starting up in Owen'sarms, he strained his eyes to watch the funeral procession as it slowlypassed on. Owen held him up for a few seconds to see it, and wiped thelarge tears that started to his own eyes. "Maybe Martin and poor Ellen'slooking down on us now!" and with that he laid the little boy back inhis arms and plodded forward.
It was but seldom that Owen Connor ascended that steep way withouthalting to look down on the wide valley, and the lake, and the distantmountains beyond it. The scene was one of which he never wearied;indeed, its familiarity had charms for him greater and higher than merepicturesque beauty can bestow. Each humble cabin with its little familywas known to him; he was well read in the story of their lives; he hadmingled in all their hopes and fears from childhood to old age; and,as the lights trembled through the dark night, and spangled the broadexpanse, he could bring before his mind's eye the humble hearths roundwhich they sat, and think he almost heard their voices. Now, he heedednot these things, but steadily bent his steps towards home.
At last, the twinkle of a star-like light shewed that he was near hisjourney's end. It shone from the deep shadow of a little glen, inwhich his cabin stood. The seclusion of the spot was in Owen's eyes itsgreatest charm. Like all men who have lived much alone, he set no commonstore by the pleasures of solitude, and fancied that most if not all ofhis happiness was derived from this source. At this moment his gratitudewas more than usual, as he muttered to himself, "Thank God for it! we'vea snug little place away from the sickness, and no house near us atall;" and with this comforting reflection he drew near the cabin. Thedoor, contrary to custom at nightfall, lay open; and Owen, painfullyalive to any suspicious sign, from the state of anxiety his mind hadsuffered, entered hastily.
"Father! where are you?" said he quickly, not seeing the old man in hisaccustomed place beside the fire; but there was no answer. Laying thechild down, Owen passed into the little chamber which served as theold man's bedroom, and where now he lay stretched upon the bed in hisclothes. "Are ye sick, father? What ails ye, father dear?" asked theyoung man, as he took his hand in his own.
"I'm glad ye've come at last, Owen," replied his father feebly. "I'vegot the sickness, and am going fast."
"No--no, father! don't be down-hearted!" cried Owen, with a desperateeffort to suggest the courage he did not feel; for the touch of the coldwet hand had already told him the sad secret. "'Tis a turn ye have."
"Well, maybe so," said he, with a sigh; "but there's a cowld feelingabout my heart I never knew afore. Get me a warm drink, anyway."
While Owen prepared some cordial from the little store he usuallydispensed among the people, his father told him, that a boy from a sickhouse had called at the cabin that morning to seek for Owen, and fromhim, in all likelihood, he must have caught the malady. "I remember,"said the old man, "that he was quite dark in the skin, and was weak inhis limbs as he walked."
"Ayeh!" muttered Owen, "av it was the 'disease' he had, sorra bit ofthis mountain he'd ever get up. The strongest men can't lift a cup ofwather to their lips, when it's on them; but there's a great scarcity inthe glen, and maybe the boy eat nothing before he set out."
Although Owen's explanation was the correct one, it did not satisfy theold man's mind, who, besides feeling convinced of his having the malady,could not credit his taking it by other means than contagion. Owen neverquitted his side, and multiplied cares and attentions of every kind; butit was plain the disease was gaining ground, for ere midnight the oldman's strength was greatly gone, and his voice sunk to a mere whisper.Yet the malady was characterised by none of the symptoms of theprevailing epidemic, save slight cramps, of which from time to time hecomplained. His case seemed one of utter exhaustion. His mind was clearand calm; and although unable to speak, except in short and brokensentences, no trait of wandering intellect appeared. His malady wasa common one among those whose fears, greatly excited by the disease,usually induced symptoms of prostration and debility, as great, ifnot as rapid, as those of actual cholera. Meanwhile his thoughts werealternately turning from his own condition to that of the people in theglen, for whom he felt the deepest compassion. "God help them!" was hisconstant expression. "Sickness is the sore thing; but starvationmakes it dreadful. And so Luke Clancy's dead! Poor ould Luke! he wasseventy-one in Michaelmas. And Martin, too! he was a fine man."
