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Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent, a novel by William Carleton |
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Chapter 26. Harman's Interview With Mary M'loughlin |
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_ CHAPTER XXVI. Harman's Interview with Mary M'Loughlin --An Execution for Rent Forty Years ago--Gordon Harvey's Friendly Remonstrance with his Brother Orangemen.
In her heart; so bitterly, indeed, that all relish for life had departed from her. She was now spiritless, hopeless, without an aim or object, or anything to sustain her, or to give interest to existence. Philosophy, which too often knows little about actual life, tells us that a consciousness of being innocent of the social slanders that are heaped upon an individual, is a principle that ought to support and console him. But the truth is, that this very consciousness of innocence is precisely the circumstance which sharpens and poisons the arrow that pierces him, and gives rancor to the wound. On the morning in question, Mary sat by her mother who lay reclining on a sofa, each kindly attempting to conceal from the other the illness which she felt. Mary was pale, wasted, and drooping; the mother, on the contrary, was flushed and feverish. "I wish, my dear mother," said she, "that you would yield to me, and go to bed: you are certainly worse than you wish us to believe." "It won't signify, Mary; it's nothing but cold I got, and it will pass away. I think nothing of myself, but it grieves my heart to see you look so ill; why don't you strive to keep up your spirits, and to be what you used to be? But God help you, my poor child," said she, as the tears started to her eyes, "sure it's hard for you to do so." "Mother," she replied, "it is hard for me; I am every way surrounded with deep and hopeless affliction. I often wish that I could lay my head quietly in the grave; but then, I should wish to do so with my name unstained--and, on the other hand, what is there that can bind me to life? I am not afraid of death, but I fear to die now; I know not, mother, what to do, I am very much to be pitied. Oh," she added, whilst the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks, "after all, I feel that nothing but death can still the thoughts that disturb me, and release me from the anguish that weighs me down and consumes me day by day." "My dear child," replied her mother, "we must only trust to God, who, in his own good time, will set everything right. As it is, there is no respectable person in the neighborhood who believes the falsehood, with the exception of some of the diabolical Wretch's friends." Mary here shuddered, and exhibited the strongest possible symptoms of aversion, even to momentary sickness. "If," pursued the mother, "the unfortunate impression could be removed from poor, mistaken Harman, all would be soon right." The mention of Harman deeply affected the poor girl; she made no reply, but for some minutes wept in great bitterness. "Mother," said she, after a little time, "I fear you are concealing the state of your own health; I am sure, from your flushed face and oppressive manner of speaking, that you are worse than you think yourself, or will admit." "Indeed, to tell the truth, Mary, I fear I am; I feel certainly very feverish--I am burning." "Then, for heaven's sake, go to bed, my dear mother; and let the doctor at once be sent for." "If I don't get easier soon, I will," replied her mother, "I do not much like going to bed, it looks so like a fit of sickness." At this moment a tap at the door announced a visitor, and almost immediately Harman entered the parlor. It is scarcely necessary to say, that Mary was quite unprepared for his appearance, as indeed was her mother. The latter sat up on the sofa, but spoke not, for she scarcely knew in what terms to address him. Mary, though much moved previous to his entrance, now assumed the appearance of a coldness, which in her heart she did not feel. That her lover, who ought to have known her so well, should have permitted himself to be borne away by such an ungenerous suspicion of her fidelity, was a reflection which caused her many a bitter pang. On the other hand, when she looked back upon the snare into which she had been drawn, it was impossible not to admit that the force of appearances made a strong case against her. For this reason, therefore, she scarcely blamed Harman, whilst, at the same time, she certainly felt that there was something due to her previous character, and the maidenly delicacy of her whole life. "You are surprised, Mary, to see me here," said Harman; "and you, Mrs. M'Loughlin, are no doubt equally so?" "I think it is very natural we should be, James," replied Mrs. M'Loughlin. "I must confess that your visit is an unexpected one certainly, and my anxiety now is, to know the cause to which we may attribute it. Sit down." He did not sit, however, but exclaimed--"Good heavens, what is this? Why, Mary, I should scarcely have known you. This change is dreadful." Neither of the females spoke; but the daughter bestowed on him a single look--long, fixed, and sorrowful--which did more to reprove and soften him, than any language could have done. It went to his heart--it filled him with grief, repentance, remorse. For many a day and night afterwards, her image, and that look, were before him, exerting a power over his soul, which kindled his love to a height it would never otherwise have reached. He approached her. "What reparation do I not owe you, my beloved Mary, for my base and ungenerous belief in that scoundrel's vile calumny? Such reparation, however, as I can make, I will. You are not aware that Poll Doolin has confessed and disclosed the whole infamous plot; and in a few days the calumny will be extinct. As for me, you know not what a heavy weight pressed my heart down to the uttermost depths of suffering. I have not been without other calamities--yet this, I take heaven to witness, was the only one I felt." There was a tone of deep feeling and earnest sincerity in his words, which could not for a moment be mistaken. His face, too, was pale, and full of care, and his person much