her stiffened arms straight before her. Her dress bespoke the meanest poverty, and her sunken cheek and drawn-in lips betokened famine and starvation. As I gazed on her almost breathless with awe and dread, the priest leaped out, and hurrying forward, cried out to her in Irish; but she heard him not, she saw him not – dead to every sense, she remained still and motionless. No feature trembled, no limb was shaken; she knelt before us like an image of stone; and then, as if by some spell that worked within her, once more gave forth the heart-rending cry we heard at first. Now low and plaintive, like the sighing night-wind, it rose fuller and fuller, pausing and continuing at intervals; and then breaking into short and fitful efforts, it grew wilder and stronger, till at last with one outbreak, like the overflowing of a heart of misery, it ceased abruptly.

The priest bent over her and spoke to her; he called her by her name, and shook her several times – but all in vain. Her spirit, if indeed present with her body, had lost all sympathy with things of earth.

‘God help her!’ said he; ‘God comfort her! This is sore affliction.’

As he spoke he walked towards the little cabin, the door of which now stood open. All was still and silent within its walls. Unused to see the dwellings of the poor in Ireland, my eye ranged over the bare walls, the damp and earthen floor, the few and miserable pieces of furniture, when suddenly my attention was called to another and a sadder spectacle. In one corner of the hovel, stretched upon a bed whose poverty might have made it unworthy of a dog to lie in, lay the figure of a large and powerfully-built man, stone dead. His eyes were dosed, his chin bound up with a white cloth, and a sheet, torn and ragged, was stretched above his cold limbs, while on either side of him two candles were burning. His features, though rigid and stiffened, were manly and even handsome – the bold character of the face heightened in effect by his beard and moustache, which appeared to have been let grow for some time previous, and whose black and waving curl looked darker from the pallor around it.

Some lines there were about the mouth that looked like harshness and severity, but the struggle of departing life might have caused them.

Gently withdrawing the sheet that covered him, the priest placed his hand upon the man’s heart. It was evident to me, from the father’s manner, that he still believed the man living; and as he rolled back the covering, he felt for his hand. Suddenly starting, he fell back for an instant; and as he moved his fingers backwards and forwards, I saw that they were covered with blood. I drew near, and now perceived that the dead man’s chest was laid open by a wound of several inches in extent. The ribs had been cut across, and some portion of the heart or lung seemed to protrude. At the slightest touch of the body, the blood gushed forth anew, and ran in streams upon him. His right hand, too, was cut across the entire palm, the thumb nearly severed at the joint. This appeared to have been rudely bound together; but it was evident, from the nature and the size of the other wound, that he could not have survived it many hours.

As I looked in horror at the frightful spectacle before me, my foot struck at something beneath the bed. I stooped down to examine, and found it was a carbine, such as dragoons usually carry. It was broken at the stock and bruised in many places, but still seemed not unserviceable. Part of the butt-end was also stained with blood. The clothes of the dead man, clotted and matted with gore, were also there, adding by their terrible testimony to the dreadful fear that haunted me. Yes, everything confirmed it – murder had been there.

A low, muttering sound near made me turn my head, and I saw the priest kneeling beside the bed, engaged in prayer. His head was bare, and he wore a kind of scarf of blue silk, and the small case that contained the last rites of his Church was placed at his feet. Apparently lost to all around, save the figure of the man that lay dead before him, he muttered with ceaseless rapidity prayer after prayer – stopping ever and anon to place his hand on the cold heart, or to listen with his ear upon the livid lips; and then resuming with greater eagerness, while the big drops rolled from his forehead, and the agonising torture he felt convulsed his entire frame.

‘O God!’ he exclaimed, after a prayer of some minutes, in which his features worked like one in a fit of epilepsy – ‘O God, is it then too late?’

He started to his feet as he spoke, and bending over the corpse, with hands clasped above his head, he poured forth a whole torrent of words in Irish, swaying his body backwards and forwards, as his voice, becoming broken by emotion, now sank into a whisper, or broke into a discordant shout. ‘Shaun, Shaun!’ cried he, as, stooping down to the ground; he snatched up the little crucifix and held it before the dead man’s face; at the same time he shook him violently by the shoulder, and cried, in accents I can never forget, some words aloud, among which alone I could recognise one word, ‘Thea’ – the Irish word for God. He shook the man till his head rocked heavily from side to side, and the blood oozed from the opening wound, and stained the ragged covering of the bed.

At this instant the priest stopped suddenly, and fell upon his knees, while with a low, faint sigh he who seemed dead lifted his eyes and looked around him; his hands grasped the sides of the bed, and, with a strength that seemed supernatural, he raised himself to a sitting posture. His lips were parted and moved, but without a sound, and his filmy eyes turned slowly in their sockets from one object to another, till at length they fell upon the little crucifix that had dropped from the priest’s hand upon the bed. In an instant the corpse-like features seemed inspired with life; a gleam of brightness shot from his eyes; the head nodded forward a couple of times, and I thought I heard a discordant, broken sound issue from the open mouth; but a moment after the head dropped upon the chest, and the hands relaxed, and he fell back with a crash, never to move more.

