CHAPTER THE LAST
The day following the eventful one just recorded, the miserable convict breathed his last. A printed notice was posted in all the adjacent villages, offering a reward for the apprehension of Shan More and “other persons unknown,” for their murderous assault; and a small reward was promised for such “private information as might lead to the apprehension of the aforesaid,” &c., &c. Larry Hogan at once came forward and put the authorities on the scent, but still Shan and his accomplices remained undiscovered. Larry's information on another subject, however, was more effective. He gave his own testimony to the previous marriage of Bridget, and pointed out the means of obtaining more, so that, ere long, Lord Scatterbrain was a “free man.” Though the depositions of the murdered man did not directly implicate Larry in the murderous attack, still it showed that he had participated in much of their villany; but, as in difficult cases, we must put up with bad instruments to reach the ends of justice, so this rascal was useful for his evidence and private information, and got his reward.
But he got his reward in more ways than one. He knew that he dare not longer remain in the country after what had taken place, and set off directly for Dublin by the mail, intending to proceed to England; but England he never reached. As he was proceeding down the Custom-house quay in the dusk of the evening, to get on ship-board, his arms were suddenly seized and drawn behind him by a powerful grasp, while a woman in front drew a handkerchief across his mouth, and stifled his attempted cries. His bundle was dragged from him, and the woman ransacked his pockets but they contained but a few shillings, Larry having hidden the wages of his treachery to his confederates in the folds of his neck-cloth. To pluck this from his throat, many a fierce wrench was made by the woman, when her attempts on the pockets proved worthless; but the handkerchief was knotted so tightly that she could not disengage it. The approach of some passengers along the quay alarmed the assailants of Larry, who, ere the iron grip released him, heard a deep curse in his ear growled by a voice he well knew, and then he felt himself hurled with gigantic force from the quay wall. Before the base, cheating, faithless scoundrel could make one exclamation, he was plunged into the Liffey—even before one mental aspiration for mercy, he was in the throes of suffocation! The heavy splash in the water caught the attention of those whose approach had alarmed the murderers, and seeing a man and woman running, a pursuit commenced, which ended by Newgate having two fresh tenants the next day.
And so farewell to the entire of the abominable crew, whose evil doings and merited fates have only been recorded when it became necessary to our story. It is better to leave the debased and the profligate in oblivion than drag their doings before the day; and it is with happy consciousness an Irishman may assert, that there is plenty of subject afforded by Irish character and Irish life honourable to the land, pleasing to the narrator, and sufficiently attractive to the reader, without the unwholesome exaggerations of crime which too often disfigure the fictions which pass under the title of “Irish,” alike offensive to truth as to taste—alike injurious both for private and public considerations.
It was in the following autumn that a particular chariot drove up to the door of the Victoria Hotel, on the shore of Killarney lake. A young man of elegant bearing handed a very charming young lady from the chariot; aand that kindest and mos accommodating of hostesses, Mrs. F——, welcomed the fresh arrival with her good-humoured and smiling face.
Why, amidst the crowd of arrivals at the Victoria, one chariot should be remarkable beyond another, arose from its quiet elegance, which might strike even a casual observer; but the intelligent Mrs. F—— saw with half an eye the owners must be high-bred people. To the apartments already engaged for them they were shown; but few minutes were lost within doors where such matchless natural beauty tempted them without. A boat was immediately ordered, and then the newly arrived visitors were soon on the lake. The boatmen had already worked hard that day, having pulled one party completely round the lakes—no trifling task; but the hardy fellows again bent to their oars, and made the sleeping waters wake in golden flashes to the sunset, till told they need not pull so hard.
“Faith, then, we'll plaze you, sir,” said the stroke-oarsman, with a grin, “for we have had quite enough of it to-day.”
“Do you not think, Fanny,” said Edward O'Connor, for it was he who spoke to his bride, “Do you not think 'tis more in unison with the tranquil hour and the coming shadows, to glide softly over the lulled waters?”
“Yes,” she replied, “it seems almost sacrilege to disturb this heavenly repose by the slightest dip of the oar—see how perfectly that lovely island is reflected.”
“That is Innisfallin, my lady,” said the boatman, hearing her allude to the island, “where the hermitage is.” As he spoke, a gleam of light sparkled on the island, which was reflected on the water.
“One might think the hermit was there too,” said Fanny, “and had just lighted a lamp for his vigils.”
“That's the light of the guide that shows the place to the quality, my lady, and lives on the island always in a corner of the ould ruin. And, indeed, if you'd like to see the island this evening, there's time enough, and 'twould be so much saved out of to-morrow.”
The boatman's advice was acted upon, and as they glided towards the island, Fanny and Edward gazed delightedly on the towering summits of Magillicuddy's reeks, whose spiral pinnacles and graceful declivities told out sharply against the golden sky behind them, which, being perfectly reflected in the calm lake, gave a grand chain of mountain the appearance of being suspended in glowing heather, for the lake was one bright amber sheet of light below, and the mountains one massive barrier of shade, till they cut against the light above. The boat touched the shore of Innisfallin, and the delighted pair of visitants hurried to its western point to catch the sunset, lighting with its glory the matchless foliage of this enchanting spot, where every form of grace exhaustless nature can display is lavished on the arborial richness of the scene, which, in its unequalled luxuriance, gives to a fanciful beholder the idea that the trees themselves have a conscious pleasure in growing there. Oh! what a witching spot is Innisfallin!
