CURIOSITIES OF ANIMAL LIFE.
There is an old aphorism which says that "all life comes from an egg"--omne vivum ex ovo; but this, like a good many other old aphorisms, is only a convenient and attractive way of stating a falsehood. It is very true that almost all animals, from man down to the mollusk, pass through the egg stage at an early period of their existence; but we purpose to show our readers in this article that there are others which appear to be sometimes exempted from the common lot of their kind, and which indeed come into the world in such curious fashions that we may almost say of them, in the words of Topsey, that they "never were born; 'spect they growed. "
To begin with, what is an egg? According to the popular idea, it is an oval-shaped body, consisting of a hard, thin shell inclosing a whitish substance called the albumen, within which is a yellowish matter called the yolk; it is the embryo form of the young of birds and some other animals, which finally emerge from the shell after the egg has been acted upon for some time by the heat of the parent's body. Now this definition may do well enough as a loose description of the more familiar varieties of eggs, but it will not do for all. It will perhaps surprise the unscientific reader to be told that every animal whatever produces eggs. A "mare's nest" is the popular expression of a myth, an absurdity; but mare's eggs are no myths; they are just as real as hen's eggs; only we never see them, because they are hatched in the parent's body before the young colt is brought forth. The same is true of the eggs of all the other quadrupeds and of viviparous animals in general.
An egg, therefore, like the seed of a plant, is the germ from which the embryo is developed. It may have a shell, or it may not; it may be comparatively large, like birds' eggs, or it may be so small as to be with difficulty discerned by the naked eye. When it is first formed it is simply an aggregation of fluid matter, very minute in size, and exceedingly simple in structure. By degrees this fluid is transformed into the small particles or granules which form the yolk; the yolk shapes itself into a multitude of cells--little microscopic bodies consisting of an external membrane, or cell-wall, and of an inner nucleus, which may be either solid or fluid; and in due process of time a number of cells combine and form a living being. The albumen, or "white," is, like the shell, an accessory. It performs important functions in the development of the young from the germ, but we will not stop to explain them here; the true egg is the yolk. In the lowest forms of animal life the egg is a mere cell, with a light spot in one part of it, and the creature which is developed from it is almost as simple in structure as the egg itself.
The ordinary mode of reproduction, as we have already said, is by the formation of an egg in the body of the parent, from which the young may be hatched either before or after they are brought into the world. But there are certain of the lower orders of animals which sometimes multiply and [{233}] perpetuate their kind in other ways also. Professor Henry James Clark, of Harvard University, has lately published an interesting treatise [Footnote 44] on animal development, in which he gives some curious instances of the phenomena to which we refer. We have drawn a good deal of what we have just said about the structure of eggs from his valuable work, and we purpose now to follow him in his remarks upon the processes of reproduction by what is called budding and division.
[Footnote 44: "Mind in Nature; or, The Origin of Life and the Mode of Development of Animals." 8vo. New York: D. Appleton & Co.]
Let us look first at that exceedingly beautiful and wonderful animal commonly called the sea anemone, on account of the delicate fringed flower so much loved by poets. You may often find it on our coasts contracted into a lump of gelatinous substance looking like whitish-brown jelly; [Footnote 45] watch it for a while, and you will see the body rise slightly, while a delicate crown of tentacles, or feelers, steals out at the top. The jelly-like mass continues to increase in height, and the wreath of tentacles gradually expands. Soon you will perceive that this graceful fringe surrounds a wide opening; this is the animal's mouth. When expanded to its full size the anemone is about three or four inches in height. The body consists of a cylindrical gelatinous bag, the bottom of which is flat and slightly spreading at the margin. The upper edge of this bag is turned in, so as to form a sack within a sack; this is the stomach. The whole summit of the body is crowned by the soft plumy fringes which give it such a remarkable resemblance to a flower. At the base it has a set of powerful muscles, by which it attaches itself to rocks and shells so firmly that it can hardly be removed without injury. Another set of muscles enables it to contract itself almost instantaneously into a shapeless lump. It is extremely sensitive, not only shrinking from the slightest touch, but even drawing in its tentacles if so much as a dark cloud passes over it. Anemones may be found, say the authors of "Sea-side Studies," "in any small pools about the rocks which are flooded by the tide at high water. Their favorite haunts, however, where they occur in greatest quantity, are more difficult to reach; but the curious in such matters will be well rewarded, even at the risk of wet feet and a slippery scramble over rocks covered with damp sea-weed, by a glimpse into their more crowded abodes. Such a grotto is to be found on the rocks of East Point at Nahant. It can only be reached at low tide, and then one is obliged to creep on hands and knees to its entrance in order to see through its entire length; but its whole interior is studded with these animals, and as they are of various hues, pink, brown, orange, purple, or pure white, the effect is like that of brightly-colored mosaics set in the roof and walls. When the sun strikes through from the opposite extremity of this grotto, which is open at both ends, lighting up its living mosaic-work, and showing the play of the soft fringes whenever the animals are open, it would be difficult to find any artificial grotto to compare with it in beauty. There is another of the same kind on Saunders's ledge, formed by a large boulder resting on two rocky ledges, leaving a little cave beneath, lined in the same way with variously-colored sea anemones, so closely studded over its walls that the surface of the rock is completely hidden. They are, however, to be found in larger or smaller clusters, or scattered singly, in any rocky fissures overhung by sea-weed and accessible to the tide at high water."
[Footnote 45: "Sea-side Studies in Natural History." By Elizabeth Alexander Agassiz. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1865.]
Mr. Gosse, in his "History of British Sea Anemones and Corals," mentions the existence of a singular connection between a certain variety of these animals and a species of hermit crab that lives in the deserted [{234}] shell of a mollusk. An anemone is always found attached to the shell which the crab inhabits, and is so placed that its fringed month comes just below the mouth of the crab. Whatever food comes within reach of either animal can, therefore, be shared in common. The crab is so far from objecting to this community of goods that he seems unhappy without his companion. Though he is a hermit, he is not exempt from the common lot of housekeepers; he submits every now and then to the trouble of moving-day.
Mr. Gosse observed one in the act of changing houses. No sooner had he taken possession of the new shell than he began removing the anemone from the old one, running his claw under it to separate it from the shell, and then bringing it to the new house, where, having placed it in its customary position, he held it down until it had attached itself, and now and then pressed it closer, or gave it a pat to hasten the process. In another instance, observed by Mr. Holdsworth, the crab, after vainly trying for more than an hour to remove his companion anemone, deserted his new quarters and went back to the old, rather than submit to a separation.
The anemone, for all that it is so delicate and graceful in appearance, is a gluttonous little beast, eats raw meat in the aquarium, and when upon its native coast sucks mussels and cockles out of their shells. Queer compound of plant and animal in appearance, its natural kingdom seems still more doubtful than ever if we watch it while it is undergoing certain processes of reproduction. It does indeed generally produce its young by maternal gestation; eggs are formed in the cavity that surrounds its stomach, and at the proper time the young swim out of the parent's mouth. But it has other modes of propagation, one of which is almost exactly like the process of raising plants from suckers. Very often you may see, growing out of the lower part of the body of the anemone, and as a general thing near the edge of the basal disc by which it attaches itself to the shell or rock, little rounded protuberances, like buds; well, they are buds--the buds of young anemones. In a short time six small tentacles make their appearance on the top of each bud. A minute oblong aperture opens in the midst of them. A digestive cavity is formed. The curious internal structure of the animal (which we have not space here to describe) is gradually developed. The bud becomes elongated and enlarged every way. The tentacles multiply; the small aperture grows into a mouth; and finally the young anemone drops off from its parent and floats away to shift for itself. Professor Clark has seen as many as twenty thus detach themselves in the course of a single month. This is the process of generation by budding or gemmation, of which we spoke on a previous page.
But we have not yet exhausted the list of wonders displayed by this extraordinary plant-animal. We have seen that it has at least two ways of being born; what will our readers say when we assure them that it has not only two but four? The remaining two both come under the head of what is called voluntary self-division. One of them is strikingly like the propagation of plants by cuttings. Little pieces break off from the anemone at the base and float away. For a long time they give no sign of life; but when they have recovered, so to speak, from the shock of separation, they begin to shoot out their tentacles and grow up into perfect individuals. The fourth method of generation is still more wonderful. Now and then you find an anemone whose upper disc is contracted in a peculiar manner at opposite sides. The contraction increases until the disc loses its circular form and presents the shape of the figure 8. The two halves of the 8 next separate, and you [{235}] have an anemone with two mouths, each surrounded by its own set of tentacles. Then the processes of constriction and separation continue all down the body of the animal from summit to base, and the result is two perfect anemones, each complete in its organization. It is well that the lower orders of creatures have none of the laws of inheritance and primo-geniture that bother mankind, or such irregular methods of coming into the world might breed a great deal of trouble among them. Here, for instance, you have two anemones, which we will call A and B, formed by the splitting asunder of a single individual; what relation are they to each other? Are they brother and sister or parent and child? And if the latter, how is any one to decide which is the parent? Then suppose A raises offspring in the usual way from eggs, what relation are these young to B? Are they sisters, or nieces, or grandchildren?
Let us now look at another animal, the stentor, or trumpet-animalcule. This is a minute infusorian, very common in ponds and ditches, where it forms colonies on the stems of water-weeds or submerged sticks and stones. Some of the varieties have a deep blue color, and a settlement of them looks very much like a patch of blue mould. The stentor is shaped like a little tube, about one-sixteenth of an inch in length, spread out at the upper end like a trumpet, and tapering at the lower almost to a point. When it has fixed upon a place of abode, it constructs a domicile, consisting of a gelatinous sheath, perhaps half as high as itself. It lives inside this sheath, with its smaller extremity attached to the bottom of it, and its wide, funnel-shaped end projecting above the top. When disturbed it retreats into the house and shrinks into a globular mass. The disc of the trumpet end is not perfectly regular; on one side the edge turns inward so as to form a notch, and curls upon itself in a spiral form. Within this spiral is the mouth, and a long funnel-shaped throat reaches from it to the digestive cavity. Opposite the mouth there is a globular cavity, from which a tube extends to the lower extremity of the body. The cavity seems to perform the functions of a heart, and the tube takes the place of veins and arteries. Once in three-quarters of a minute this heart-like organ contracts and forces the fluid which it contains into the tube; the latter in its turn, after expanding very sensibly to receive the flow, contracts and returns it to the heart.
The stentor propagates by budding, like the anemone. The first change that takes place is a division of this contractile vesicle into two distinct organs at about mid-height of the body, the lower portion developing a globular cavity like the upper one. Soon after this a shallow pit opens in the side of the stentor, in a line with the new vesicle. This pit is the future mouth. A throat or oesophagus is next fashioned; and all being ready for the accommodation of the new animal the process of division begins, and goes on so rapidly that it is all done in about two hours.
