Chapter 12

She opened her eyes as he spoke, and Denis, in stooping to assist her, weeping at the same time like a child; received--a bang from a cudgel that made his head ring.

“Your sowl to the divil, you larned vagabone,” said her father, for it was he, “is this the way you're preparin' yourself for the church? Comin' over that innocent colleen of a daughter o' mine before you set out,” he added, taking Denis a second thwack across the shoulders--“before you set out for Maynewth!!”

“Why, you miserable vulgarian,” said Denis, “I scorn you from the head to the heel. Desist, I say,” for the father was about to lay in another swinger upon his kidney--“desist, I say, and don't approximate, or I will entangle the ribs of you!”

“My sowl to glory,” said the father, “if ever I had a greater mind to ate my dinner, than I have to anoint you wid this cudgel, you black-coated skamer!”

“Get out, you barbarian,” replied Denis, “how dare you talk about unction in connection with a cudgel? Desist, I say, for I will retaliate, if you approximate an inch. Desist, or I will baptize you in the well as Philip did the Ethiopian, without a sponsor. No man but a miserable barbarian would have had the vulgarity to interrupt us in the manner you did. Look at your daughter's situation!”

“The hussy,” replied the father, “it's the supper she ought to have ready, instead of coortin' wid sich a larned vag----Heavens above me! What ails my child? Susy! Susy, _alanna dhas!_ what's over you? Oh, I see how it is,” he continued--“I see how it is! This accounts for her low spirits an' bad health for some time past! Susy, rouse yourself, avourneen! Sure I'm not angry wid you! My sowl to glory, Denis Shaughnessy, but you have broke my child's heart, I doubt!”

“Owen,” said Denis, “your indecorous interruption has stamped you with the signature of genuine ignorance and vulgarity; still, I say, we must have some conversation on that subject immediately. Yes, I love your daughter a thousand times better than nay own life.”

“Faith, I'll take care that we'll have discoorse about it,” replied the father. “If you have been a villain to the innocent girl--if you have, Denny, why you'll meet your God sooner than you think. Mark my words. I have but one life, and I'll lose it for her sake, if she has come to ill.”

“Here,”, said Denis, “let me sprinkle her face with this cool water, that we may recover her, if possible. Your anger and your outrage, Owen, overcame the timid creature. Speak kindly to her, she is recovering. Thank God, she is recovering.”

“Susy, avourneen,” said the father, “rouse yourself,' ma colleen; rouse yourself, an' don't thrimble that way. The sorra one o' me's angry wid you, at all at all.”

“Oh, bring me home,” said the poor girl. “Father, dear, have no bad opinion of me. I done nothing, an' I hope I never will do anything, that would bring the blush of shame to your face.”

“That's as true as that God's in heaven,” observed Denis. “The angels in his presence be not purer than she is.”

“I take her own word for it,” said the father; “a lie, to the best of my knowledge, never came from her lips.”

“Let us assist her home,” said Denis. “I told you that we must have some serious conversation about her. I'll take one arm, and do you take the other.”

“Do so,” said the father, “an', Denny, as you're the youngest and the strongest, jist take up that pitcher o' wather in your hand, an' carry it to the house above.”

Denis, who was dressed in his best black from top to toe, made a wry face or two at this proposal. He was able, however, for Susan's sake, to compromise his dignity: so looking about him, to be certain that there was no other person observing them, he seized the pitcher in one hand, gave Susan his arm, and in this unheroic manner assisted to conduct her home.

In about half an hour or better after this, Denis and Owen Connor proceeded in close and earnest conversation towards old Shaughnessy's. On entering, Denis requested to speak with his father and brothers in private.

“Father,” said he, “this night is pregnant--that is, _vulgariter_, in the family way--with my fate.”

“Throth, it is, avick. Glory be to Goodness!”

“Here is Owen Connor, an honest, dacent neighbor--”

“Throth, he is an honest, dacent man, said the lather, interrupting him.

“Yes,” replied the son, “I agree with you. Well, he has a certain disclosure or proposal to make, which you will be pleased to take into your most serious consideration. I, for my part, cannot help being endowed with my own gifts, and if I happen to possess a magnet to attract feminine sensibility, it is to heaven I owe it, and not to myself.”

“It is,”--said the father, “glory be to his name!”

“Don't be alarmed, or surprised, or angry, at anything Owen Connor may say to you. I speak significantly. There are perplexities in all human events, and the cardinal hinge of fate is forever turning. Now I must withdraw; but in, the meantime I will be found taking a serenade behind the garden, if I am wanted.”

“Brian,” said the father, “get the bottle; we can't on this night, any way, talk to Owen Connor, or to anybody else, wid dhry lips.”

The bottle was accordingly got, and Owen, with no very agreeable anticipations, found himself compelled to introduce a very hazardous topic.

Denis, as he said, continued to walk to and fro behind the garden. He thought over the incidents of the evening, but had no hope that Owen Connor's proposal would be accepted. He knew his father and family too well for that. With respect to Susan's vow, he felt certain that any change of opinion on her part was equally improbable. It was clear, then, that he had no pretext for avoiding Maynooth; and as the shame, affliction, and indignation of the family would, he knew, be terrible, he resolved to conform himself to his circumstances, trusting to absence for that diminution of affection which it often produces. Having settled these points in his mind, he began to grope that part of his head which had come in contact with Owen Connor's cudgel. He had strong surmises that a bump existed, and on examining, he found that a powerful organ of self-esteem had been created.

