A Child of the Glens; or, Elsie's Fortunes

by Edward N. Hoare

"And now you see, Mike," said the priest, "the evil results of not coming to confession; I 've often warned you."

"So you have, Father Donnelly, and it's no fault o' yours if I haven't been a better Catholic; but I 'm punished now, so let us forget the past."

"Aye," said the priest, "you have suffered for your fault; and now wouldn't you like to receive the last rites, in case anything might happen before I come again?"

It was not too soon, for when daylight dawned the proud, restless spirit had taken flight. Long after the priest had left, Hendrick had sat, Bible in hand, pointing the dying sinner to the Great High Priest of our profession; and when the struggle was over he started home across the moors in the bleak morning, cheered and thankful in heart, believing that his labours that night had "not been in vain in the Lord."

CHAPTER VI.

Michael McAravey's death made a considerable difference in the position of his family. His widow was unable to retain and work the land; and though she obtained a considerable sum by way of tenant-right from McAuley, to whose farm the little patch was now united, she yet found herself in very straitened circumstances, especially as she regarded spending her principal as almost a sin. It was a bitter struggle, and, yet by degrees there crept into her heart a degree of peace and contentment such as she had never known before. Both she and Elsie had been deeply affected by the earnest and simple appeals of the Scripture-reader during that last sad night of watching by the bed of death. The more so, in all probability, in that the words were not addressed directly to them, so that there was none of that irritation which often results when one feels himself being "preached at." Hendrick was now a weekly visitor at Mrs. McAravey's cottage, and he had at length the gratification of seeing, in this one home at least, the results of his long-continued and faithful labours. At his suggestion, Jim, who, especially after the old man's death, could be made nothing of at home, was sent to a distant relative in Coleraine, where he had an opportunity of pursuing his studies at the Model School, with a view to entering some sort of business. This was almost the only object for which Mrs. McAravey would permit a portion of her small capital to be touched. For the rest, she and Elsie struggled on almost in poverty, but helped and, as far as possible, kept in work by the kindness of the neighbours. In some mysterious way the substance of McAravey's confession had become public property, and it was known and suspected by everybody but herself that something had come out to identify the drowned woman as Elsie's mother. Thus the child found herself, she knew not why, an object of interest to every member of the little community. And the remembrance of the dead woman was really like that of a mother to her. As Mrs. McAravey grew rapidly aged, Elsie acquired the habit of calling her "gran;" while the feelings of tenderness and sympathy that had been first roused in her by the sight of that poor soiled dead face, with the hair and sea-weed dashed across it, were cherished and sanctified by the daily call made on them in consequence of the old woman's increasing infirmities. The child had even come, strangely enough, to think of and speak to the object of her dreams as "mother." Was it an accident? Was it an instinct? Was it the result of some overheard expressions which, passing through her consciousness unnoticed, had yet made a lasting impression on the brain of the imaginative child? Or was it a providential suggestion sent by an all-pitying Father to this desolate and wandering lamb?

Thus time slipped by uneventfully, as far as external circumstances were concerned, but not purposelessly. The hard lot of the poor suffering old woman was being lighted, and her spirit trained for that eternity which was now growing large upon her vision, as earthly affairs shrank into a smaller compass. Elsie, too, who had never yet crossed the hill that seemed to meet the sky at the top of the glen, was learning lessons of perseverance and patient endurance, which would not be lost upon her, whatever the future of the child might be. Jim was seldom at home, and, alas! but little of the old childish attachment survived. The boy was ambitious, business-like, and plodding. His heart was in the town, and he seemed to retain no affection for the associations of his childhood: some of them were absolutely abhorrent to him. George Hendrick was profoundly disappointed in the lad. Not that a word could be said against his character. He was steady, diligent, and submissive. And when he was placed in a position where he could earn something, he never failed to send what he could to the old woman who had sacrificed so much to bring him on. But there seemed a total absence of feeling or religious sentiment about the lad. If he was sober and steady, it was merely because he scorned the weakness and waste consequent upon dissipation. He was pushing and ambitious, well spoken of and respected, but his old teacher failed not to see that all his thoughts were "of the earth, earthy."

When she was nearly fifteen (as far as her ago was known) a new world was opened up for Elsie. The rector's family were now growing up, and he was blest enough to find in his children, not a hindrance, but the greatest comfort and assistance in his arduous and often cheerless work. Miss Smith and her sister Louisa had recently taken the musical arrangements of the church in hand, and not before it was needed, were now busying themselves to select and train a rustic choir. The fame of Elsie's vocal abilities had been brought to Rossleigh Rectory by Hendrick, and so one day Mrs. McAravey was surprised by a visit from two bright, fresh young girls. In her reception of them you could not recognise the hard, rude woman who had so sorely repulsed their father on his first visit to the glen.

"Mr. Hendrick has been telling us about you and Elsie," began Miss Smith, "and we have only been waiting for the moors to be tolerably dry to come over and see you. Now we 've once got here, I hope we shall be good friends."