A still more curious animal, in some respects, than either of those we have just mentioned is the hydra, one of the simplest of the zoophytes. To all intents and purposes it is nothing but a narrow sack, about half an inch in length, open at one end, where the mouth is situated, and attaching itself by the other to pond-lilies, duck-weeds, or stones on the margins of lakes. Around the mouth it has from five to eight slender tentacles, which are used as feelers and for the purpose of seizing the food. What it does with its food after it has swallowed it is, strange as the statement may sound, a question to which naturalists have not yet found a satisfactory answer; for the hydra has no digestive organs, and its stomach is merely a pouch formed by the folding in of the outer skin. It has no glands, no mucous membrane, no appliances of any sort for the performance of the chemical process [{236}] which we call digestion. You may turn a hydra inside out and it will get along just as well as it did before, and swallow its prey with just as good an appetite. The French naturalist Trembley was the first to notice this remarkable fact. With the blunt end of a small needle he pushed the bottom of the sack through the body and out at the mouth, just as you would invert a stocking. He found that the animal righted itself as soon as it was left alone; so he repeated the operation, and this time made use of persuasion, in the form of a bristle run crosswise through the body, to induce the victim to remain inside out. In the course of a few days its interior and exterior departments were thoroughly reorganized, and it ate as if nothing had happened. Trembley next undertook to engraft one individual upon another! For this purpose he crammed the tail of one deep down into the cavity of another, and, in order to hold them in their position, stuck a bristle through both. What was his surprise to find them, some hours afterward, still spitted upon the bristle, but hanging side by side instead of one within the other! How they had got into such a position he could not imagine. He arranged another pair, and on watching them the mystery was solved. The inner one first drew up its tail and pushed it out through the hole in the outer one's side where the bristle entered. Then it pulled its head out after the tail, and sliding along the spit completely freed itself from its companion. This it repeated as often as the experiment was tried in that way. It then occurred to M. Trembley that if the inner hydra were turned inside out, so as to bring the stomachs of the two animals in contact, union would take place more readily; and so it proved. The little creatures seemed much pleased with the arrangement, and made no attempt to escape. In a short time they were united as one body, and enjoyed their food in common.
It was perhaps only natural to expect that animals which care so little about their individuality that two specimens can be turned into one, would be equally ready to multiply themselves by the simple process of being cut to pieces. In other words, you may make one hydra out of two, or two out of one, just as you please. M. Trembley divided them in every conceivable manner. He cut them in two, and, instead of dying, one half shot out a new head and the other developed a new tail. He sliced them into thin rings, and each slice swam away, got itself a set of tentacles, and grew into a perfectly formed individual. He split them into thin longitudinal strips, and each strip reproduced what was wanting to give it a complete body. Some he split only part way down from the mouth, and the result was a hydra, like the fabled monster, with many heads. The famous cat with nine lives is nothing to these little zoophytes. They seem sublimely indifferent not only to the most fearful wounds, but even to disease and, we are tempted to add, decomposition itself. A part of the body decays, and the hydra simply drops it off, like a worn-out garment, and lives on as if it had lost nothing.
If it can do all this, we need not wonder that it can reproduce its kind by budding. Indeed, after we have seen a living creature split itself up into a dozen distinct individuals any other process of generation must seem tame by comparison. At certain seasons of the year very few hydras can be found which have not one, two, or three young ones growing out of their bodies. The budding begins in the form of a simple bulging from the side of the parent, something like a wart. This is gradually elongated, and after a time tentacles sprout from the free end, and a mouth is formed. The young is now in a condition to seek its own prey. Its independence is finally accomplished by a constriction of the base of the new body at the point where it is attached to the old stock, until finally it cuts itself off. Before [{237}] this separation takes place, however, it has often begun to reproduce its own young, and so we sometimes see a large colony of hydras all connected together, like minute branching waterweed.
After all, you may say, it is not so very wonderful that a simple animal like the hydra, which has no intestines, and scarcely any special organs whatever, should be able to reproduce its lost parts, or to multiply itself by the simple processes of growth and subsequent division. Well, then, let us take a more complex creature, and we have a remarkable example at hand in a certain marine worm called myrianida fasciata. It is an inch or two in length, tapering off gradually from the head. The body is marked with numerous rings or joints, attached to which are oar-like appendages, serving not only as instruments of propulsion but also as gills, or breathing organs. An intestine extends from the head in a direct course to the posterior. Blood-vessels are arranged about it like a net-work, and connect with similar vessels in the gills. It has an organ which serves the purpose of a heart, a nervous cord swollen at every joint into knots or ganglions, and, in the head, one principal ganglion, which may be considered as the brain. Its reproductive organs are situated only in the posterior rings, and are located there in reference to the peculiar mode of generation which we are about to describe. The young worm begins to grow immediately in front of the parent's tail, that is to say, between the last joint or ring and the next before the last, and is formed by the successive growth of new rings. Before it is old enough to be cast off another appears between its anterior end and the next joint of the old stock; and so on until we have six worms at once, all strung together behind the parent, and hanging, so to speak, from one another's tails. They drop off separately, in the order of their age. Now in this case, you will observe, there must be a division of several organs--the intestine, the blood-vessels, and the nervous cord; and each of the six young must develop a heart, a brain, and a pair of eyes. An odd result of their method of growth (the first one being formed, you will remember, not behind the parent but between her last two rings) is that the eldest offspring appropriates the tail of his mother, while his five brothers and sisters have to find tails of their own. We are here tempted to indulge in a curious speculation: this first born produces its young in the same way itself was produced, and passes on its inherited tail to the next generation. The eldest born of that generation bequeaths it to the next, and so on. What becomes of that ancestral tail in the course of years? Does it at last wear out and drop off? Does the worm that bears it die after a time without leaving any children? Or is it possible that the process of entail has been going on without interruption ever since the year one of the world, and that there may be a myrianida fasciata now living with a tail as old as creation? Not very probable, certainly; but if any solution has been offered of the great tail problem, we do not happen to have heard of it.
Professor Clark also tried various experiments upon the common flat worm, or planaria, which may be found so readily in our ponds, creeping over stones and aquatic plants, and is so easily recognized by its opaque white color, and the liver-colored ramifications of its intestine. He cut the creature in two, and immediately after the operation the halves crawled away as if nothing had happened; the anterior part preceding an ideal tail, and the posterior one following an equally imaginary head and brain. He watched the pieces from day to day, and found that each reproduced its missing half by a slow process of budding and growth. This planaria may be cut into several pieces, and each will reproduce what is requisite to complete the mangled organism. If the tail of a lizard be broken off, a [{238}] new one will grow; and crabs, lobsters, spiders, etc., are known to replace their amputated limbs. The instances we now and then meet with of what are called monsters--two-headed dogs, calves with six legs, and, more rarely, even double-headed human beings, are examples of the phenomenon of budding--which is very common, by the way, among fishes; and there is an animalcule called the amoeba which shows a more remarkable tenacity of life than any of the other creatures we have mentioned, since you may divide and subdivide it until it is physically impossible to reduce it to particles any smaller, and yet each piece will live.
The discovery that animals may originate in so many ways independent of maternal gestation naturally suggests the inquiry whether further researches may not develop still other methods of reproduction, in which the new-born creature shall have no connection whatever with any previously existing individual. Thus we are brought back to the question which was thought to have been settled long ago, whether generation ever takes place spontaneously, as Aristotle and the old physicists supposed it did. Later naturalists, following the Italian, Redi, utterly rejected the supposition; but within the present century it has found many reputable supporters, and Professor Clark is one of them. When organic matter decays, numbers of infusoria, or microscopic plants and animals, arise in it. Where do they come from? Do the disorganized particles, set free by the process of decomposition, combine into new forms, which are then endowed with life by the direct action of Almighty power; or is the decaying substance merely the nest in which minute eggs or seeds, borne thither upon the air, or dropped by insects, find conditions suitable for their development in the ordinary natural way? The question is not easily answered. Many of these germs are so excessively minute as to defy detection. Some of the infusoria are no larger than the twenty-four-thousandth of an inch in diameter, and it is estimated that a drop of water might contain five hundred millions of them. It is obvious that the germs of such little creatures must be invisible even with the best microscope. The problem can only be solved by placing a portion of the decomposing matter under such conditions that any germs it may contain shall infallibly be killed and that none can possibly reach it; then, if infusoria appear, we shall know that they have been generated spontaneously. The great difficulty is in securing these conditions. For the development of the living forms we require both water and air. How are we to be certain that there are no living germs in the organic matter before we begin the experiment? that there are none in the water? that none are brought by the air? The action of heat has been relied upon for the destruction of germs in the organic matter and the water, and it has been sought to purify the air from them by passing it through sulphuric add; but experience has shown that sulphuric add does not kill the germs; so of course experiments performed in that way prove nothing. Professor Clark quotes a series of very delicate experiments tried by Professor Jeffries Wyman, of Harvard University, which seem to us to come nearer to proving spontaneous generation than any others with which we are acquainted. He proceeded in three different methods, as follows:
1. The organic matter, consisting of a solution of beef or mutton juice (or, in a few instances, vegetable matter), was placed in a flask fitted with a cork through which passed a glass tube. The cork was pushed deeply into the mouth of the flask, and the space above it was filled with an adhesive cement, composed of resin, wax, and varnish. The tube was drawn to a narrow neck a little way above the cork, and bent at right angles, and [{239}] the end of it inserted in an iron tube, where it was secured by a cement of plaster of Paris. The rest of the iron tube was filled with wires, leaving only very narrow passages between them. The solution in the flask was then boiled--in some cases as long as two hours--in order to kill any germs which might be enclosed, and to expel the air. The iron tube and wires at the same time were heated to redness. When the boiling had continued long enough the heat was withdrawn from beneath the flask, and the steam was allowed slowly to condense. As it did so, air flowed in between the red-hot wires, which had been kept at a temperature high enough, it was supposed, to destroy any germs in the air that passed through them. The flask was then hermetically sealed by fusing the glass tube with the blow-pipe. When opened, several days afterward, it was found to contain animal life.
2. A similar solution was placed in a flask the neck of which, instead of being supplied with a cork and tube, was drawn out and bent at right angles, and then fitted to the iron tube containing wires. The experiment was performed as by method No. 1, and with the same result.
3. That there might be no suspicion of imperfectly sealed joints, a solution was put into a flask with a narrow neck, and the neck itself was then closed by fusing the glass. The whole flask was then immersed in boiling water. At the expiration of a few days living infusoria were found in two instances out of four.
Now these experiments undoubtedly prove that generation sometimes occurs spontaneously, provided it be true, as Professor Clark assumes, that there was no imperfection in the closing of the flasks (which we see no reason to doubt), and that the infusorial germs are destroyed by boiling. We confess that it is hard to believe they could have survived such a heat as was applied to them in these cases; but is it certain that they could not? A writer in an English review a few years ago, whom we believe to have been Mr. G. H. Lewes, announced that he had boiled certain germs an hour and three-quarters, and yet they remained perfectly unaltered. At most, therefore, we can regard spontaneous generation as a probable phenomenon.
Whether spontaneous generation, if it occurs at all, occurs by the formation of an egg from which the animalcule is hatched, or by the immediate formation of the adult, Professor Clark does not attempt to say; but the French naturalist M. Pouchet, who is one of the foremost advocates of the theory, holds that an egg is produced first. If this is true we shall have a striking correlative to the proposition with which we began this paper: not only can living creatures be developed where no egg has been deposited, but eggs can be produced where there is no animal to lay them. Omne ovum e vivo will be no more true than Omne vivum ex ovo.
From Chambers's Journal
POOR AND RICH.
