“Here now,” she exclaimed, “the battle of the widow was well fought, and God gave us strength. Put this man out with the rest.” This was accordingly done, but as in the case of his companions, the gun for the present was retained.
“See now,” she proceeded, still in Irish, “what the hand of a weak woman can do, when her heart is strengthened by God, against cruelty and oppression. What made that strong man weak in my grasp? Because he knew that the weakness of the widow was his shame—the touch of her hand took away his strength; and what had he within or about him to depend upon? could he look in upon his wicked heart, and be strong? could he look upon the darkness of a bad conscience, and be strong? could he look on me—upon my dead husband, and his bed of death, and be strong? No—and above all, could he look up to the Almighty God in heaven, and be strong—no—no—no—but from all these I gained strength—for surely, surely, I had it not in myself!”
She uttered these sentiments with wonderful energy, and indeed, from the fire in her eye, and the flush of her cheek, it was evident she was highly excited. Father Roche, who had been engaged, and indeed, had enough to do in keeping the poor child quiet and aloof from the fray, especially from his mother—now entreated that she would endeavor to compose herself, as she had reason to thank God, he said, that neither she herself nor her resolute defenders had sustained any personal injury. She did not seem to have heard him—for on looking on the body of her husband she almost bounded over to the bed, and kneeling down rapturously, and in a spirit of enthusiastic triumph, kissed his lips.
“Now, my husband,” said she, “we have fought and gained the victory—no insult did you get—no dishonor on your lowly bed where you're sleepin' your last sleep. Hugh, do you know, asthore, how the wife of your heart fought for you? Your own poor, weak, sorrowful, heart-broken, but loving wife, that was as feeble as an infant this mornin'! But who gave her the strength to put down a strong and wicked man'? The God—the good God—and to him be the glory!—in whose bosom you are now happy. Ay, we conquered—ha—ha—ha—we conquered—we conquered—ha—ha—ha!”
The dead body of Harpur in the meantime had been removed by his companions, who it was evident felt as much, if not more bitterness at their own defeat, than they did by the fatal accident which deprived him of life.
Scarcely had the wild triumph of O'Regan's wife time to subside, when it soon became evident that the tragical incidents of this bitter and melancholy morning were not yet completed.
The child alluded to by Harman in his first brief conversation with Father Roche, had been for some time past in a much more dangerous state than his parents suspected, or at least than his unhappy mother did, whose principal care was engrossed by the situation of her husband. The poor boy, at all times affectionate and uncomplaining, felt loth to obtrude his little wants and sufferings upon her attention, knowing as he did, that, owing to the nursing of his father, she was scarcely permitted three hours sleep out of the twenty-four. If he could have been afforded even the ordinary comforts of a sick-bed, it is possible he might have recovered. The only drink he could call for was “the black water,” as it is termed by the people, and his only nutrition a dry potato, which he could not take; the bed he lay upon was damp straw, yet did this patient child never utter a syllable to dishearten his mother, or deepen the gloom which hung over the circumstances of the family, and his father's heart. When asked how he was, he uniformly replied “better,” and his large lucid eyes would faintly smile upon his mother, as if to give her hope, after which the desolate boy would amuse himself by handling the bedclothes as invalids often do, or play with the humid straw of his cold and miserable bed, or strive to chat with his mother.
These details are very painful to those whose hearts are so elegantly and fashionably tender that they recoil with humane horror from scenes of humble wretchedness and destitution. It is good, however, that they should be known to exist, for we assure the great and wealthy that they actually do exist, and may be found in all their sharpness and melancholy truth within the evening shadow which falls from many a proud and wealthy dwelling in this our native land.
After all, it is likely, that had not the fearful occurrences of this morning taken place, their sweet boy might have been spared to them. The shock, however, occasioned by the discharge of the gun, and the noise of the conflict, acting upon a frame so feeble were more than he could bear. Be this as it may, the constables were not many minutes gone, when, to their surprise, he staggered back again out of his little room, where Father Roche had placed him, and tottering across the floor, slipped in the deceased man's blood, and fell. The mother flew to him, but Harman had already raised him up; when on his feet, he looked at the blood and shuddered—a still more deadly paleness settled on his face—his breath came short, and his lips got dry and parched—he could not speak nor stand, had not Harman supported him. He looked again at the blood with horror, and then at his mother, whilst he shrank up, as it were, into himself, and shivered from head to foot.
“Darling of my heart,” she exclaimed, “I understand you. Bryan, our treasure, be a man for the sake of your poor heart-broken mother—I will, I will, my darling life, I will wipe it off of you, every stain of it—why should such blood and my innocent son come together?”