“'Oh, no,' he says, 'nothing of that do we feel now—nothing of that do we fear. But, come, Mary, oh, come, come to us—and we think the time long till we see you again.'”
These affecting dialogues, or rather “dreams of a broken heart,” were literally nothing else than the mere echoes of her own afliction; for it was obvious that the love she felt for her husband and children, unconscious as she then was of it, gave form to the sentiments which her excited imagination had clothed in language that was so highly figurative. For some time she was silent, or muttered to herself such fragments of unconnected language as rose to her fancy—and ultimately laid down her head upon the little grassy mound which constituted their graves. Here she had not lain long, when, overcome by the fatigue of the journey, she closed her eyes, and despite the chilliness of a biting night, sank into an unbroken slumber.
Sleep on, poor sufferer—and let those whose crimes have placed thy distracted head upon that cold and unnatural pillow, reflect that they have a judge to meet, who will, in another life, not overlook the deeds done in this. Who is there who would, even in this thy most pitiable destitution, exchange thy innocent, but suffering spirit, for M'Clutchy's heart, or the dark crimes which it festers.
At length she awoke, but whether it was that the keen and piercing air had cooled the pulsation of her beating brain, or that the restoration to reason, which is called, when applied to the insane—a lightening before death—had taken place, it is impossible to say with anything like certainty. At all events, on awakening, the first sensations she experienced were those of surprise and wonder, and immediately did she feel her mind filled with a train of shocking and fearful reminiscences. Her physical sufferings were also great. She felt benumbed and chilled; her heart was cold, and a shivering sickness ran through her whole frame, with a deadly presage of approaching dissolution. She looked up to the sky, then round her at the graves, and in a moment recognized the burying-place of her husband and children. All the circumstances then connected with the Extermination scene at Drum Dim, and that of the treble death in the mountains, rushed upon her recollection with a force at once vivid and powerful.
“Father of heaven,” * she exclaimed, “I have been driven out of my raison by too much sorrow, and here I am restored to it on the very graves where those that I love!”
* The reader is to remember, that she is supposed to give
utterance to all her feelings and sentiments in the Irish
language.
She then endeavored to rise, but found on making the attempt, that she had not strength for it. The consciousness of this filled her heart with woe almost unutterable.
“Merciful father,” she again exclaimed, “do not—oh, do not suffer me to die on this wild mountain side, far from the face or voice of a human being! There is nothing too powerful for your hand, or beyond your strength or your mercy, to them that put their humble trust in you. Save me, oh, God, from this frightful and lonely death, and do not let me perish here without the consolations of religion! But if it's thy blessed and holy will to let me do so, then it is my duty to submit! Give me strength, then, to bow to thy will, and to receive with faith and thanksgivin' whatever you choose to bestow upon me! And above all things O Lord, grant me a repentant heart, and that my bleak and lonely death-bad may have the light of glory upon it! Grant me this, O God, and I will die happy even here; for where your blessed presence is there can be nothing wantin'.”
Her piety and faith in the mercy of God were not without their own reward. The last words were scarcely uttered, when Father Roche, accompanied by her son Ned, advanced to the grave on which she sat. He had been absent on a sick call, and would not have been aware of her escape to the mountains, were it not for her son, who, having met him on his return, requested permission to see her, only for a few minutes, if not too late. The priest granted him so reasonable a request, and it was on seeking for her that the discovery of her absence took place, the rest of the family having been of opinion that she had gone to bed in the early part of the evening, as was mostly her habit. The priest suspected, from her weak state of health and shattered constitution, that such a journey would probably prove fatal, and with his usual discrimination he calculated upon the restoration to reason which actually occurred.
“In that case,” said he, “the administration of the last rites will console her on her bed of death, and God forbid that she should depart without them. It is my duty that she shall not.”