In a shattered old garret scarce roofed from the sky,
Near a window that shakes as the wind hurries by,
Without curtain to hinder the golden sun's shine,
Which reminds me of riches that never were mine--
I recline on a chair that is broken and old.
And enwrap my chilled limbs--now so aged and cold--
'Neath a shabby old coat, with the buttons all torn.
While I think of my youth that Time's footprints have worn.
And remember the comrades who've one and all fled,
And the dreams and the hopes that are dead with the dead.
But the cracked plastered walls are emblazoned and bright
With the dear blessed beams of the day's welcome light.
My old coat's a king's robe, my old chair is a throne,
And my thoughts are my courtiers that no king could own;
For the truths that they tell, as they whisper to me,
Are the echoes of pleasures that once used to be,
The glad throbbings of hearts that have now ceased to feel,
And the treasures of passions which Time cannot steal;
So, although I know well that my life is near spent,
Though I'll die without sorrow, I live with content.
Though my children's soft voices no music now lend;
Without wife's sweet embraces, or glance of a friend;
Yet my soul sees them still, as it peoples the air
With the spirits who crowd round my broken old chair.
If no wealth I have hoarded to trouble mine ease,
I admit that I doted on gems rich as these;
And when death snatched the casket that held each fair prize,
It flew to my heart where it happily lies;
So, 'tis there that the utt'rings of love now are said
By those dear ones, whom all but myself fancy dead.
So, though fetid the air of my poor room may be.
It still has all the odors of Eden for me.
For my Eve wanders here, and my cherubs here sing,
As though tempting my spirit like theirs to take wing.
Though my pillow be hard, where so well could I rest
As on that on which Amy's fair head has been pressed?
So let riches and honor feed Mammon's vain heart,
From my shattered old lodging I'll not wish to part;
And no coat shall I need save the one I've long worn.
Till the last thread be snapped, and the last rent be torn.
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BY ROBERT CURTIS.
[CONCLUSION.]
CHAPTER XXX.
While the above exploits were being performed by Jamesy Doyle and the police, a sad scene indeed was being enacted at the bridge. Winny Cavana, whose bonds had been loosed, had rushed to where Emon lay with his head in his father's lap, while the two policemen, Cotter and Donovan, moved up with their prisoner. They not only handcuffed him, but had tied his legs together, and threw him on the side of the road, "to wait their convenience," while they rendered any assistance they could to the wounded man.
The father had succeeded in stanching the blood, which at first had poured freely from the wound. With the assistance of one of the police, while the other was tying the prisoner, he had drawn his son up into a sitting posture and leaned him against the bank at the side of the road, and got his arm round him to sustain him. He was not shot dead; but was evidently very badly wounded. He was now, however, recovering strength and consciousness, as the blood ceased to flow.
"Open your eyes, Emon dear, if you are not dead, and look at your own Winny," she said; "your mad Winny Cavana, who brought you here to be murdered! Open your eyes, Emon, if you are not dead! I don't ask you to speak."
Emon not only opened his eyes, but turned his face and looked upon her. Oh, the ghastly smile he tried to hide!
"Don't speak, Emon; but tell me with your eyes that you are not dying. No, no, Emon--Emon-a-knock! demon as he is, he could not murder you. Heaven would not permit so much wickedness!"
Emon looked at her again. A faint but beautiful smile--beautiful now, for the color had returned to his cheeks--beamed upon his lips as he shook his head.
"Yes, yes, he has murdered him," sobbed the distracted father; "and I pity you, Winny Cavana, as I hope you will pity his poor mother; to say nothing of myself."
"No, no, do not say so! He will not die, he shall not die!" And she pressed her burning that's to his marble forehead. It was smooth as alabaster, cold as ice.
"Win--ny Ca--va-na, good-by," he faintly breathed in her ear. "My days, my hours, my very moments are numbered. I feel death trembling in every vein, in every nerve. I could--could--have--lived for you--Winny; but even--to--die for you--is--a blessing, because--successful. One last request--Winny, my best beloved, is --all--I have--to ask; spare me--a spot in Rathcash--chapel-yard, in the space allotted to--the--Cavanas. I feel some wonderful strength given me just now. It is a special mercy that I may speak with you before I go. But, Winny, my own precious, dearest love, do not deceive yourself. If I reach home to receive my mother's blessing before I die, it is the most--" and he leaned his head against his father's breast.
"No more delay!" cried Winny energetically, "Time is too precious to be lost; bring the cart here, and let us take him home at once, and send for [{242}] the doctor. Oh, policeman, one of you is enough to remain with the prisoner here; do, like a good man, leave your gun and belts here, and run off across the fields as fast as you can, and bring Dr. Sweeney to Rathcash house."
"To Shanvilla," faintly murmured the wounded man; "and bring Father Farrell."
"Yes, yes, to Shanvilla, to be sure," repeated Winny; "my selfish heart had forgotten his poor mother."
Emon opened his eyes at the word mother, and smiled. It was a smile of thanks; and he closed them again.
The policeman had obeyed her request in a moment; and, stripped of ail incumbrances, he was clearing the hedges, ditches, and drains toward Dr. Sweeney's.
They then placed Lennon, as gently as if he were made of wax, into the cart, his head lying in Winny's lap, and his hand clasped in hers, while the distracted father led the horse more like an automaton than a human being. They proceeded at a very gentle pace, for the cart had no springs, and Winny knew that a jolt might be fatal if the blood burst forth afresh. The policeman followed with his prisoner at some distance; and ere long, for the dawn had become clear, he saw his comrades coming on behind him, a long way off. But there was evidently a man beside themselves and Jamesy Doyle. He sat down by the side of the road until they came up.
How matters stood was then explained to Sergeant Driscoll aside. Cotter told him he had no hopes that ever Lennon would reach home alive; that Donovan had gone off across the country for the doctor and the priest, and his carabine and belts were on the cart.
"We will take that prisoner from you, Cotter," said Driscoll, "and do you get on to the cart as fast as you can; you may be of use. I don't like to bring this villain Murdock in sight of them; you need not say we have got him at all. We will go on straight to the barrack by the lower road, and let you go up to Lennon's with the cart. But see here, Cotter--do not speak to the wounded man at all, and don't let anybody else speak to him either. We don't want a word from him; sure we all saw it as plain as possible."
Cotter then hastened on, and soon overtook the cart. He merely said, in explanation of being by himself, that his comrades had come up, and that he had given his prisoner to them and hastened on to see if he could be of any use.
Winny soon suggested a use for the kind-hearted man--to help poor Pat Lennon into the cart, and to lead the horse. This was done without stirring hand or foot of the poor sufferer; and the father lay at Emon's other side scarcely less like death than he was himself.
When they came to the end of the road which turned to Rathcash and Shanvilla, Winny, as was natural, could have wished to go to Rathcash. She knew not how her poor father had been left, or what might be his fate. She could not put any confidence in the assurance of such ruffians, that a hair of his head should not be hurt; and did not one of the villains remain in the house? Yes, Winny, one of them did remain in the house, but he did no harm to your father.
With all her affection and anxiety on her father's account, Winny could not choose but to go on to Shanvilla. The less moving poor Emon got the better, and to get from under his head now and settle him afresh would be cruel, and might be fatal. Winny, therefore, sat silent as Cotter turned the horse's head toward Shanvilla, where, ere another half-hour had added to the increasing light, they had arrived.
Winny Cavana, who knew what a scene must ensue when they came to the door, had sent on Cotter to the house; the father again taking his place at the horse's head. He was to tell Mrs. Lennon that an accident had happened--no, no, not that; but that [{243}] Emon had been hurt; and that they were bringing him home quietly for fear of exciting him.
These precautions were of no use. Mrs. Lennon had waited but for the word "hurt," which she understood at once as importing something serious. She rushed from the house like a mad woman, and stood upon the road gazing up and down. Fortunately Winny had the forethought to stop the cart out of sight of the house to give Cotter time to execute his mission, and calm Mrs. Lennon as much as possible. It was a lucky thought, and Cotter, who was a very intelligent man, was equal to the emergency.
As Mrs. Lennon looked round her in doubt, Cotter cried out, "Oh, don't go that road, Mrs. Lennon, for God's sake!" and he pointed in the direction in which the cart was not. It was enough; the ruse had succeeded; and Mrs. Lennon started off at full speed, clapping her hands and crying out: "Oh! Emon, Emon, have they killed you at last? have they killed you? Oh! Emon, Emon, my boy, my boy!" And she clapped her hands, and ran the faster. She was soon out of sight and hearing.
"Now is your time," said Cotter, running back to the cart; "she is gone off in another direction, and we'll have him on his bed before she comes back."
They then brought the cart to the door, and in the most gentle and scientific manner lifted poor Emon into the house and laid him on his bed.
"God bless you, Winny!" he said, stretching out his hand. "Don't, like a good girl, stop here now. Return to your poor father, who must be distracted about you. I'm better and stronger, thank God, and will be able to see you again before I--"
"Whist, whist, Emon mavourneen, don't talk that way; you are better, blessed be God! I must, indeed, go home, Emon, as you say, for my heart is torn about my poor father. God bless you, Emon, my own Emon!" And she stooped down and kissed his pale lips.
Cotter and she then left the house and made all the speed they could toward Rathcash. They had not gone very far when Cotter heard Mrs. Lennon coming back along the road, and they saw her turn in toward her own house.
Bully-dhu having satisfied himself that nothing further was to be apprehended from the senseless form of a man upon the kitchen floor, and finding it impossible to burst open the door where his master was confined, thought the next best thing that he could do was to bemoan the state of affairs outside the house, in hope of drawing some help to the spot. Accordingly he took his post immediately at the house-door, still determined to be on the safe side, for fear the man was scheming. Here he set up a long dismal and melancholy howl.
"My father is dead," said Winny; "there is the Banshee."
"Not at all, Miss Winny; that is a dog."
"It is all the same; Bully-dhu would not cry that way for nothing; there is somebody dead, I'm sure."
"It is because he knew you were gone, Miss Winny, and he did not know where to look for you; that's all, you may depend."
"Thank you, Cotter; the dog might indeed do that same. God grant it is nothing worse!"
By this time they were at the door, and Cotter followed Bully-dhu into the house. Winny, without looking right or left, rushed to her father's room. She found it locked, but, quickly turning the key, she burst in. It was now broad daylight, and she saw at a glance her father stretched upon the bed, still bound hand and foot. She flew to the table, and taking his razor cut the cords. The poor old man was quite exhausted from suspense, excitement, and the fruitless physical efforts he had been making to free himself.
"Thank God, father!" she exclaimed; "I hope you are not hurt."
"No, dear. Give me a sup of milk, or I will choke."
Poor Winny, in the ignorance of her past habits, called out to Biddy to bring her some.
Biddy answered with a smothered cry from the inner room. Cotter flew to the door and unlocked it. In another moment he had set her free from her cords, and she darted across the kitchen to minister to the old man's wants at Winny's direction.
Poor Bully-dhu then pointed out to Cotter the share he had taken in the night's work, and it might almost be said quietly "gave himself up." At least he showed no disposition to escape. He lay down at the dead man's head, sweeping the floor with an odd wag of his bushy tail, rather proud than frightened at what he had done. That it was his work, Cotter could not for a moment doubt. The man's throat had by this time turned almost black, and there were the marks of the dog's teeth sunk deep at each side of the windpipe, where the choking grip of death had prevailed.