thinner than it had been. Mary saw all this at a glance--as did her mother. "Poor James," said the latter, "you have had your own troubles, and severe ones, too, since we saw you last." "They are gone," he replied; "I care not, and think little about them, now that Mary's character is vindicated. If I should never see her, never speak to her more, the consciousness that she is the same angelic being that I first found her to be, would sustain me under the severest and most depressing calamities of life. And God knows," he said, "I am likely to experience them in their worst shape; but, still, I have courage now to bear up against them." On approaching Mary nearer, he perceived that her eyes were suffused with tears--and the sight deeply affected him. "My dear Mary," said he, "is there not one word for me? Oh, believe me, if ever man felt deep remorse I do." She put her hand out to him, and almost at the same instant became insensible. In a moment he placed her, by her mother's desire, on the sofa, and rang the bell for some of the servants to attend. Indeed, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to look upon a more touching picture of sorrow and suffering than that pure-looking and beautiful girl presented as she lay there insensible; her pale but exquisite features impressed with a melancholy at once deep and tender, as was evinced by the large tear-drops that lay upon her cheeks. "May God grant that her heart be not broken," exclaimed her mother, "and that she be not already beyond the reach of all that our affections would hope and wish! Poor girl," she added, "the only portion of the calamity that touched her to her heart was the reflection that you had ceased to love her!" Mrs. M'Loughlin whilst she spoke kept her eyes fixed upon her daughter's pale but placid face; and whilst she did so, she perceived that a few large tears fell upon it, and literally mingled with those of the poor sufferer's which had been there before. She looked up and saw that Harman was deeply moved. "Even if it should be so," he exclaimed, "I shall be only justly punished for having; dared to doubt her." A servant having now entered, a little cold water was got, which, on being sprinkled over her face and applied to her lips, aided in recovering her. "Your appearance," said she, "and the intelligence you brought were so unexpected, and my weakness so great, that I felt myself overcome; however, I am better--I am better, now;" but whilst she uttered these words her voice grew tremulous, and they were scarcely out of her lips when she burst out into an excessive fit of weeping. For several minutes this continued, and she appeared to feel relieved; she then entered into conversation, and was able to talk with more ease and firmness than she had evinced for many a day before. It was just then that a knock came to the hall door, and in a couple of minutes about a dozen of Val's blood-hounds, selected to act as bailiffs and keepers--a task to which they were accustomed--entered the house with an Execution to seize for rent. This, at all times and under all circumstances, is a scene in which a peculiar license is given to brutality and ruffianism; but in the present case there were additional motives; with which the reader is already acquainted, for insulting this family. Not that the mere-levying of an Execution was a matter of novelty to either Mary or her mother, for of late there had unfortunately been several in the house and on their property before. These, however, were conducted with a degree of civility that intimated respect for, if not sympathy with, the feelings of a family so inoffensive, so beneficial to the neighborhood by the employment they afforded, and, in short, every way so worthy of respect. "What is all this about?" asked Harman. "Why," said one of the fellows, "we're seizin' for rent: that's what it's about." "Rent," observed the other, surprised, "why, it is only a few minutes since Mr. M'Loughlin told me that M'Clutchy assured him--" "Captain M'Clutchy, sir, if you plaise." "Very well--Captain M'Clutchy, or Colonel M'Olutchy, if you wish, assured him that--" "I have nothing to do with what he assured him," replied the fellow; "my duty is to take an inventory of the furniture; beg pardon, ladies, but we must do our duty you know." "Let them have their way," said Mrs. M'Loughlin, "let them have their way; I know what they are capable of. Mary, my dear, be firm--as I said before--our only trust is in God, my child." "I am firm, my dear mother; for, as James said, the grief of griefs has been removed from me. I can now support myself under anything--but you--indeed, James, she is battling against illness these three or four days--and will not go to bed; it is for you I now feel, mother." Mr. M'Loughlin and his family here entered; and truth to tell, boundless was the indignation of the honest fellow, at this most oppressive and perfidious proceeding on the part of the treacherous agent. "Ah," said he, "I knew it--and I said it--but let the scoundrel do his worst; I scorn him, and I defy him in the very height of his ill-gotten authority. My children," said he, "keep yourselves cool. Let not this cowardly act of oppression and revenge disturb or provoke you. This country, as it is at present governed--and this property as it is at present managed--is no place for us to live in. Let the scoundrel then do his worst. As for us, we will follow the example of other respectable families, who, like ourselves, have been forced to seek a home in a distant country. We will emigrate to America, as soon as I can conveniently make arrangements for that purpose; for God knows I am sick of my native land, and the petty oppressors which in so many ways harass and goad the people almost to madness." He had no sooner uttered these words, than the fellow whose name was Hudson, whispered to one of his companions, who immediately disappeared with something like a grin of exultation on his countenance. Mrs. M'Loughlin's illness was now such as she could no longer attempt to conceal. The painful shock occasioned by this last vindictive proceeding on the part of M'Clutchy, came at a most unhappy moment. Overcome by that and her illness, she