In O'Regan's house there was, indeed, the terrible union of a most bitter and twofold misery. The boy was literally dying, and to this was added the consciousness that M'Clutchy would work his way in spite of storm, tempest, and sickness, nay, even death itself. A few of the inhabitants of the wild mountain village, which, by the way, was named Drum Dhu, from its black and desolate look, had too much the fear of M'Clutchy before their eyes, to await his measures, and accordingly sought out some other shelter. It was said, however, and generally supposed, by several of the neighboring gentry, that even M'Clutchy himself would scarcely dare to take such a step, in defiance of common humanity, public opinion, and the laws both of God and—we were about to add—man, but the word cannot be written. Every step he took was strictly and perfectly legal, and the consequence was, that he had that strong argument, “I am supporthed by the, laws of the land,” to enable him to trample upon all the principles of humanity and justice—to gratify political rancor, personal hatred, to oppress, persecute, and ruin.
Removal, however, in Torley O'Regan's case, would have been instant death. Motion or effort of any kind were strictly forbidden, as was conversation, except in the calmest and lowest tones, and everything at at all approaching to excitement. Still the terror lest this inhuman agent might carry his resolution into effect on such a day, and under such circumstances, gave to their pitiable sense of his loss a dark and deadly hue of misery, at which the heart actually sickens. From the hour of nine o'clock on that ominous morning, the inhabitants of Drum Dhu were passing, despite the storm, from cabin to cabin, discussing the probable events of the day, and asking each other if it could be possible that M'Clutchy would turn them out under such a tempest. Nor was this all. The scene indeed was one which ought never to be witnessed in any country. Misery in all its shapes was there—suffering in its severest pangs—sickness—disease—famine—and death—to all which was to be added bleak, houseless, homeless, roofless desolation. Had the season been summer they might have slept in the fields, made themselves temporary sheds, or carried their sick, and aged, and helpless, to distant places where humanity might aid and relieve them. But no—here were the elements of God, as it were, called in by the malignity and wickedness of man to war against old age, infancy, and disease.
For a day or two proceeding this, poor Torley thought he felt a little better, that is to say, his usual symptoms of suffering were litigated, as is sometimes the case when human weakness literally sinks below the reach of pain itself. Ten o'clock had arrived and he had not yet awoke, having only fallen asleep a little before daybreak. His father went to his bed-side, and looking down saw that he was still asleep, with a peaceful smile irradiating his features, as it were with a sense of inward happiness and tranquility. He beckoned to his mother who approached the bed, and contemplated him with that tearless agony which sears the heart and brain, until the feeling would be gladly exchanged for madness. The conversation which followed was in Irish, a circumstance that accounts for its figurative style and tenderness of expression.
“What is that smile,” said the father. “It is the peace of God,” said the mother, “shining from an innocent and happy heart. Oh! Torley, my son, my son!”
“Yes,” replied the father, “he is going to meet happy hearts, but he will leave none in this house behind him—even little Brian that he loved so well—but where was there a heart so loving as his?” This we need scarcely observe, was all said in whispers.
“Ah!” said the father, “you may well ask—but don't you remember this day week, when we were talking of M'Clutchy—'I hope,' says he, 'that if he should come, I'll be where no agent can turn me out—that is, in heaven—for I wouldn't wish to live to see you both and little Brian put from the place that we all loved so well—and then he wiped away the tears from his pale cheeks.—Oh! Torley, my son—my son—are you laving us! laving us forever?”
The father sat down quietly on a chair, and put his hand upon his forehead, as if to keep the upper part of his head from flying off—for such, he said, were the sensations he felt. He then wrung his hands until the joints cracked, and gave one short convulsive sob, which no effort of his could repress. The boy soon afterwards opened his eyes, and fixed them with the same peaceful and affectionate smile upon his parents.
“Torley,” said the mother, kissing him, “how do you feel, our flower?”
“Aisier,” said he, “but I think weaker—I had a dream,” he continued; “I thought I was looking in through a great gate at the most beautiful place that ever was—and I said to myself, what country can that be, that's so full of light, and music, and green trees, and beautiful rivers? 'That is heaven,' said a sweet voice beside me, but I could see no one. I looked again, and then I thought I saw my three little brothers standin' inside the gate smilin'—and I said, 'ar'n't you my brothers that died when you were young?' 'Yes,' said they, 'and we are come to welcome you here.' I was then goin' to go in, when I thought I saw my father and Brian runnun' hand in hand towards the gate, and as' I was goin' in I thought they called after me—'wait, Torley, dear, for we will follow you soon.'”
“And I hope we all will, our blessed treasure; for when you leave us, son of our hearts, what temptation will we have to stay afther you? Your voice, achora, will be in our ears, and your sweet looks in our eyes— but that is all that will be left of you—and your father and I will never have a day's happiness more. Oh, never—never!”