Cotter then brought a quilt from the room where he had released Biddy Murtagh, and spread it over the corpse, and was bringing Bully-dhu out to the yard, when he met Jamesy Doyle at the door. Jamesy took charge of him at once, and brought him round to the yard, where for the present he shut him up in his wooden house; but he did not intend to neglect him.
Jamesy told Cotter that Sergeant Driscoll and his men had taken their prisoners safe to the barracks, and desired him to tell Cotter to join them as soon as soon as possible.
"I cannot join them yet awhile, Jamesy; we have a corpse in the house."
"God's mercy! an' shure it's not the poor ould masther?" said Jamesy.
"No; I don't know who he is. He must have been one of the depredators."
"An' th' ould masther done for him!--God be praised? More power to his elbow!"
"No, Jamesy, it was not the old master. It was Bully-dhu that choked him--see here;" and he turned down the quilt.
"The divil a word of lie you're tellin', sir; dear me, but he gev' him the tusks in style. Begorra, Bully, I'll give you my own dinner to-day, an' tomorrow, an' next day for that. See, Mr. Cotter, how the Lord overtakes the guilty at wanst, sometimes. Didn't he strike down Tom Murdock wid lightning, an' he batin' me out a horseback? an I'd never have cum up wid him only for that."
Cotter could not help smiling at Jamesy's enthusiasm.
"What are you laughin' at, Mr. Cotter? Maybe it's what you don't give in to me; but I tell you I seen the flash of lightning take him down ov the horse, as plain as the daylight. Where's Miss Winny?"
"Whist, whist, boy, don't be talking that way. Never heed Miss Winny; she's with her father. I would not like her to see this dead man here; don't be talking so loud. Is there any place we could draw him into, until we find out who he is?"
"An' I'd like to show him to Miss Winny, for Bully-dhu's sake. Will I call her?"
"If you do, I'll stick you with this, Jamesy," said Cotter, getting angry, and tapping his bayonet with his finger.
"Begorra, an' that's not the way to get me to do anything, I can tell you; for I--"
"Well, there's a good boy, James; you have proved your cell one tonight; and now for God's sake don't fret poor Miss Winny worse than what she is already, and it would nearly kill her to see this dead man here now--it would make her think of some one else dead, Jamesy--thigum thu?
"Thau, begorra--you're right enough."
"Where can we bring him to? is there any outhouse or place?"
"To be sure there is; there's the barn where I sleep; cum out wid him at wanst. I'll take him by the heels, an' let you dhraw him along the floore by his shoulders."
There was a coolness and intrepidity about all Jamesy's acts and expressions which surprised Cotter. With all his experience he had never seen the same in so young a boy--except in a hardened villain; and he had known Jamesy for the last four years to be the very contrary. Cotter, however, was not philosopher enough to know that an excess of principle, and a total want of it, might produce the same intrepidity of character.
Cotter took the dead man under the shoulders and drew him along, while Jamesy took him by the feet and pushed him.
Neither Winny, nor Biddy, nor the old man knew a word about this part of the performance. Jamesy saw the propriety of keeping it to himself for the present. Cotter locked the barn-door and took away the key with him. He told Jamesy that he would find out from the other prisoner "who the corpse was," and that he would call again with instructions in the course of the day. He then hastened to the barrack, and Jamesy went in to see Miss Winny and the ould masther. The message which Cotter had sent her by Jamesy was this--"To keep up her heart, and to hold herself in readiness for a visit from the resident magistrate before the day was over."
CHAPTER XXXI.
It was still very early. The generality of the inhabitants were not yet up, and Winny sighed at the long sad day which was before her. She had first made her father tell her how the ruffians had served him, and after hearing the particulars she detailed everything which had befallen herself. She described the battle at the bridge, as well as her sobs would permit her, from the moment that Lennon sprang up from behind the battlement to their rescue until the fatal arrival of the police, as she called it, upon the approach of whom "that demon fired his pistol at my poor Emon as close as I am to you, father."
"Well, well; Winny, don't lave the blame upon the police; he would have fired at Lennon whether they cum up or not, for Emon never would have let go his holt."
"True enough, father. I do not lay it upon them at all. Emon would have clung to his horse for miles if he had not shot him down."
"Beside, Jamesy says the police has him fast enough. Isn't that a mercy at all events, Winny?"
"It is only the mercy of revenge, father, God forgive me for the thought. The law will call it justice."
"And a just revenge is all fair an' right, Winny. He had no pity on an innocent boy, an' why should you have pity on a guilty villain?"
"Pity! No, father, I have no pity for him. But I wish I did not feel so vengeful."
"But how did the police hear of it, Winny, or find out which way they went; an' what brought Jamesy Doyle up with them?"
"We must ask Jamesy himself about that, father," she said; and she desired Biddy to call him in, for he was with Bully-dhu.
Jamesy was soon in attendance again, and they made him sit down, for with all his pluck he looked weary and fatigued. They then asked him to tell everything, from the moment he first heard the men smashing the door.
Jamesy Doyle's description of the whole thing was short and decisive, told in his own graphic style, with many "begorras," in spite of Winny's remonstrances.
"Begorra, Miss Winny, I tould Bully-dhu what they were up to, an' I let him in at the hall doore, an' [{246}] when I seen him tumble the fust man he met, and stick in his windpipe without so much as a growl, I knew there was one man wouldn't lave that easy, any way; an' I med off for the polis as fast as my legs and feet could carry me."
"And how did--how--did--poor Emon hear of it?" sighed Winny.
"Arra blur-an-ages, Miss Winny, didn't I cut across by Shanvilla, an' tould him every haporth? Why, miss, he'd murdher me af I let him lie there dhramin', an' they carrin' you off, Miss Winny."
"Oh, Jamesy, why did you not go straight for the police, and never mind Emon-a-knock?" she said.
"Ah! Winny dear," said her father, "remember that there was nearly half-an-hour's battle at the bridge before the police came up; and had your persecutor that half-hour's law, where and what would you be now?"
"I did not care. I would have fought my battle alone against twenty Tom Murdocks. They might have ill-used me, and then murdered me, but what of that? Emon-a-knock would live, perhaps to avenge me; but now--now--oh, father, father! I wish he had murdered me along with Emon. But, God forgive me, indeed I am very sinful; I forgot you, father dear. Here, Biddy, get the kettle boiling; we all want a cup of tea;" and she put her handkerchief to her swimming eyes.
Jamesy had thrown himself in his clothes on some empty sacks in a corner of the kitchen, saying, "Miss Winny, I'm tired enough to sleep anywhere, an' I'll lie down here."
"Hadn't you better go to your own bed in the barn, Jamesy, where you can take off your clothes? I am sure you would be more comfortable."
"No, Miss Winny, I'm sure I would not. Beside, the policeman tuck--" Jamesy stopped himself. "What the mischief have I been saying?" thought he.
"The policeman took what, Jamesy?" said Winny.
"He tuck the key, miss. He said no one should g'win there till he cum back."
"Oh, very well, Jamesy; lie down, and let me throw this quilt over you. But, God's mercy, if here is not a pool of blood! I wonder what brought it here? Oh, am I doomed to sec nothing but blood--blood? What is this, Jamesy, do you know?"
"I do, miss. It was Bully-dhu that cut one of the men when they cum in; and no cure for him, Miss Winny!"
"Why, he must have cut him severely, James; the whole floor is covered with blood."
"Cut him, is it? Begorra, Miss Winny, he kilt him out-an-out. I may as well tell you the thruth at wanst."
"For heaven's sake, you do not mean to say that he actually killed him, Jamesy?"
"That's just what I do mane. Miss Winny, an' I may as well tell you, for Mr. Cotter will be here by-an-bye with the coroner and a jury to hould an inquest. Isn't he lyin' there abroad in the barn as stiff as a crowbar, an' as ugly as if he was bespoke, miss? Didn't I help Mr. Cotter to carry him out, or rather to dhrag him? for begorra he was as heavy as if he was made of lead!"
"Fie, fie, James, you should not talk that way of any poor fellow-being--for shame!"
"An' a bad fellow-bein' he was, to cum here to carry you away. Miss Winny, an' maybe to murdher you in the mountain, or maybe worse. My blessin' on you, Bully-dhu!"
Winny was shocked at the cool manner in which Jamesy spoke of such a frightful occurrence. She was afraid she would never make a Christian of him.
Cotter and a comrade soon returned and took charge of the body until the coroner should arrive. They had served summonses upon twelve or fourteen of the most respectable neighbors--good men and true. They had ascertained that the deceased was a man named John Fahy, from the [{247}] county of Cavan, a reputed Ribbonman. The cart had belonged to him, but of course there was no name upon it. The news of the whole affair had already spread like fire the moment the people began to get about; and two brothers of Fahy's arrived to claim the body before the inquest was over.
Jamesy Doyle was the principal witness "before the fact." His evidence was like himself all over. Having been sworn by the coroner, he did not think that sufficient, but began his statement with another oath of his own--the reader knows by this time what it was. The coroner checked him, and reminded him that he was already on his solemn oath, and that light swearing of that kind was very unseemly, and could not be permitted. He advised him to be cautions.
Jamesy had sense enough to take his advice, although he seldom took Winny's upon the same subject.
"When first I heerd the rookawn I got up, an' dhrew on my clothes, an' cum round the corner of the house. I seen three men stannin' at the doore, an' I heerd wan of 'em ordher it to be bruck in. I knew there was but two women an' wan ould man, the masther, in the house, an' I knew there was no use in goin' in to be murdhered, an' that I could be of more use a great dale outside. Bully-dhu was roarin' like a lion in the back yard, an' couldn't get out. I knew Bully was well able for wan of 'em, any way, if not for two, an' I let him out an' brought him to the hall-doore. The minit ever I let him out iv the yard he was as silent as the grave, an' I knew what that meant. Well, I brought him to the doore, an' pointed to the deceased, for he was the first man I seen in from me. Well, without with your lave or by your lave, Bully had him tumbled on the floore, an' his four big teeth stuck in his windpipe. 'That'll do,' says I, 'as far as wan of ye goes, any way;' an' I med off for the police. I wasn' much out about Bully, your worship, for the man never left that antil Mr. Cotter an' I helped him out into the barn."
Cotter was then examined. His evidence was "that he had found the deceased lying dead on the kitchen floor; that the dog on entering lay down at his head and put his paw upon his breast, as if pointing out what he had done." That was all he knew about it.
The doctor was then examined--surgeon, perhaps, we should call him on this occasion--and swore "that he had carefully examined the deceased; that he had been choked; and that the wounds in the throat indicated that they had been inflicted by the teeth of a large, powerful dog; no cat nor other animal known in this country could have done it."
This closed the evidence. The coroner made a short charge to the jury, and the verdict was "that the deceased, John Fahy, as they believed him to be, had come by his death by being suffocated and choked by a large black dog called Bully-dhu, belonging to one Edward Cavana, of Rathcash, in the parish, etc., etc.; but that inasmuch as he, the said deceased, was in the act of committing a felony at the time, for which, if convicted in a court of law, he would have forfeited his life, they would not recommend the dog to be destroyed."