The old man slept, or seemed to sleep, for some hours, and on wakingit was clear daylight. "Owen, dear! I wish," said he, "I could see thePriest; but you mustn't lave me: I couldn't bear that now."
Poor Owen's thoughts were that moment occupied on the same subject,and he was torturing himself to think of any means of obtaining FatherJohn's assistance, without being obliged to go for him himself.
"I'll go, and be back here in an hour--ay, or less," said he, eagerly;for terrible as death was to him, the thought of seeing his father dieunanointed, was still more so.
"In an hour--where'll I be in an hour, Owen dear? the blessed Virginknows well, it wasn't my fault--I'd have the Priest av I could--andsure, Owen, you'll not begrudge me masses, when I'm gone. What's that?It's like a child crying out there."
"'T'is poor Martin's little boy I took home with me--he's lost fatherand mother this day;" and so saying, Owen hastened to see what ailedthe child. "Yer sarvent, sir," said Owen, as he perceived a stout-built,coarse-looking man, with a bull-terrier at his heels, standing in themiddle of the floor; "Yer sarvent, sir. Who do ye want here?"
"Are you Owen Connor?" said the man, gruffly.
"That same," replied Owen, as sturdily.
"Then this is notice for you to come up to Mr. Lucas's office in Galwaybefore the twenty-fifth, with your rent, or the receipt for it, whichever you like best."
"And who is Mr. Lucas when he's at home?" said Owen, half-sneeringly.
"You'll know him when you see him," rejoined the other, turning to leavethe cabin, as he threw a printed paper on the dresser; and then, as ifthinking he had not been formal enough in his mission, added, "Mr.Lucas is agent to your landlord, Mr. Leslie; and I'll give you a bit ofadvice, keep a civil tongue in your head with him, and it will do you noharm."
This counsel, delivered much more in a tone of menace than of friendlyadvice, concluded the interview, for having spoken, the fellow left thecabin, and began to descend the mountain.
Owen's heart swelled fiercely--a flood of conflicting emotions werewarring within it; and as he turned to throw the paper into the fire,his eye caught the date, 16th March. "St. Patrick's Eve, the very dayI saved his life," said he, bitterly. "Sure I knew well enough how itwould be when the landlord died! Well, well, if my poor ould fatherdoesn't know it, it's no matter.--Well, Patsy, acushla, what are yecrying for? There, my boy, don't be afeard, 'tis Nony's with ye."
The accents so kindly uttered quieted the little fellow in a moment, andin a few minutes after he was again asleep in the old straw chair besidethe fire. Brief as Owen's absence had been, the old man seemed muchworse as he entered the room. "God forgive me, Owen darling," said he,"but it wasn't my poor sowl I was thinking of that minit. I was thinkingthat you must get a letter wrote to the young landlord about this littleplace--I'm sure he'll never say a word about rent, no more nor hisfather; and as the times wasn't good lately--"
"There, there, father," interrupted Owen, who felt shocked at the oldman's not turning his thoughts in another direction; "never mind thosethings," said he; "who knows which of us will be left? the sicknessdoesn't spare the young, no more than the ould."
"Nor the rich, no more nor the poor," chimed in the old man, with a kindof bitter satisfaction, as he thought on the landlord's death; for ofsuch incongruous motives is man made up, that calamities come lighterwhen they involve the fall of those in station above our own. "'Tisa fine day, seemingly," said he, suddenly changing the current of histhoughts; "and elegant weather for the country; we'll have to turn inthe sheep over that wheat; it will be too rank: ayeh," cried he, with adeep sigh, "I'll not be here to see it;" and for once, the emotions, nodread of futurity could awaken, were realised by worldly
considerations,and the old man wept like a child.
"What time of the month is it?" asked he, after a long interval in whichneither spoke; for Owen was not really sorry that even thus painfullythe old man's thoughts should be turned towards eternity.
"'Tis the seventeenth, father, a holy-day all over Ireland!"
"Is there many at the 'station?'--look out