Welsh Brontë traveled at night partly for economy, but more especially that little Hugh should see no landmark, by which his footsteps might ever be guided home. Do the incidents of the journey give us any clue to discover the region where Hugh Brontë lived? They spent four whole nights on the road, and traversed a distance from one hundred to one hundred and twenty miles.

My own efforts to find the early 284 home of Hugh Brontë resulted in discovering no trace or tradition of a Brontë family south of the Boyne. I have written hundreds of letters to various parts of Ireland with an equal lack of success, and it is probable that the exact locality will never be discovered. What is of more importance, is the fact that the ancient home of the Brontës, where Hugh’s grandfather, the great-great-grandfather of the novelists, lived, was on the north side of the river Boyne between Oldbridge and Navan, not far from the spot where William of Orange won his famous battle. Some thirty-five years ago, the place where the Brontë house once stood, was pointed out to me. The potato-blight and other calamities have been steadily removing landmarks in Ireland, and it is not surprising that local tradition has now faded from the district. Few families there, of the rank of the Brontës, could trace their pedigrees to the seventh generation; but that the ancestors of the Brontës lived on the banks of the Boyne seven generations back is beyond all doubt.

CHAPTER III.

A MISERABLE HOME.

Upon arrival at their destination, Welsh seized his nephew and ward by the shoulders, and, looking fiercely in his face, informed him that his father was a mean and black-hearted scoundrel. Welsh declared that he had agreed to make Hugh his heir, with “the education of a gentleman,” in consideration of the sum of fifty pounds, but, as the “spalpeen” had only paid five pounds, Hugh would have to work for his bread and go without education; all emphasized by very strong words.

There was present at this family interview a tall, gaunt, half-naked savage called Gallagher, who expressed audible approval of Welsh’s remarks, and, at their close, called on the Blessed Virgin and all the saints to blast Hugh’s father and protect his uncle. This sanctimonious individual was the steward of Welsh’s house, and had formerly been his most valuable ally. Hugh’s father had once denounced Gallagher as a spy at a public gathering, whence he had been ignominiously ejected, and, in return, he had supplied the false evidence which led to the imprisonment and conviction of the three brothers. Gallagher had been of service to Welsh in many ways. He had aided Meg in the schemes which led to Mary Brontë becoming Welsh’s wife, and he had been a partner with Meg in the foundling business. Their ways of dealing with superfluous children had been effective. These were supposed to be carried to the Dublin Foundling Hospital, but, inasmuch as no questions were asked, and no receipts given, the guilty parents were satisfied that their offspring should go “where the wicked cease from troubling.” Gallagher was the original from which Emily Brontë drew her portrait of Joseph, in “Wuthering Heights,” just as Heathcliff is modelled on Welsh. It was to the companionship of this human monster that Welsh committed his little nephew and ward. His name became of common use in County Down as a synonym for objectionable persons, and is so still.

As soon as Welsh and Gallagher ceased speaking, Hugh looked around the mansion to which he had become presumptive heir. A happy pig with a large family lay on one side of the room, and a stack of peat was heaped up on the other side of the great open chimney. A broad, square bed stood in the end of the room, raised about a foot from the ground. The damp, uneven, earthen floor was unswept. On the backs of a few chairs, upholstered with straw ropes, a succession of hens perched, preliminary to flight to the cross-beams close up to the thatch. A lean, long-backed, rough-haired yellow dog stood by his side smelling him, without signs of welcome. Hugh listened to his uncle’s hard, rasping words, and in reply said:

“Are you going home soon?”

“You are at home now,” declared his uncle. “This is the only home you shall ever know, and you are beholden to me for it. Your father was 285 glad to be rid of you, and this is your gratitude to me! No airs here, my fine fellow. Get to bed out of my way, and I’ll find you something to do in the morning.”

But in the morning the child was unable to leave the bed where he had lain across his uncle and aunt’s feet, his slumbers incessantly disturbed by the grunting, squealing pigs. Welsh arose early to let out the animals, and then dragged little Hugh from his bed to resume the responsibility of heirship. The child tottered to the floor. His uncle’s fierce imprecations could not exorcise fever and delirium, and for many weeks little Hugh lingered between life and death. He remained weak and unable to go out during the winter, but he made many friends, of which the chief was the rough yellow dog. The child in return loved the great shaggy creature with all the strength of his poor crushed heart. But better than the devotion of the fowls, the pig and the dog, his Aunt Mary conceived a great affection for him, and grew to love him during his illness as her own child. When Welsh was absent, she would give him an egg, or a little fresh butter from the “meskin” prepared for market, or even a cup of peppermint tea; and over this, she told him secretly the tragic story of the Brontë family. In after years it was a satisfaction to Hugh to know that his cowardly uncle was no Brontë after all, and not even an Irishman.