The coroner said "he thought this was a very elaborate verdict upon so simple a case; and disagreed with the jury upon the latter part of the verdict. The dog could not have known that, and it was evident he was a ferocious animal, and he thought he ought to be destroyed."
"He did know it, your honor," vociferated Jamesy Doyle. "Didn't I tell him, and wasn't it I pointed out the deceased to him, and tould him to hould him? If it was th' ould masther or myself kilt him, you couldn't say a haporth to aidher of us, let alone the dog."
If this was not logic for the coroner, it was for the jury, who refused to change their verdict. But the [{248}] tack to the verdict, exonerating poor Bully-dhu, was almost unnecessary, where he had such a friend in court as Jamesy Doyle; for he, anticipating some such attempt, had provided for poor Bully's safety. His first act after Cotter had left in the morning was to get a chum of his, who lived not for off, to take the dog in his collar and strap to an uncle's son, a first cousin of his, about seven miles away, to tell him what had happened, and to take care of the dog until the thing "blew over," and that "Miss Winny would never forget it to him."
Billy Brennan delivered the dog and the message safely; "he'd do more nor that for Miss Winny;" or for that matter for the dog himself, for they were great play-fellows in the dry grass of a summer's day. Now it was a strange fact, and deserves to be recorded for the curious in such things, that although Bully-dhu had never seen Jamesy's cousin in his life, and that although he was a surly, distant dog to strangers, he took up with young Barny Foley the moment he saw him. He never stirred from his side, and did not appear inclined to leave the place.
Before the inquest had closed its proceedings the two brothers of the deceased man adverted to had arrived to take away the dead body. It was well for poor Bully-dhu, after all, that Jamesy had been so thoughtful, although it was quite another source of danger he had apprehended. The two Fahys searched high and low for the dog, one of them armed secretly with a loaded pistol, but both openly with huge crab-tree sticks to beat his brains out, in spite of coroner, magistrate, police, or jury. But they searched in vain. They offered Jamesy, not knowing the stuff he was made of, a pound-note "to show them where the big black dog was." His answer, though mute, was just like him. He put his left thumb to the tip of his nose, his right thumb to the little finger of the left hand, and began to play the bagpipes in the air with his fingers.
They pressed it upon him and he got vexed.
"Begorra," said be, "af ye cum here to-night after midnight to take Miss Winny away, I'll show him to you, an' maybe it wouldn't be worth the coroner's while to go home."
"He may stay where he is, for that matther," said one of the brothers. "He'll have work enough tomorrow or next day at Shanvilla;" and they turned away.
"Ay, and the hangman from the county of Cavan will have something to do soon afther," shouted Jamesy after them, who was never at a loss for an answer. He had the last word here, and it was a sore one.
As the brothers Fahy failed in their search for Bully, they had nothing further that they dare vent their grief and indignation upon. It was no use in bemoaning the matter there amongst unsympathizing strangers; so they fetched the cart to the barn-door and laid the corpse into it, covering it with a white sheet which they had brought for the purpose.
"Will I lind you a hand, boys?" said Jamesy, as they were struggling with the weight of the dead man at the barn-door.
The scowl he got from one of the brothers would have discomfited a boy less plucky or self-possessed than Jamesy Doyle; but he had not said it in irony. No one there appeared inclined to give any help, and Jamesy actually did get under the corpse, and "helped him into the cart," as he said himself.
The unfortunate men then left, walking one at each side of their dead brother. And who is there, except perhaps Jamesy Doyle, who would not pity them as they rumbled their melancholy way down the boreen to the road?
CHAPTER XXXII.
About two hours later in the day "the chief" arrived to "visit the scene," as he was bound to do before he made his report.
He was received courteously and with respect by Winny Cavana, who showed him into the parlor. He considerately began by regretting the unfortunate and melancholy occurrence which had taken place; but of course added, the satisfaction it was to him, indeed that it must be to every one, that the perpetrators had been secured, particularly the principal mover in the sad event.
Winny made no remark, and "the chief" then requested her to state in detail what had occurred from the time the men broke into the house until the shot was fired which wounded the man. She seemed at first disinclined to do so; but upon that gentleman explaining that she would be required to do so on her oath, when the magistrate called to take her information, she merely sighed, and said:
"I suppose so; indeed I do not see why I should not."
She then gave him a plain and succinct account as far as their conduct to herself was concerned, and referred him to her father and the servants for the share they had taken toward them.
He then obtained from old Cavana, Biddy Murtagh, and Jamesy Doyle what they knew of the transaction; and thus fully primed and loaded for his report, he left, telling Winny Cavana "the stipendiary magistrate had left home the day before, but that he would be back the next day; and she might expect an official visit from him, as he would make arrangements with him that she should not be brought from her home, when no doubt the prisoners would be remanded for the doctor's report of the wounded man."
The morning after "the chief" had been at Rathcash house, Winny Cavana, almost immediately after breakfast, told Jamesy Doyle to get ready and come with her to Shanvilla. She was anxious to ascertain from personal knowledge how poor Emon was going on. She was distracted with the contradictory reports which Biddy Murtagh brought in from time to time from the passers-by upon the road. Winny had little, if any, hope at all that Edward Lennon would survive. She had been assured by Father Farrell, in whose truth and experience she placed the greatest confidence, that it was impossible, although he might linger for a few days. The doctor, too, had pronounced the same solemn doom. Her thoughts as she hastened toward Shanvilla were full of awe and determination. She had spent the night, the entire night, for she had never closed an eye, in laying down a broad short map of her future life, and it was already engraven on her mind. She had been clever in drawing such things at the school where she had him been educated, and her thoughts now took that form.
Her poor father while he lived; herself before and after his death; the Lennons one and all; Kate Mulvey, Phil M'Dermott, Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and Bully-dhu were the only spots marked upon the map; but they were conspicuous, like the capital towns of counties. There was but one river on the map, and it could be traced by Winny's tears. It was the great river of "the Past," and rose in the distant mountains of her memory which hemmed in this map of her fancy. It flowed first round old Ned and the Lennons, who were bounded by Winny on the north, south, east, and west. It passed by Kate Mulvey and Phil M'Dermott, and thence passing by Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and Bully-dhu, it emptied itself into the Irish ocean of Winny's affectionate heart.
Winny knew that she would meet Father Farrell at Emon's bedside; he scarcely ever left it; and she knew [{250}] that he would not deceive her as to his real state. She knew, too, that he would not refuse her a sincere Christian advice and counsel upon the sudden resolve which had taken possession of her heart.
Father Farrell saw her coming from Emon's window, and went to meet her at the door. They stood in the kitchen alone. The poor father and mother had been kept out of Emon's room by the priest, and were bewailing their fate in their own room.
"I am glad you are come, Winny, dear," said he. "The poor fellow has not ceased to speak of you and pray for you from the first, when he does transgress his orders not to speak at all."
"How is he, oh, how is he, Father Farrell?"
"Stronger just now, but dying, Winny Cavana. Let nothing tempt you to deceive yourself. He has been so much stronger for the last hour or so that I was just going to send my gig for yon. He said it would soothe his death-bed, which he knows he is on, Winny, to see you and have your blessing."
"He shall have my blessing, and I shall claim every right to give it to him. Father Farrell," she added, solemnly, but with a full, untrembling tone, "will you marry me to Edward Lennon?"
The priest almost staggered back from her for a moment.
"Yes, Father Farrell, you have heard aright, and I solemnly and sincerely repeat the question. Listen: You must know that never on this earth will I wed any other. I shall devote myself and the greater portion of any wealth I may possess to the church for charitable purposes after Edward Lennon, my future husband--future here and hereafter--is dead. I wish to call him husband by that precious right which death will so soon rob me of. Even so, Father Farrell; give me that right, short though it be. It will enable me legally to provide for his honest, stout-hearted father and his broken-hearted mother, without the lying lips of slander doubting the motive. Oh, Father Farrell, it is the only consolation left me now to hope for, or in your power to bestow."
The priest was struck dumb. Her eyes, her breath, pleaded almost more than her words.
Father Farrell sat down upon a form.
"Winny Cavana," he said, "do not press me--that is, I mean, do not hurry me. The matter admits of serious consideration, and may not be altogether so unreasonable or extraordinary as it might at first appear. But I say that it requires consideration. Walk abroad for a few minutes and let me think."
"No, father. You may remain here for a few minutes and think. Let me go in and see my poor Emon."
"Yes, yes, you shall; but I must go in along with you, Winny. I can come out again if I find that more consideration is necessary."
Winny saw that she had gained her point. They then entered the room, and Emon cast such a look of gratitude and love upon Winny as calmed every doubt upon the priest's mind, for he was afraid that Emon himself would object, and that the scene would injure him.
Winny was soon at Emon's side, with his hand clasped in hers.
"You are come, Winny dear, to bid me a final good-by--in this world," he murmured. "God bless you for your goodness and your love for me!"
"I am come, Emon dear, to fulfil that love in the presence of heaven, and with Father Farrell's sanction--am I not, Father Farrell?"
"I never doubted it, Winny dear."
"And you shall not doubt it now. You shall die declaring it. Emon-- Emon, my own Emon-a-knock, I am come to claim the promise you gave me to make me your wife."
"Great God, Winny I are you mad?--she not mad. Father Farrell?"
"No, Emon dear, she really is not mad. She will devote herself and her whole future life to charity and the love of a better world than this. She can do that not only as well, but better, in some respects, as your widow than otherwise. I have considered the matter, and I cannot see that there are any just reasons to deny her request."
"Then I shall die happy, though it be this very night. But oh, Winny, Winny, think of what you are about; time will soften your grief, and you may yet be happy with ano--"
"Stop, Emon dear--not another word; for here, before heaven and Father Farrell, I swear never shall I marry any one in this world but you. Here, Father Farrell, begin; here is a ring you gave me yourself, Emon, and although not a wedding-ring it will do very well--we will make one of it."
Father Farrell then brought in Emon's father and mother, and married Winny Cavana to the dying man.
She stooped down and kissed his pallid lips. Big drops of sweat burst out upon his forehead, and Father Farrell saw that the last moment was at hand. Winny held his hand between both hers, and said, "Emon, you are now mine--mine by divine right, and I resign you to the Lord." And she looked up to heaven through the roof, while the big tears rolled down her pale cheeks.
"Winny," said Emon, in a solemn but distinct voice, "I now die happy. For this I have lived, and for this I die. I cannot count on even hours now; my moments are numbered. I feel death trembling round my heart. But you have calmed its approach, Winny dear. Your love and devotion at a moment like this is the happiest pang that softens my passage to the grave. I can now claim a right to what you promised me as a favor--my portion of your space in Rathcash chapel-yard. God bless you, Winny dear!--Good-by--my--wife!"
Yes, Emon had lived and had died for the love of her who was now his widow.
As Emon had ceased to speak, a bright smile broke over his whole countenance, and he rendered his last sigh into the safe-keeping of his guardian angel, until the last great day.
Winny knew that he was dead, though his breath had passed so gently forth that he might have been only falling asleep. She continued to hold his hand, and to gaze upon his still features, while Father Farrell's lips moved in silent prayer, more for the living than the dead.
