snow, accompanied by hard frost, and to this was added now the force of a piercing wind, and a tremendous down pouring of hard dry drift, against which it is at any time almost impossible even to walk, unless when supported by health, youth, and uncommon strength.
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!”
“You both know I wouldn't lave you if I could help it, but it's the will of God that I should go; then when I'll be so happy, won't it take the edge off your grief. Bring Brian here. He and I were all that was left you, since Ned went to England—and now you will have only him. I needn't bid you to love him, for I know that you loved both of us, may be more than you ought, or more than I desarved; but not surely more than Brian does. Brian, my darling, come and kiss your own Torley that keept you sleeping every night in his bosom, and never was properly happy without you—kiss me when I can feel you, for I know that before long, you will kiss me when I can't kiss you—Brian, my darling life, how loth I am to lave you, and to lave you all, father—to lave you all, mother.”
As he spoke, and paused from time to time, the tumult of the storm without, and the fury with which it swept against the roof, door, and windows of the house, made a terrible diapason to the sweet and affecting tone of feeling which pervaded the remarks of the dying boy. His father, however, who felt an irrepressible dread of what was expected to take place, started at the close of the last words, and with a heart divided between the two terrors, stood in that stupefaction which is only the resting-place of misery, where it takes breath and strengthens itself for its greatest trials. Ho stood with one hand as before, pressed upon his forehead, and pointed with the other to the door. The wife, too, paused, for she could not doubt for a moment, that she heard sounds mingling with those of the storm which belonged not to it. It was Christmas eve!
“Stop, Mary,” said he, the very current of his heart stilled—its beating pulses frozen, as it were, by the terrible apprehension—“stop, Mary; you can open the door, but in such a morning as this you couldn't shut it, and the wind and drift would come in and fill the house, and be the death of our boy. No, I must open the door myself, and it will require all my strength to shut it.”
“I hear it all, now,” said Torley, “the cries and the shouting, the screechings and the—well, you need not be afeared; put poor Brian in with me, for I know there is no Irishman but will respect a death-bed, be it landlord, or agent, ay, or bailey. Oh, no, father, the hand of God is upon us, and if they respect nothing else, they will surely respect that. They won't move me, mother, when they see me; for that would kill me—that would be to murder a dying man.”
The father made no reply, but rushed towards the door, which he opened and closed after him with more ease than he had expected. The storm, in fact, was subsiding; the small hard drift had ceased, and it was evident from the appearance of the sky that there was likely to be a change for the better.
It would, indeed, appear, as if the Divine Being actually