card, handing it to Owenwithout a word.
"I humbly ax yer pardon, gentlemen, if I was rude to either of ye," saidOwen, with a bow, as he moved towards the door; "but distress of minddoesn't improve a man's manners, if even he had more nor I have; but ifI get the little place yet, and that ye care for a day's sport--"
"Eh, damme, you're not so bad, after all," said the Major: "I say,Lucas--is he, now?"
"Your servant, gentlemen," said Owen, who felt too indignant at thecool insolence with which his generous proposal was accepted, to trusthimself with more; and with that, he left the room.
"Well, Owen, my boy," said Phil, who long since having paid his ownrent, was becoming impatient at his friend's absence; "well, Owen, yemight have settled about the whole estate by this time. Why did theykeep you so long?"
In a voice tremulous with agitation, Owen repeated the result of hisinterview, adding, as he concluded, "And now, there's nothing for it,Phil, but to see the landlord himself, and spake to him. I've got thename of the place he's in, here--it's somewhere in London; and I'llnever turn my steps to home, before I get a sight of him. I've thehalf-year's rent here in my pocket, so that I'll have money enough, andto spare; and I only ax ye, Phil, to tell Mary how the whole case is,and to take care of little Patsy for me till I come back--he's at yourhouse now."
"Never fear, we'll take care of him, Owen; and I believe you're doingthe best thing, after all."
The two friends passed the evening together, at least until thetime arrived, when Owen took his departure by the mail. It was a sadtermination to a day which opened so joyfully, and not all Phil'sendeavours to rally and encourage his friend could dispossess Owen'smind of a gloomy foreboding that it was but the beginning of misfortune."I have it over me," was his constant expression as they talked; "I haveit over me, that something bad will come out of this;" and althoughhis fears were vague and indescribable, they darkened his thoughts aseffectually as real evils.
The last moment came, and Phil, with a hearty '"God speed you," shookhis friend's hand, and he was gone.
It would but protract my story, without fulfilling any of its objects,to speak of Owen's journey to England and on to London. It was a seasonof great distress in the manufacturing districts; several largefailures had occurred--great stagnation of trade existed, and a generaldepression was observable over the population of the great tradingcities. There were daily meetings to consider the condition of theworking classes, and the newspapers were crammed with speeches andresolutions in their favour. Placards were carried about the streets,with terrible announcements of distress and privation, and processionsof wretched-looking men were met with on every side.
Owen, who, from motives of economy, prosecuted his journey on foot,had frequent opportunities of entering the dwellings of the poor, andobserving their habits and modes of life. The everlasting complaints ofsuffering and want rung in his ears from morning till night; and yet, tohis unaccustomed eyes, the evidences betrayed few, if any, of the evilsof great poverty. The majority were not without bread--the very pooresthad a sufficiency of potatoes. Their dwellings were neat-looking andcomfortable, and, in comparison with what he was used to, actuallyluxurious. Neither were their clothes like the ragged and tatteredcoverings Owen had seen at home. The fustian jackets of the men weregenerally whole and well cared for; but the children more than allstruck him. In Ireland, the young are usually the first to feel thepressure of hardship--their scanty clothing rather the requirement ofdecency, than a protection against weather: here, the children werecleanly and comfortably dressed--none were in rags, few without shoesand stockings.
What could such people mean by talking of distress, Owen could by nomeans comprehend. "I wish we had a little of this kind of poverty inould Ireland!" was the constant theme of his thoughts. "'Tis littlethey know what distress is! Faix, I wondher what they'd say if they sawConnemarra?" And yet, the privations they endured were such as had notbeen known for many years previous. Their sufferings were reallygreat, and the interval between their ordinary habits as wide, asever presented itself in the fortunes of the poor Irishman's life.But poverty, after all, is merely relative; and they felt that as"starvation" which Paddy would hail as a season of blessing andabundance.
