“Is it Squire O'Grady dead?”
“Aye—did you never hear of a dead squire before?”
“What did he die of, sir?”
“Find out,” said the sulky brute, walking back into his den.
It was true—the renowned O'Grady was no more. The fever which had set in from his “broiled bones,” which he would have in spite of anybody, was found difficult of abatement; and the impossibility of keeping him quiet, and his fits of passion, and consequent fresh supplies of “broiled bones,” rendered the malady unmanageable; and the very day after Andy had left the house the fever took a bad turn, and in four-and-twenty hours the stormy O'Grady was at peace.
What a sudden change fell upon the house! All the wedding paraphernalia which had been brought down lay neglected in the rooms where it had been the object of the preceding day's admiration. The deep, absorbing, silent grief of the wife,—the more audible sorrow of the girls,—the subdued wildness of the reckless boys, as they trod silently past the chamber where they no longer might dread reproof for their noise,—all this was less touching than the effect the event had upon the old dowager mother. While the senses of others were stunned by the blow, hers became awakened by the shock; all her absurd aberration passed away, and she sat in intellectual self-possession by the side of her son's death-bed, which she never left until he was laid in his coffin. He was the first and last of her sons. She had now none but grandchildren to look upon—the intermediate generation had passed away, and the gap yawned fearfully before her. It restored her, for the time, perfectly to her senses; and she gave the necessary directions on the melancholy occasion, and superintended all the sad ceremonials befitting the time, with a calm and dignified resignation which impressed all around her with wonder and respect.
Superadded to the dismay which the death of the head of a family produces was the terrible fear which existed that O'Grady's body would be seized for debt—a barbarous practice, which, shame to say, is still permitted. This fear made great precaution necessary to prevent persons approaching the house, and accounts for the extra gruffness of the gate porter. The wild body-guard of the wild chief was on doubly active duty; and after four-and-twenty hours had passed over the reckless boys, the interest they took in sharing and directing this watch and ward seemed to outweigh all sorrowful consideration for the death of their father. As for Gustavus, the consciousness of being now the master of Neck-or-Nothing Hall was apparent in a boy not yet fifteen; and not only in himself, but in the grey-headed retainers about him, this might be seen: there was a shade more of deference—the boy was merged in “the young master.” But we must leave the house of mourning for the present, and follow the Widow Rooney, who, as she tramped her way homeward, was increasing in hideousness of visage every hour. Her nose was twice its usual dimensions, and one eye was perfectly useless in showing her the road. At last, however, as evening was closing, she reached her cabin, and there was Andy, arrived before her, and telling Oonah, his cousin, all his misadventures of the preceding day.
The history was stopped for a while by their mutual explanations and condolences with Mrs. Rooney, on the “cruel way her poor face was used.”
“And who done it all?” said Oonah.
“Who but that born divil, Matty Dwyer—and sure they towld me you were married to her,” said she to Andy.