Overcome with horror, I staggered to the door and sank upon a little bench in front of the cabin. The cool air of the night soon brought me to myself, and while in my confused state I wondered if the whole might not be some dreadful dream, my eyes once more fell upon the figure of the woman, who still knelt in the attitude we had first seen her. Her hands were clasped before her, and from time to time her wild cry rose into the air and woke the echoes of that silent valley. A faint moonlight lay in broken patches around her, and mingled its beams with the red glare of the little candles within, as their light fell upon her marble features. From the cabin I could hear the sounds of the priest’s voice, as he continued to pray without ceasing.

As the hours rolled on, nothing changed; and when, prompted by curiosity, I looked within the hovel, I saw the priest still kneeling beside the bed, his face pale and sunk and haggard, as though months of sickness and suffering had passed over him. I dared not speak; I dared not disturb him; and I sat down near the door in silence.

It is one of the strange anomalies of our nature that the feelings which rend our hearts with agony have a tendency, by their continuance, to lull us into slumber. The watcher by the bedside of his dying friend, the felon in his cell but a few hours before death, sleep – and sleep soundly. The bitterness of grief would seem to blunt sensation, and the mind, like the body, can only sustain a certain amount of burden, after which it succumbs and yields. So I found it amid this scene of horror and anguish, with everything to excite that can operate upon the mind – the woman stricken motionless and senseless by grief; the dead man, as it were, recalled to life by the words that were to herald him into life everlasting; the old man, whom I had known but as a gay companion, displayed now before my eyes in all the workings of his feeling heart, called up by the afflictions of one world and the terrors of another – and this in a wild and dreary valley, far from man’s dwelling. Yet amid all this, and more than all, the harassing conviction that some deed of blood, some dark hour of crime, had been here at work, perhaps to be concealed for ever, and go unavenged save of Heaven – with this around and about me, I slept. How long I know not; but when I woke, the mist of morning hung in the valley, or rolled in masses of cloudlike vapour along the mountain-side. In an instant the whole scene of the previous night was before me, and the priest still knelt beside the bed and prayed. I looked for the woman, but she was gone.

The noise of wheels, at some distance, could now be heard on the mountain-road; and as I walked stealthily from the door, I could see three figures descending the pass, followed by a car and horse. As they came along, I marked that beneath the straw on the car something protruded itself on either side, and this, I soon saw, was a coffin. As the men approached the angle of the road they halted, and seemed to converse in an eager and anxious manner, when suddenly one of them broke from the others, and springing to the top of a low wall that skirted the road, continued to look steadily at the house for some minutes together. The thought flashed on me at the moment that perhaps my being a stranger to them might have caused their hesitation; so I waved my hat a couple of times above my head. Upon this they resumed their march, and in a few minutes more were standing beside me. One of them, who was an old man with hard, weather-beaten features, addressed me, first in Irish, but correcting himself, at once asked, in a low, steady voice —

‘Was the priest in time? Did he get the rites?’

I nodded in reply; when he muttered, as if to himself – ‘God’s will be done! Shaun didn’t tell of Hogan – ’

‘Whisht, father! whisht!’ said one of the younger men as he laid his hand upon the old man’s arm, while he added something in Irish, gesticulating with energy as he spoke.

‘Is Mary come back, sir?’ said the third, as he touched his hat to me respectfully.

‘The woman – his wife?’ said I. ‘I have not seen her to-day.’

‘She was up with us, at Kiltimmon, at two o’clock this morning, but wouldn’t wait for us. She wanted to get back at once, poor crayture! She bears it well, and has a stout heart. ‘Faith, maybe before long she ‘ll make some others faint in their hearts that have stricken hers this night.’

‘Was she calm, then?’ said I.

‘As you are this minute; and sure enough she helped me, with her own hands, to put the horse in the car, for you see I couldn’t lift the shaft with my one arm.’

I now saw that his arm was bound up, and buttoned within the bosom of his greatcoat.

The priest now joined us, and spoke for several minutes in Irish; and although ignorant of all he said, I could mark in the tone of his voice, his look, his manner, and his gesture that his words were those of rebuke and reprobation. The old man heard him in silence, but without any evidence of feeling. The others, on the contrary, seemed deeply affected; and the younger of the two, whose arm was broken, seemed greatly moved, and the tears rolled down his hardy cheeks.

These signs of emotion were evidently displeasing to the old man, whose nature was of a sterner and more cruel mould; and as he turned away from the father’s admonition he moved past me, muttering, as he went —

‘Isn’t it all fair? Blood for blood; and sure they dhruv him to it.’