"With a fine slated house over them, and plenty of furniture inside, andwarm clothes, and enough to eat,--that's what they call distress! Musha!I'd like to see them, when they think they're comfortable," thoughtOwen, who at last lost all patience with such undeserved complainings,and could with difficulty restrain himself from an open attack on theirinjustice.
He arrived in London at last, and the same evening hastened to BelgraveSquare; for his thoughts were now, as his journey drew to a close,painfully excited at the near prospect of seeing his landlord. He foundthe house without difficulty: it was a splendid town-mansion, wellbefitting a man of large fortune; and Owen experienced an Irishman'sgratification in the spacious and handsome building he saw before him.He knocked, at first timidly, and then, as no answer was returned, moreboldly; but it was not before a third summons that the door was opened;and an old mean-looking woman asked him what he wanted.
"I want to see the masther, ma'am, av it's plazing to ye!" said Owen,leaning against the door-jamb as he spoke.
"The master? What do you mean?"
"Mr. Leslie himself, the landlord."
"Mr. Leslie is abroad--in Italy."
"Abroad! abroad!" echoed Owen, while a sickly faint-ness spread itselfthrough his frame. "He's not out of England, is he?"
"I've told you he's in Italy, my good man."
"Erra! where's that at all?" cried Owen, despairingly.
"I'm sure I don't know; but I can give you the address, if you want it."
"No, thank ye, ma'am--it's too late for that, now," said he. The oldwoman closed the door, and the poor fellow sat down upon the steps,overcome by this sad and unlooked-for result.
It was evening. The streets were crowded with people,--some on foot,some on horseback and in carriages. The glare of splendid equipages,the glittering of wealth--the great human tide rolled past, unnoticed byOwen, for his own sorrows filled his whole heart.
Men in all their worldliness,--some, on errands of pleasure, some,care-worn and thoughtful, some, brimful of expectation, and others,downcast and dejected, moved past: scarcely one remarked that poorpeasant, whose travelled and tired look, equally with his humble dress,bespoke one who came from afar.
"Well, God help me, what's best for me to do now?" said Owen Connor, ashe sat ruminating on his fortune; and, unable to find any answer to hisown question, he arose and walked slowly along, not knowing nor caringwhither.
There is no such desolation as that of a large and crowded city to him,who, friendless and alone, finds himself a wanderer within its walls.The man of education and taste looks around him for objects of interestor amusement, yet saddened by the thought that he is cut off from allintercourse with his fellow-men; but, to the poor unlettered stranger,how doubly depressing are all these things! Far from speculating on thewealth and prosperity around him, he feels crushed and humiliated in itspresence. His own humble condition appears even more lowly in contrastwith such evidences of splendour; and instinctively he retreats from theregions where fashion, and rank, and riches abound, to the gloomy abodesof less-favoured fortunes.
When Owen awoke the following morning, and looked about him in thehumble lodging he had selected, he could scarcely believe that alreadythe end of his long journey had been met by failure. Again and again heendeavoured to remember if he had seen his landlord, and what reply hehad received; but except a vague sense of disappointment, he could fixon nothing. It was only as he drew near the great mansion once more,that he could thoroughly recollect all that had happened; and then,the truth flashed on his mind, and he felt all the bitterness of hismisfortune. I need not dwell on this theme. The poor man turned againhomeward; why, he could not well have answered, had any been cruelenough to ask him. The hope that buoyed him up before, now spent andexhausted, his step w
as slow and his heart heavy, while his mind, rackedwith anxieties and dreads, increased his bodily debility, and made eachmile of the way seem ten.
On the fourth day of his journey--wet through from morning till late inthe evening--he was seized with a shivering-fit, followed soon after bysymptoms of fever. The people in whose house he had taken shelter forthe night, had him at once conveyed to the infirmary, where for eightweeks he lay dangerously ill; a relapse of his malady, on the day beforehe was to be pronounced convalescent, occurred, and the third month wasnigh its close, ere Owen left the hospital.
It was more than a week ere he could proceed on his