Edward had never seen anything so beautiful in his life; and with the woman he adored resting on his arm, he quoted the lines which Moore has applied to the Vale of Cashmere, as he asked Fanny would she not like to live there.
“Would you?” said Fanny.
Edward answered—
“If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,
Think—think what a heaven she must make of Cashmere.”
They lingered on the island till the moon arose, and then re-embarked. The silvery light exhibited the lake under another aspect, and the dimly discovered forms of the lofty hills rose one above another, tier upon tier, circling the waters in their shadowy frame, the beauty of the scene reached a point of sublimity which might be called holy. As they returned towards the shelving strand, a long row of peeled branches, standing upright in the water, attracted Fanny's attention, and she asked their use.
“All the use in life, my lady,” said the boatman, “for without the same branches, maybe it's not home to-night you'd get.”
On Fanny inquiring further the meaning of the boatman's answer, she learned that the sticks were placed there to indicate the only channel which permitted a boat to approach the shore on that side of the lake, where the water was shoal, while in other parts the depth had never been fathomed.
An early excursion on the water was planned for the morning, and Edward and Fanny were wakened from their slumbers by the tones of the bugle; a soft Irish melody being breathed by Spillan, followed by a more sportive one from the other minstrel of the lake, Ganzy.
The lake now appeared under another aspect—the morning sun and morning breeze were upon it, and the sublimity with which the shades of evening had invested the mountains was changed to that of the most varied richness; for Autumn hung out its gaudy banner on the lofty hills, crowned to their summits with all variety of wood, which, though tinged by the declining year, had scarcely shed one leafy honour. The day was glorious, and the favouring breeze enabled the boat to career across the sparkling lake under canvas, till the overhanging hills of the opposite side robbed them of their aerial wings, and the sail being struck, the boatmen bent to their oars. As they passed under a promontory, clothed from the water's edge to its topmost ridge with the most luxuriant vegetation, it was pointed out to the lady as “the minister's back.”
“'T is a strange name,” said Fanny. “Do you know why it is called so?”
“Faix, I dunna, my lady—barrin' that it is the best covered back in the country. But here we come to the aichos,” said he, resting on his oars. The example was followed by his fellows, and the bugler, lifting his instrument to his lips, gave one long well-sustained blast. It rang across the waters gallantly. It returned in a few seconds with such unearthly sweetness, as though the spirit of the departed sound had become heavenly, and revisited the place where it had expired.
Fanny and Edward listened breathlessly.
The bugle gave out its notes again in the well-known “call,” and as sweetly as before the notes were returned distinctly.
And now a soft and slow and simple melody stole from the exquisitely played bugle, and phrase after phrase was echoed from the responding hills. How many an emotion stirred within Edward's breast, as the melting music fell upon his ear! In the midst of matchless beauties he heard the matchless strains of his native land, and the echoes of her old hills responding to the triumphs of her old bards. The air, too, bore with it historic associations;—it told a tale of wrong and of suffering. The wrong has ceased, the suffering is past, but the air which records them still lives.
“Oh! triumph of the minstrel!” exclaimed Edward in delight. “The tyrant crumbles in his coffin, while the song of the bard survives! The memory of a sceptred ruffian is endlessly branded by a simple strain, while many of the elaborate chronicles of his evil life have passed away and are mouldering like himself.”
Scarcely had the echoes of this exquisite air died away, when the entrancement it carried was rudely broken by one of the vulgarest tunes being brayed from a bugle in a boat which was seen rounding the headland of the wooded promontory. Edward and Fanny writhed, and put their hands to their ears. “Give way, boys!” said Edward; “for pity's sake get away from these barbarians. Give way!”
Away sprang the boat. To the boatman's inquiry whether they should stop at “Lady Kenmare's Cottage,” Fanny said “no,” when she found on inquiry it was a particularly “show-place,” being certain the vulgar party following would stop there, and therefore time might be gained in getting away from such disagreeable followers.
Dinas Island, fringed with its lovely woods, excited their admiration, as they passed underneath its shadows, and turned into Turk Lake; here the labyrinthine nature of the channels through which they had been winding was changed for a circular expanse of water, over which the lofty mountain, whence it takes its name, towers in all its wild beauty of wood, and rock, and heath.
At a certain part of the lake, the boatmen, without any visible cause, rested on their oars. On Edward asking them why they did not pull, he received this touching answer:—
“Sure, your honour would not have us disturb Ned Macarthy's grave!”
“Then a boatman was drowned here, I suppose?” said Edward.
“Yes, your honour.” The boatman then told how the accident occurred “one day when there was a stag-hunt on the lake;” but as the anecdote struck Edward so forcibly that he afterwards recorded it in verse, we will give the story after his fashion.
MACARTHY'S GRAVE
I
The breeze was fresh, the morn was fair,
The stag had left his dewy lair;
To cheering horn and baying tongue,
Killarney's echoes sweetly rung.
With sweeping oar and bending mast,
The eager chase was following fast;
When one light skiff a maiden steer'd
Beneath the deep wave disappeared:
Wild shouts of terror wildly ring,
A boatman brave, with gallant spring
And dauntless arm, the lady bore;
But he who saved—was seen no more!