"Come, Winny," he at last said, "you cannot remain here just at present. Come along with me, and I will bring you in my gig to your father's house, where I will tell him all myself."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Father Farrell," she said, turning resignedly with him. "Tell poor Pat Lennon what has happened; their pity for me as a companion in their grief may help to soften their own. Tell him, of course, Father Farrell, that I shall take all the arrangements of the funeral upon myself--God help them and me!"
As they came from the dead man's room they met Pat Lennon in the kitchen, and Winny, throwing her arms round his neck, caught the big salt tears which were rolling down his face upon her quivering lips.
"I have a right to call you father now," she exclaimed. "You have lost a son, but I will be your daughter," and she kissed him again and again.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
On their way to Rathcash, Winny in the first instance told the priest that "of course her poor husband should be buried in Rathcash chapel-yard, and, as a matter in which she could not interfere, by Father Roche." Here she stopped, but the kind-hearted priest took her up at once.
"Of course, my dear child," he said, "that will be quite right. Indeed, Winny, I should not wish to be the person so soon to add that sad ceremony to the still sadder one I was engaged in to-day."
"Before God or man, Father Farrell, you will never have cause to regret that act. It was my own choosing after deliberate consideration, and I was best judge of my own feelings. I can be happy now. I never could be happy if it were otherwise."
"God grant it, my love," said the priest.
"But still, Father Farrell," she continued, "I have something more for you to do for me. Will you not, like a good man, take all the arrangement of the funeral upon yourself? I will pay every penny of the expenses, and let them not be niggardly. Thank God, Father Farrell, I can do so now without reproach."
The kind, sympathizing priest engaged to do everything which was requisite in the most approved of manner. The more he reflected upon what he had done, the less fault he had to find with himself. There was a calm, resigned tone about all that Winny now said very different from what he might have anticipated from his knowledge of her temper and disposition, had the fatal moment taken place when the shot was fired, or even subsequently before she became Edward Lennon's wife. Bitter revenge, he thought, would have seized her soul toward the man who had deprived her of all hope or source of happiness in this world. Now the only time she trusted her tongue to speak of him was an exclamation--"May God forgive him!"
They soon arrived at Rathcash house, where Father Farrell paid a long visit to old Ned Cavana. His kindness quite gained upon the old man, and, before he left, he acquainted him with the facts of his daughter's position and the death of her husband.
The old man sat silent for some time after the truth had been made known to him. Winny stood hoping for a look of encouragement and forgiveness; but the old man gave it not. At length, with that impatience habitual to her disposition, she rushed into his arms and wept upon his breast.
"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, "I could never be the wife of any man living after poor Emon's death in defence of my life; ay, more than my life, of my honor."
"But oh, Winny, Winny! to sacrifice yourself for a man so near the grave! There was no hope for him, I heerd."
"None, father. I was aware of that. Had there been, I should have waited patiently. I told Father Farrell here my plans, and the same thing as swore that I would not alter them. He will now tell them to you, father dear; and I shall lie down for a couple of hours, for indeed I want rest of both body and mind."
She then kissed her father again and again, and blessed him, or rather she prayed God to do so, and went to her room.
Father Farrell then explained all Winny's views to her distracted father, observing, as he had been enjoined to do, the tenderest love and respect for the old man; taking nothing "for granted;" but at the same time showing the utmost confidence that all matters would still be arranged for his daughter in the same manner he had often explained to her to be his intention. "One step she was determined on," Father Farrell said; "and that was to join a religious sisterhood of charity in the north. Nothing should ever tempt her to marry."
"I'll sell this place at wance," said old Ned. "It's not a month since I had a rattlin' bid for it; but my landlord--and he's member for the county, you know--tould me with his own lips, that if ever I had a mind to part with it, he'd give me a hundred pounds more for it than any one else."
"That was Winny's wish, Ned; and that you should remove with her to the north, where she would settle you comfortably, and where she could [{253}] see you almost every day in the week."
"Almost," repeated old Ned, sorrowfully.
"Well, perhaps every day, Ned, for that matter."
"Well, Father Farrell, I would not wish to stay here any longer afther what has happened. I'll sell the place out an' out at wance. I have nothing to do but to write to my landlord. I could not bear to be lookin' across at Mick Murdock's afther what tuck place. I think my poor Winny is right; an' that it was the Lord put it all into her head. Athen, Father Farrell, maybe it was yourself laid it down for the little girl?"
"No, Ned; she laid it all down for me. I was going to reason with her at first, but she put her hand upon my mouth, and told me to stop; that nothing should alter her plans. I considered her words, Ned, for a while, and I gave in; not on account of her determination, but because I thought she was right. And I think so still; even to the marrying of Emon on his death-bed."
"Indeed, Father Farrell, you have aised my mind. Glory be to God that guided her!"
"Amen," said the priest.
Father Farrell had now in the kindest manner dealt with old Ned Cavana, according to Winny's wishes and instructions; so that it was an easy matter for Winny herself on that evening, when she had joined her father after a refreshing sleep, to explain more in detail her intentions as regarded herself, and her wishes as regarded her friends--those capitals of counties which were marked on the map of her imagination.
Old Ned was like a child in her hands; and no mother ever handled her first-born babe more fondly than Winny dealt with her poor old father.
"Ducks an' dhrakes iv it, Winny asthore; ducks an' dhrakes iv it, Winny dear! Isn't it all your own; what do I want with it, mavrone, but to see you happy? an' haven't you laid out a plan for both yourself an' myself that can't be bet, Winny mavoureen?"
The old man was perfectly satisfied with the map, and studied it so well that he had it by heart before he went to bed, and could have told you the boundaries of all Winny's wishes to the breadth of a hair, as he kissed her for the last time that night.
I will spare the reader a detail of the melancholy cortège of poor Emon-a-knock's funeral, which proceeded from Shanvilla to Rathcash chapel-yard the day but one after.
Winny had expressed a wish to attend it, but had yielded to the joint advice of Father Farrell and Father Roche to resist the impulse.
Emon-a-knock had been well and truly loved in life, and was now sincerely regretted in death. Father Farrell, at the head of the procession, was met by Father Roche bare-headed at the chapel-gate of Rathcash, and the melancholy ceremony was performed amidst the silent grief of the immense crowd around. Poor Emon's last wish was complied with, and he now occupied his last resting-place with the Cavanas of Rathcash.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
It was still about an hour after noon when Winny beheld from the parlor window at which she stood a very exciting cavalcade upon the road, slowly approaching the house. At once she became acquainted with the whole concern. "The chief" had fore-warned her that she might expect a visit from the magistrate the moment he returned; and her intelligence at once recognized the addition of the police and prisoners some distance in rear of the car.
Winny's heart beat quick and high as she saw them draw nigh and turn up the lane. It would be mock heroism to say that it did not. She knew [{254}] that Tom Murdock, the murderer of her husband, must be one of the prisoners, but she did not know why they were bringing him there--for the police had now made the turn. She thought the magistrate might have spared her that fresh excitement--that renewal of her hate. But the magistrate was one of those who had anticipated the law by his sense of justice and his practice. He was one who gave every one of his majesty's subjects fair play, and it was therefore his habit to have the accused face to face with the accuser when informations were taken and read.
Poor Winny was rather fluttered and disturbed when they entered, notwithstanding "the chief" had considerately prepared her for the visit. She did not lose her self-possession, however, so much as to forget the respect and courtesy due to gentlemen, beside being officers of the law. She asked them down into the parlor, and requested of them to be seated. They accepted her civility in silence, seeing enough in her manner to show them that she was greatly distressed, and required a little time to compose herself'. She was, however, the first to speak.
"I suppose, gentlemen, you are come respecting this sad affair. I told this gentleman here all I knew about it yesterday."
"Yes, but matters are still worse today, although there was no hope even then that they would be better. Of course it will relieve you so far at once to tell you that we are aware of the position in which you now stand toward the deceased."
"Yes, sir. It was with a wish that the world might know it I took the step I did. I had Father Farrell's approval of it, and my own parish-priest's as well; but subsequently--"
"My good girl, we did not come here to question the propriety or otherwise of either your actions or your motives. Nor do I for one hesitate to say that I believe both to have been unexceptionable. But it will be necessary that you should make an information upon oath as to what took place from the first moment the men came to the door, until the shot was fired by which Edward Lennon came by his death."
"I suppose, sir, you must have much better evidence than mine as to the firing of the shot. I can only swear to the fact of two men having tied me up and carried me away on a cart, and that there was a third man on horseback with a mask upon his face; that when we came to Boher bridge, the deceased Edward Lennon and his father came to our rescue; that there was a long and distracting struggle at the bridge, which lasted with very doubtful hopes of success for my deliverance until Jamesy Doyle, our servant-boy, came up with the police; that the man on horseback with the mask, whom I verily believe to have been Thomas Murdock, turned to fly; that the deceased Edward Lennon fastened in his horse's bridle to prevent him; that a deadly struggle ensued between them, and that the man on horseback fired at the deceased, who fell, I may say, dead on the road. The sight left my eyes, sir, and except that we brought the dying man home on the cart, I know no more about it of my own knowledge, sir."
"A very plain, straightforward, honest story as I ever heard," said the magistrate. "But it will be necessary for you, when upon your oath, to state whether you know, that is, whether you recognized, the man on horseback at time."
"I could not recognize his features, sir, on account of the mask he wore; but I did recognize his voice as that of Tom Murdock, and I know his figure and general appearance."
"That will do now, Mrs. Lennon. I shall only trouble you to repeat slowly and distinctly what you have already said, so that I can write it down."
The magistrate then unlocked his leather writing-case, took out the necessary forms for informations, and was [{255}] not long embodying what Winny had to say in premier shape.
He then went through the same form with old Ned, with Biddy Murtagh, and with Jamesy Doyle.
When the magistrate had all the informations taken and arranged, he directed Sergeant Driscoll to bring in the prisoners, that he might read them over and swear the several informants in their presence. Winny became very nervous and fidgety, and would have left the room, but the magistrate assured her that it was absolutely necessary that she should remain, at least while her own informations were being read. He would read them first, and she might then retire. He regretted very much that it was necessary, but he would not detain her more than a couple of minutes at most.
Tom Murdock and the other prisoner were then brought in; and Winny having identified the other man, her informations were read in a loud, distinct voice by the magistrate, and she acknowledged herself bound, etc, etc.
"You may now retire, Mrs. Lennon," said the magistrate; and she hastened to leave the room.
Tom Murdock stood near the door out of which she must pass, his hands crossed below his breast in consequence of the handcuffs. He knew that there was no chance of escape, no hope of an alteration or mitigation of his doom in this world. Everything was too plain against him. There were several witnesses to his deed of death, and the damning words by which it was accompanied, and he knew that the rope must be his end. Well, he had purchased his revenge, and he was willing to pay for it. He determined, therefore, to put on the bravado, and glut that revenge upon his still surviving victim.
"Emon-a-knock is dead. Miss Cavana," said he, as Winny would have passed him to the door, her eyes fastened on the ground; "but not buried yet", he added, with a sardonic smile. "I wish I were free of these manacles, that I might follow his remains to Shanvilla chapel-yard."
