Father Roche then having put on his stole, went to her side, and, as is usual in all cases of approaching death, where a priest is in attendance, administered to her the last rites of religion. Here in the mountain solitude did he cheer her departing spirit, as he had that of her husband, with the sustaining hopes of a glorious immortality.
“Now,” said she, “I know that I die happy; for here where I couldn't expect it, has the light of God's mercy shone upon me. He has brought my son to my side—He has brought the consolations of religion to my heart, when I was lyin' helpless and alone in this mountain desert. Yes,” she said, “I forgive all those who ill-treated both me and mine—and the worst I wish them is, to pray that God may forgive them, and turn their hearts. And now, Hugh, I am ready—Tor-ey, my manly son, and my own Brian, with the fair locks, we'll soon be all united again—and never to part any more—never to part anymore! Ned,” said she, “kiss me; you are all I now lave behind me out of my fine family; but God's will be done! I need not bid you,” she added, “to bury me here, for I know you will—and I wish you would put little Brian's coffin on mine, in order that my darling child may sleep where I'd have him sleep, until the Resurrection Day—that is, upon this lovin' mother's breast. But what is this?” she asked; “is there a light—a bright light—about me? I feel happy—happy. Oh sure this is the love of God that is to recompense me for all!”
Ned, who had her in his arms, felt her head fall down, and on looking at her, he perceived that she had actually passed away into the happiness of God's love, which, no doubt, diffused its radiance through her spirit that was now made perfect.
“Yes,” said Father Roche, wiping his eyes, “a pure and noble spirit has indeed passed from a life of great trial and crushing, calamity into one of glory and immortality. There is a proof, and a consoling proof, of the lustre which so often irradiates the death-beds of the humble classes in Ireland, who die far from the knowledge and notice of the great, whom their toil probably goes to support.”
“Yes,” replied Ned, bitterly; “it's an aisy thing for Lord Cumber to know what's either good or bad upon his estate—how the people live, or how they die—very aisy, indeed, for a man who never puts a foot on it, but leaves them to the mercy of such villains as M'Clutchy. Had he been livin' on his property, or looked afther it as he ought to do, I don't think it's lyin' stretched, far from house or habitation, that you would be this night, my blessed mother—my poor father, and your childre cut down by persecution, and yourself, without house or home, runnin' an' unhappy, deranged creature about the country, and now lyin' there widout a roof to cover your poor remains.”
“Do not say so,” replied Father Roche; “she shall be waked in my house, and buried at my expense.”
“If you'll allow her to be waked there, I will thank you, Father Eoche; but the expenses of her burial, I am myself able to pay; and so long as I am, you know, I could not suffer any one else to intherfare; many thanks to you, sir, in the meantime.”
“Well then,” said the priest, “as I know and understand the feeling, I shall not press the matter; but since the body cannot be left without protection, I think you had better go down, and fetch a few neighbors with a door, and let her be removed forthwith. I shall remain till you return.”
“It's a very hard thing, Father Roche, that you should be put to sich a duty,” replied O'Regan; “but the truth is, I wouldn't take all the money in the King's exchequer, and remain here by myself.”
“But I have no such fears,” said the priest; “I shall stay within the shelter of this old ruin until your return, which will be as quick, I trust, as possible.”