“THERE’S LUCK IN LEISURE.”
“DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS.”
“James Scanlan wants to see you, sir. I told him you were hardly done dinner, but he begged me to let you know he is waiting.”
“Dear me,” said my father, “what can he want? Show him in, Carey.—Well, James, what is the matter?”
“Oh! your honour, sir, won’t you come see my poor father? He’ll speak to you, but we can’t get a word from him. He’s dying of grief, my mother is so bad.”
“Your mother, James!—what has happened her?”
“She took a heavy cold, sir, on Friday last, from a wetting she got going to Cashel; and when she came home, she took to her bed, and it’s worse and worse she has got ever since, and at last she began to rave this morning; and as Dr M’Carthy was going past to the dispensary, Pat called him in; and when he looked at her, he just shook his head and said he’d send her something, but that we must be prepared for any thing that might happen. Well, sir, when my father heard that, he went and sat down by the bedside, and taking my mother’s hand in his, says he, ‘Ah, then, Mary, a-cushla-machree, am I going to lose you? Are you going from me? Did I ever think I’d see this day? Ah, Mary, avourneen, sure you won’t leave me?’ And from that to this he has never stirred, nor spoken, nor taken the least notice of any one—not even of me—not even of me.”
The poor fellow burst into a flood of tears.
In a few minutes I was standing with my father by the bedside of Mrs Scanlan. She was quite unconscious of what was passing around. Her husband, who was my father’s principal tenant, and a substantial farmer, sat as his eldest and favourite son had described; and although the object of my father’s visit was to rouse him from his lethargy, it was long ere he addressed himself to the task. It seemed almost sacrilegious to disturb such hallowed grief.
At length he laid his hand upon Scanlan’s shoulder. “Come, James,” said he, “look up, man; don’t be so utterly cast down. You know the old saying, ‘Whilst there’s life, there’s hope.’”