"You would go wrong," she calmly reply. "He is indeed dead, but not buried yet. But he is my dead husband, and will lie with the Cavanas in the chapel-yard of Rathcash, and rise again with them; and I would rather be possessed of the inheritance of the six feet of grass upon his grave than be mistress of Rathcash, and Rathcashmore to boot. Where will you be buried, Tom Murdock? Within the precincts of--the jail? To rise with--but no! I shall not condemn beyond the grave; may God forgive you! I cannot."
Even Tom Murdock's stony heart was moved. "Winny Cavana, do you think God can?" he said, turning toward her; but she had passed out of the door.
The magistrate then read the informations of the other witnesses, while Tom Murdock and the other prisoner, stood apparently listening, though they heard not a word.
Jamesy Doyle's informations were word for word characteristic of himself. He insisted upon having the flash of lightning inserted therein, as an undoubted fact, "if ever he saw one knock a man down in his life."
The magistrate and "the chief" had then some conversation with old Ned and Winny, who had returned at their request to the parlor. It was of a general character, but still respecting the melancholy occurrence, or indeed occurrences, the magistrate said, for he had heard of the death of the man who had been killed by the "watch-dog." Ere they left they took Jamesy aside upon this subject, as the only person who knew anything of this part of the business, and the magistrate requested him to state distinctly what he knew of the transaction.
Jamesy was distinct enough, as the reader will believe, from the specimens he has already had of his style of communicating facts.
"Tell me, my good boy," said the magistrate, "did you set the dog at [{256}] the deceased?" laying a strong emphasis on the word.
"Beghorra, your honor, Bully-dhu didn't want any settin' at all. The minnit he seen the man inside in the kitchen, he stuck in his thrapple at wanst. I knew he'd hould him till I come back, an' I med off for the police."
"Are you aware, my young champion, that if you set the dog at the deceased you would be guilty of manslaughter at least, if not murder?"
"Of murdher, is id? Oh, tare anages, what's this for? Begorra, af that be law it isn't justice. Didn't they tie th' ould masther neck an' heels? Didn't they tie Miss Winny and carry her off to murdher her, or maybe worse? Didn't they tie Biddy Murtagh? and wouldn't they ha' tied me af they could get hoult of me? an' would you want Bully-dhu to sit on his boss, lookin' on at all that, your honor?"
"That may be all true, Jamesy, but I do not think the law would exonerate you, for all that, if you set the dog at the deceased man."
"Well, begorra, I pointed at the man, your honor; but I tell you Bully-dhu wanted no settin' at him at all; af he did I'd have given it to him; and I think the law would onerate me for that same. See here now, your honor. Af th' ould masther had a double-barrel gun, an' shot the two men as dead as mutton that was goin' to tie him up, wouldn't the law be well plaised wid him? and if I had a pistol, an' shot every man iv 'em, wouldn't your honor make a chief iv me at least, instead of sending me to jail? and why wouldn't Bully-dhu, who had on'y a pair of double-barrel tusks, do his part an' help us? I'm feedin' an' taichin' that dog, your honor, since he was a whelp, an' he never disappointed me yet--there now!"
There was certainly natural logic in all this, which the magistrate, with all his experience of the law, found it difficult to contradict. A notion had come into his head at one time that if Jamesy Doyle had set the dog at John Fahy, he might be guilty of his death, notwithstanding the said John Fahy had been committing a felony at the time. But there was no proof that he had set the dog at the man beyond his own admission, and the question had not been raised. Jamesy was willing to avow his responsibility, as far as it went, in the most open and candid manner, and not only that, but to justify it, which he had indeed done in a most extraordinary, clever manner. Then what had been his conduct all through? Had it not been that of a courageous, faithful boy, who had risked his own life in obstructing the escape of the murderer? and was he not the most material witness they had--the only one who had never lost sight of the man who had shot Edward Lennon, until he himself had secured him for the police? "No, no," reflected the magistrate; "it would be absurd to hold Jamesy Doyle liable for anything, but the most qualified approbation of his conduct from first to last."
"Well, Jamesy," said he, out of these thoughts, "we will take your own opinion in favor of yourself for the present. There is no doubt of your being forthcoming at the next assizes?"
"Begorra, your honor, I'll stick to the ould masther and Miss Winny, an' I don't think they're likely to lave this."
"That will do, Jamesy. Come, Mr.----, I think we have taken up almost enough of these poor people's time. We may be going."
A word or two about old Mick Murdock ere we close this chapter, as the reader, not having seen or heard of him for some days, will no doubt be curious to know what he had been doing, and how he comported himself during so trying and exciting a scene.
During the period which Tom had spent in the obscure little public-house [{257}] upon the mountain road in the county Cavan, his own report that, he had gone to the north had done him no service; for the addition which he had tacked to it, about "going to get married to a rich young lady," was not believed by a single person for whose deception it had been spread abroad. That sort of thing had been so often repeated without fulfilment that people reversed the cry of the wolf upon the subject.
There was nothing now for it with those to whom Tom was indebted but to go to his father, in hopes of some arrangement being made to even secure them in their money. Several bills of exchange--some overdue, and some not yet at maturity--with his name across them, were brought to old Mick for sums varying from ten to fifteen and twenty pounds. Old Mick quietly pronounced them one and all to be forgeries. Tom and he had had some very sharp words before he went away. He had called the poor old man a "----old niggard" to his face, and he heard the words "cannot lost very long," as Tom slapped the door behind him.
Old Mick would have only fretted at all this had his son returned in a reasonable time to his home, and, as usual, made promises of amendment, or had even written to him. It was the first time that ever a forged acceptance had been presented to him for payment, and Tom's prolonged absence without any preconcerted object to account for it weighed heavily upon the old man's heart as to his son's real character. Tom was all this time, as the reader is aware, planning a bold stroke to secure Winny Cavana's fortune to pay off these forgeries. But we have seen with what a miserable result.
It was impossible to hide the glaring fact of Tom Murdock's apprehension and committal to jail upon the dreadful charge of murder from his father. It rang from one end of the parish to the other. But instead of rushing to meet his son, clapping his hands, and exclaiming, "Oh! wiristhrue, wiristhrue! what's this for?" poor old Mick was completely prostrated by the news; and there he lay in his bed, unable to move hand or foot from the poignancy of his grief and disgrace.
If Tom Murdock has broken his poor old father's heart, and he never rises from that bed, it is only another item in his great account.
CHAPTER XXXV.
The reader will recollect that the incidents recorded in the two last chapters took place toward the latter end of June. We will, therefore, have time, before the assizes come on, to let him know how far Winny's fancy map was perfected.
For herself, then, first. She had determined to become a member of a convent in the north of Ireland, giving up the world with all its vanities--she knew nothing of its pomps--and devoting her time, her talents, and whatever money she might finally possess, to religious and charitable purposes. She had not delayed long after the magistrate and "the chief" had left, and she had experienced a refreshing sleep, in taking her father into her confidence to the fullest extent of her intuitions, not only as regarded herself, but with respect to those friends whom she had set down upon the map to be provided for.
"Father," she said, continuing a conversation, "there is no use in your moving such a thing to me. It is no matter at what time you project it for me; my mind is made up beyond even the consideration of the question. I will never marry. Do not, like a dear good father that you have ever been, move it to me any more."
"Indeed, Winny, I could not add a word more than I have already sed; an' if that fails to bring you round, [{258}] share I'm dumb, Winny asthore. God's will be done! I'm dumb."
"It is his will I am seeking, father. What matter if we are the last of the Cavanas, as you say? Beside, my children would not be Cavanas; recollect that, father."
"I know that, Winny jewel; but they'd be of th' ould stock all the same. Their grandfather would be a Cavana, if he lived to see them."
"Be thankful for what you have, father dear. There never was a large clan of a name but some one of them brought grief to it."
"Ay, Winny asthore; but there is always wan that makes up for it by their superior goodness. Look at me that never had but the wan, an' wasn't she, an' isn't she, a threasure to me all the days of my life? Look at that, Winny."
"And there is your next-door neighbor, father, never had but the one, and instead of a treasure, has he not been a curse? Look you at that, father."
Old Ned was silent for some moments, and Winny did not wish to interrupt his thoughts. She hoped he was coming quite round to her way of thinking with respect to her never "getting married;" and she was right.
"Well, Winny asthore," he said, after a pause, "shure you're doin' a good turn for your sowl hereafther at any rate; an' I'll be led an' sed by your own sinse of goodness in the matther. For myself, Winny, wheresomever you go I'll go, where I'll see you sometimes--as often as you can, Winny. Be my time long or short, I know that you will never see me worse, if not betther nor what I always was. But it isn't aisy to lave this place, Winny asthore, where I'm livin' since I was the hoith of your knee with your grandfather an' your grandmother--God rest their sowls! There isn't a pebble in the long walk in the garden, nor a pavin'-stone in the yard, that I couldn't place upon paper forenent you there this minnit, and tell you the color of them every wan. There's scarcely a blade of grass in the pasthure-fields that I couldn't remember where it grows in my dhrames. There isn't a furze-blossom in the big ditch but what I'd know it out iv the bud it cum from. There isn't a thrush nor a blackbird about the place but what I know themselves an' their whistles as well as I know your own song from Biddy Murtagh's or Jamesy Doyle's. Not a robin-redbreast in the garden, Winny, that doesn't know me as well as I know you; an' I could tell you the difference between the very chaffinches--I could, Winny, I could."
"I know all that, father dear, and I know it will not be easy to break up all them happy thoughts in your mind. But then you know, father dear, I could not stop here looking across at the house where that man lived. God help me, father, I do not know what to do!"
Poor old Ned saw that she was distressed, and was sorry he had drawn such a picture of his former happiness at Rathcash. The recollection of these little matters had run upon his tongue, but it was not with any intention of using them as an argument to change Winny's plans.
"Winny," he said, "I didn't mane to fret you; shure I know what you say is all thrue. I could not stop here myself no more nor what you could, Winny, afther what has happened. Dear me, Winny jewel, how soon you seen through that fellow, an' how glad I am that you didn't give in to me! But now, Winny asthore, let us quit talking of him, and listen to what I have to say to you. 'Tis just this. My landlord, who you know is member for the county, tould me any time I had a mind to sell my intherest in Rathcash, that he'd give me a hundred pounds more for it than any one else. I'll write to him tomorrow, plaise God, about it. You know Jerry Carty? Well, he is afther offerin' me seven hundred [{259}] pounds into my fist for my good-will of the place. As good luck would have it, I did not put any price upon it when my landlord spoke to me about sellin' it. I can tell him now that I have a mind to sell it, an' I won't hide the raison aidher. I can let him know what Carty is willin' to give me for it, an' he's sure to give me eight hundred pounds. You know, Winny, that your six hundred pounds is in the bank b'arin' intherest for you, an' what you don't dhraw is added to it every half year. But that's naidher here nor there, Winny, for it will be all your own the very moment this place is sould, an', as I sed before, you may make ducks and dhrakes iv it. Shure I know, Winny, that'll you never see me want for a haporth while I last, be it long or short. But, Winny dear, let us live in the wan house; that's all I ax, mavourneen macree."
"That will be about fourteen hundred pounds in all, father."
"A thrifle more nor that, I think, Winny. Maybe you did not know how much or how little it was, when you laid it out the way you tould me."