was obliged to go to bed, aided by her husband and her daughter; but before she went, it was considered necessary to get one of the ruffians, as an act of favor, to take an inventory of the furniture in her chamber, in order that her sick room might not be intruded upon afterwards. Mary having put her sick mother to bed, returned to the parlor, from whence she was proceeding to the kitchen, to make whey with her own hands for the invalid, when in passing along the hall, Harman and her brother John met her. She was in a hurry, and was about to pass without speaking a word, when she and they were startled by the following dialogue-- "So, Bob, did you see the pale beauty in the parlor?" "I did, she's a devilish pretty girl." "She is so--well, but do you know that she is one of Mr. Phil's ladies. Sure he was caught in her bed-room some time ago." "Certainly, every one knows that; and it appears she is breaking her heart because he won't make an honest woman of her." John caught his sister, whose agitation, was dreadful, and led her away; making at the same time, a signal to Harman to remain quiet until his return--a difficult task, and. Harman felt it so. In the meantime, the. following appendix was added to the dialogue already detailed-- "Why do you hould such talk under this, roof, Leeper?" asked a third voice. The only reply given to this very natural query was a subdued cackle, evidently proceeding from the two first speakers. "Do you both see that strong horse-pistol," said the third voice--for in those days; an Execution was almost always levied by armed men--"by the Bible of truth, if I hear another word of such conversation from any man here while we're under this roof, I'll sink the butt of it into his skull! It's bad enough that we're here on an unpleasant duty--" "Unpleasant! speak for yourself." "Silence, you ruffian--on an unpleasant-duty; but that's no reason that we should grieve the hearts and insult the feelings of a respectable family like this. The truth, or rather the blasted falsehood that was put out on the young lady is now known almost everywhere, for Poll Doolin has let out the truth. "But didn't Misther Phil desire us to say it, so as that they might hear us." "Mr. Phil's a cowardly scoundrel, and nothing else; but, mark me, Phil or no Phil, keep your teeth shut on that subject." "Just as much or as little of that as we like, if you please, Mr. ----." "Very well, you know my mind--so take the consequences, that's all." "Here goes then," said the ruffian, speaking in a deliberately loud voice, "it's well known that Miss M'Loughlin is Misther Phil's----" A heavy blow, followed by a crash on the floor--a brief conflict as if with another person, another blow, and another crash followed. Harman, in a state of feeling which our readers may imagine, but which we cannot describe, pushed in the door, which, in fact, was partially open. "What, what is this?" he asked, pretending ignorance, "is it fighting among yourselves you are? Fie, fie! Gordon Harvey, what is the matter?" "Only a little quarrel of our own, Mr. Harman," replied the excellent fellow. "The truth is, sir, that these men--ay, gather yourselves up, do; you ought to have known Gordon Harvey's blow, for you have often enough heard of it before now; there is no great mistake about that, you scoundrels--the truth is, Mr. Harman, that these fellows were primed with whiskey at M'Clutchy's and they gave me provoking language that I couldn't bear; it's well for them that I didn't take the butt end of that," said he, holding up the horse-pistol in his left hand, "but you'll find ten for one that would rather have a taste of it than of this;" shutting his right--which was a perfect sledgehammer, and, when shut, certainly the more formidable weapon of the two. The two ruffians had now gathered themselves up, and appeared to be considerably sobered by Harvey's arguments. They immediately retired to a corner of the room, where they stood with a sullen but vindictive look--cowardly and ferocious, ready to revenge on M'Loughlin's family the punishment which they had received, but durst not resent, at the hands of Harvey--unquestionably one of the most powerful and generous Orangemen that was ever known in Castle Cumber. Let us not for a moment be mistaken. The Orangemen of Ireland contained, and still contain among them, men of great generosity, courage, and humanity. This is undeniable and unquestionable; but then, it is well known that these men never took any part in the outrages perpetrated by the lower and grosser grades, unless to prevent outrage. In nothing, indeed, was the lamentable state of the Irish Church Establishment more painfully obvious than in the moral ignorance and brutal bigotry, which want of Christian instruction and enlightened education had entailed upon men, who otherwise have been a high-minded, brave, and liberal class, had they not been corrupted by the example of the very pastors--ungodly, loose, convivial, political, anything but Christian--from whom they were to expect their examples and their precepts. But to return. Harman having given a significant glance to Harvey, left the room, and the latter immediately followed him. "Harvey," said he, "I have overheard the whole conversation; give me your hand, for it is that of an honest man. I thank you, I thank you--do try and prevent these ruffians from insulting the family." "I don't think the same thing will happen a second time, Mr. Harman," replied the gigantic Orangeman; "but, the truth is, the men are half drunk, and were made so before they came here." "Well, but I thank you, Harvey; deeply and from my soul, I thank you." "You needn't, Mr. Harman; I hate a dirty and ungenerous thing. Phil's a brother Orangeman, and my tongue is tied--no doubt I'll be expelled for knocking these two scoundrels down, but I don't care; it was too bad and too cruel, and, let the upshot be what it may, Gordon Harvey is not the man to back a scoundrelly act, no matter who does it, or who orders it." They shook hands cordially, and we now must leave the family for a time, to follow the course of other events that bear upon our narrative. _ |
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