"No, not exactly, father; but I knew I must have been very much within the mark; I took care of that."
"Go over it again for me, Winny dear, af it wouldn't be too much throuble."
"Not in the least, father. You know I took Kate Mulvey first, and determined to settle three hundred pounds upon her for a fortune against 'she meets with some young man,' as the song says. And I believe, father, Phil M'Dermott, the whitesmith, will be about the man. He is very fond of Kate, but he would not marry any woman until he had saved enough of money to set up a house comfortly and decently upon. Three hundred pounds fortune with Kate will set them up in good style, and I shall see the best friend I ever had happy. Then, father, there are the Lennons, my poor dear husband's parents, whom I shall next consider. Pat Lennon, poor Emon's father, risked his life most manfully in my defence. Were it not for his resolute attack upon the two men with the cart, and the obstruction he gave them, they would have carried me through the pass long before the police and Jamesy Doyle came up; and the probability is that you would never have seen your poor Winny again. I purpose purchasing the good-will of that little farm and house from which the Murphys are about to emigrate, and settle a small gratuity upon them during their lives."
"Annuity, I suppose you mane, Winny; but it's no matther. How much will that take, Winny?"
"About two hundred pounds, father, including the--what is it you call it, father?'
"Annuity, Winny, annuity; I didn't think you were so--"
"Annuity," she repeated before he had got the other word out, and he was glad afterward.
"Well, Winny, that's only five hundred out of somethin' over six."
"Then I'll give Biddy Murtagh a hundred pounds, and she must live as cook and house-maid with Kate; and I'll lodge twenty pounds in the savings-bank for Jamesy Doyle. Perhaps I owe him more than the whole of them put together."
"That will be the first duck, Winny."
"How is that, father?'
"Why, it's well beyant the six hundred, Winny, which was all you were goin' upon at first; but you may now begin with whatever we get by the sale of Rathcash."
"Well, father, I would only wish to suggest the distribution of that, for you know I have no call to it, and God grant that it may be a long day until I have."
"Faix, an' Winny, af that be so, you've left yourself bare enough. But don't be talkin' nonsense, child. What would I want with it? Won't [{260}] you take care iv me, Winny asthore? an' won't you want the most iv it where you are agoin? an' didn't you tell me already that you'd like me to let you give it to the charities of that religious establishment? Shure, there's no use in my askin' you any more not to go into it."
"None indeed, father, for I am resolved upon it. But you shall live in the town with me, and I can take care of you the same as if I was in the house with you. There shall be nothing that you can want or wish for that you shall not have, and no day that it is possible that I will not see you."
"What more had I here, Winny, except the crops coming round from the seed to the harvest, an' the cattle, an' the grass, an' the birds in the bushes? Dear, oh dear, yes! Hadn't I yourself, Winny asthore, forenent me at breakust, dinner, an' supper; an' warn't you for ever talkin' to me of an evenin', with your stitchin' or your knittin' across your lap; an', Winny jewel, wasn't your light song curling through the yard, an' the house, afore I was up in the mornin'? But now--now--Winny--oh, Winny asthore, mavourneen macree! but your poor old father will miss yourself, no matther how kind your plans may be for his comfort. Shure, the very knowledge that you were asleep in the house with me was a blessin'."
"Father," she said, "God bless you! I will be back with you in a few minutes--do not fret;" and she left him, and shut herself up in her room.
But he did fret; and he was no sooner alone than the big tears burst uncontrollably forth into a pocket-handkerchief, which he continued to sop against his face.
Winny had thrown herself upon her knees at the bedside, and prayed to God to guide her. Her thoughts and prayers were too dignified and holy for tears. But they had made a free course to the pinnacle of the mercy-seat, and she rose with her soul refreshed by the glory which had responded to her cry for guidance.
She returned to her father, a radiant smile of anticipated pleasure playing round her beautiful lips. There was no sign of grief, or even of emotion, on her cheeks.
"Father," she said, "I have been seeking guidance from the Almighty in this matter; and the old saying that 'charity begins at home'--that is moral charity in this instance--has been suggested to my heart. We shall not part, father, even temporarily. Where you live, I shall live. I have been told, father, just now, while upon my knees, that to do all the good I have projected need not oblige me to join as an actual member of any charitable or religious society. No, father, I can carry out all my plans without the necessity of living apart from you; we will therefore, father dear, still live together. But let us remove when this place is sold to B----, where the establishment I have spoken of is situated, and there, with my knitting or my stitching on my lap before you in the evenings, I can carry on all my plans in connection with the institution without being an actual member, which might involve the necessity of my living in the house. But, father dear, I hope you do not disapprove of any of them, or of the distribution of the money, so far as I have laid it out."
It was then quietly and finally arranged between them that as soon as Rathcash was sold, and the stock and furniture disposed of, they would remove to B----, in a northern county. They there intended to take a small house, either in the town or precincts--the latter old Ned preferred--where Winny could join the Sisters of Charity, at least in her acts, if not as a resident member. The money was to be disposed of as Winny had laid out, and legal deeds were to be prepared and perfected; and poor Winny, notwithstanding the sudden cloud which had darkened the blue heaven of her [{261}] life, was to be as happy as the day was long.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Within a month from the scene between Winny and her father described above, Rathcash bad been purchased and paid for. There had been "a great auction" of the stock, crops, and furniture. The house was shut up, the door locked, and the windows bolted. No smoke curled from the brick chimneys through the poplars. No sleek dark-red cows stood swinging their tails and licking their noses, while a fragrant smell of luscious milk rose through the air. No cock crew, no duck quacked, no Turkey gobbled, and no goose gabbled. No dog bayed the moon by night. Bully-dhu was at the flitting. The corn-stands and haggard were naked and cold, and the grass was beginning to grow before the door. The whole place seemed solitary and forlorn, awaiting a new tenant, or whatever plans the proprietor might lay out for its future occupation. Winny and her father had torn themselves from the spot hallowed to the old man by years of uninterrupted happiness, and to the young girl by the memory of a blissful childhood and the first sunshine of the bright hope which is nearest to a woman's heart, until that fatal night when vengeful crime broke in and snapt both spells asunder. Rathcash and Rathcashmore had been a byword in the mouths of young and old for the nine days limited for the wonder of such things.
If the goodness of his only child had broken the heart of one old man from the reflection that her earthly happiness had been hopelessly blighted, and his fond plans and prospects for her crushed for ever, the villany and wickedness of another had not been less certain in a similar result. Old Mick Murdock--ere his son stood before an earthly tribunal to answer for his crimes--had been summoned before the court of heaven.
The assizes came round, "the charge was prepared, the judge was arrayed--a most terrible show." Old Cavana and his daughter were, as a matter of course, summoned by the crown for the prosecution, as were also Pat Lennon, Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and the policemen who had come to the rescue.
Old Ned was the first witness, Winny the second, Jamesy Doyle the third. Then Biddy Murtagh and Pat Lennon, and finally, before the doctor's medical evidence was given, the policemen who came to the rescue, particularly he who had seen the shot fired and the man fall.
This closed the evidence for the Crown. There was no case, there could be no case, for the prisoner, beyond the futile cross-examination of the witnesses, by an able and tormenting counsellor, old Bob B----y, whose experience in this instance was worse than useless.
The reader need hardly follow on to the result. Tom Murdock was convicted and sentenced to death; and ere three weeks had elapsed he had paid the penalty of an ungovernable temper and a revengeful disposition upon the scaffold.
Poor Winny had pleaded hard with the counsel for the crown, and even with the attorney-general himself--who prosecuted in person--that Tom Murdock might be permitted to plead guilty to the abduction, and be sentenced to transportation for life. But the attorney-general, who had all the informations by heart, said that the animus had been manifest all through, from even prior to the hurling-match, which was alluded to by the prisoner himself as he fired the shot, and that he would most certainly arraign the prisoner for the murder. And so he was found guilty; and Winny, with her heart full of plans of peace and charity, was obliged to forge the first link in a chain the [{262}] succeeding ones of which dragged Tom Murdock to an ignominious grave.
Old Ned and Winny, accompanied by faithful Bully-dhu, had returned to B----, where the old man read and loitered about, watching every figure which approached, hoping to see his angel girl pass on some mission of holy charity, dressed in her black hood and cape.
Accompanied by Bully-dhu, he picked up every occurrence in the street, and compiled them in his memory, to amuse Winny in the evenings, in return for her descriptions of this or that case of distress which she had relieved. Thus they told story about, not very unlike tragedy and farce!
A sufficient time had now elapsed, not only for the deeds to have been perfected, but for the provisions which they set forth to have been carried out. Pat Lennon had already removed to the comfortable cottage upon the snug little farm which had been purchased for him by Winny, and the "annuity" she had settled upon him was bearing interest in the savings-bank at C. O. S.
Phil M'Dermott was one of the best to do men in that side of the country, and his wife (if you can guess who she was) was the nicest and the handsomest he (now that Winny was gone) that you'd meet with in the congregation of the three chapels within four miles of where she lived. Jamesy Doyle had been transferred--head, body, and bones--to the establishment, where he excelled himself in everything which was good and useful and--handy. Many a figary was got from time to time after him in the forge, filed up bright and nice, and if he does not "sorely belie" his abilities and aptitude, he will one day become a "whitesmith" of no mean reputation.
Biddy Murtagh was to have gone as cook and thorough servant to Mrs. M'Dermott; but the hundred pounds which had been lodged to her credit in the bank soon smoothed the way between her and Denis Murrican--a Shanvilla boy, you will guess--who induced her to become cook, but not thorough servant, I hope, to himself; so Kate M'Dermott--how strange it seems not to write 'Kate Mulvey'!--was obliged to get somebody else.
Poor Winny, blighted in her own hopes of this world's happiness, had turned her thoughts to a surer and more abiding source. She had seen her plans for the happiness of those she loved carried out to a success almost beyond her hopes. Her poor old father, getting whiter and whiter as the years rolled on, attained a ripe and good old age, blessed in the fond society of the only being whom he loved on earth. Winny herself found too large a field for individual charity and good to think of joining any society, however estimable, during her father's lifetime, and was emphatically the Sister of Charity in the singular number.
But poor old Ned has long since passed away from this scene of earthly cares, and sleeps in peace in his own chapel-yard, between two tombs. Long as the journey was, Winny had the courage and self-control to come with her father's bier, and see his coffin laid beside that of him who had been so rudely snatched away, and whom she had so devotedly loved. Poor Bully-dhu was at the funeral, and gazed into the fresh-made grave in silent, dying grief. When all was over, and the last green sod slapped down upon the mound, he could nowhere be found. He had suddenly eluded all observation. But ere a week had passed by, he was found dead upon his master's grave, after the whole neighborhood had been terrified by a night of the most dismal howling which was ever heard.
Winny returned to the sphere of her usefulness and hope, where for many years she continued to exercise a course of unselfish charity, which made many a heart sing for joy.
But she, too, passed away, and was brought home to her last resting-place in Rathcash chapel-yard, where the three tombs are still to be seen. Were she now alive she would yet be a comparatively young woman, not much past sixty-four or sixty-five years of age. But it pleased God, in his inscrutable ways, to remove her from the circle of all her bounty and her love. Had it not been so, this tale would not have yet been written.
[ORIGINAL.]