At this moment he saw Owen Connor running past him at full speed, pursued by his father and brothers, the father brandishing a cudgel in his hand. The son, who understood all, intercepted the pursuers, commanding them, in a loud voice to stop. With his brothers he succeeded; but the father's wrath was not to be appeased so easily. Nothing now remained but to stand in his way, and arrest him by friendly violence; Denis, therefore, seized him, and, by assuming all his authority, at length prevailed upon him to give over the chase.

“Only think of him,” exclaimed the father, breathless--“only think of him havin' the assurance to propose a match between you an' his baby-faced daughter! Ho! _Dher manhim_, Owen Connor,” he shouted, shaking the staff at Owen as he spoke--“_Dher manhim!_ if I was near you, I'd put your bones through other, for darin' to mintion sich a thing!”

Owen Connor, on finding that he was na longer pursued, stood to reconnoitre the enemy:--

“Denis Oge,” he shouted back, “be on to Maynooth as fast as possible, except you wish to have my poor child left fatherless entirely. Go way, an' my blessin' be along wid you; but let there be never another word about that business while you live.”

“Father,” said Denis, “I'm scandalized at your conduct on this dignified occasion. I am also angry with Brian and the rest of you. Did you not observe that the decent man was advanced in liquor? I would have told you so at once, were it not that he was present while I spoke. Did I not give you as strong a hint as possible? Did I not tell you that 'I spoke significantly?' Now hear me. Take the first opportunity of being reconciled to Owen Connor. Be civil to him; for I assure you he esteems me very highly. Be also kind to his daughter, who is an excellent girl; but I repeat it, her father esteems me highly.”

“Does he think highly of you, Denis?”

“I have said so,” he replied.

“Then, throth, we're sorry for what has happened, poor man. But the never a one o' me, Denis, saw the laste sign of liquor about him. Throth, we will make it up wid him, thin. An' we'll be kind to his daughter, too, Denis.”

“Then as a proof that you will follow my advice, I lay it on you as a duty, to let me know how they are, whenever you write to me.”

“Throth, we will, Denis;--indeed will we. Come in now, dear; this is the last night you're to be wid us, an' they're all missin! you in the house.”

On that night no person slept in Denis O'Shaughnessy's, except our hero, and his mother and sisters. As morning approached a heaviness of spirits prevailed among the family, which of course was not felt by any except his immediate relations. The more distant friends, who remained with them for the night, sang and plied the bottle with a steadiness which prevented them from feeling the want of rest. About six o'clock, breakfast was ready, Denis dressed, and every arrangement made for his immediate departure. His parents--his brothers, and his sisters were all in tears, and he himself could master his emotions with great difficulty. At length the hour to which the family of our candidate had long looked forward, arrived, and Denis rose to depart for Maynooth. Except by the sobs and weeping, the silence was unbroken when he stood up to bid them farewell.

The first he embraced was his eldest brother, Brian: “Brian,” said he, but he could not proceed--his voice failed him: he then extended his hand, but Brian clasped him in tis arms--kissed his beloved brother, and wept with strong grief; even then there was not a dry eye in the house. The parting with his other brothers was equally tender--they wept loudly and bitterly, and Denis joined in their grief. Then came his sisters, who, one by one, hung upon him, and sobbed as if he had been dead. The grief of his youngest sister, Susan, was excessive. She threw her arms about his neck, and said she would not let him go; Denis pressed her to his heart, and the grief which he felt, seemed to penetrate his very soul.

“Susan,” said he, “Susan, may the blessing of God rest upon you till I see you again!”--and the affectionate girl was literally torn from his arms.

But how came the most affecting part of the ceremony. His parents had stood apart--their hands locked in each other, both in tears, whilst he took leave of the rest. He now approached his mother, and reverently kneeling down, implored in words scarcely intelligible, her blessing and forgiveness; he extended both his hands--“Mother,” he added, “I ask--humbly and penitently, I ask your blessing; it will be sweet to me from your beloved lips, dear mother;--pardon me if I ever--as I feel I often did--caused you a pang of sorrow by my disobedience and folly. Oh, pardon me--pardon me for all now! Bless your son, kindest of mothers, with your best and tenderest blessing!”

She threw herself in his arms, and locking him in her embrace, imprinted every part of his face with kisses. “Oh, Denis,” she exclaimed, “there is but one more who will miss you more nor I will--Oh, my darlin' son--our pride--our pride--our heart's pride--our honor, and our credit! Sure, _anim machree_, I have nothin' to forgive you for, my heart's life; but may the blessin' of God and of a happy mother light on you! And, Denis _asthore_, wasn't it you that made me happy, and that made us all happy. May my blessin' and the blessin' of God rest upon you--keep you from every evil, and in every good, till my eyes will be made glad by lookin' on you agin!”

A grief more deep, and a happiness more full, than had yet been felt, were now to come forth. Denis turned to his father--his companion in many a pastime, and in many a walk about their native fields. In fair--in market--at mass--and at every rustic amusement within their reach--had he been ever at the side of that indulgent father, whose heart and soul were placed in him. Denis could not utter a word, but kept his streaming eyes fixed upon the old man, with that yearning expression of the heart which is felt when it desires to be mingled with the very existence of the object that it loves. Old Denis advanced, under powerful struggles, to suppress his grief; he knelt, and, as the tears ran in silence down his cheeks, thus addressed himself to God:--

“I kneel down before you, oh, my God a poor sinner! I kneel here in your blessed presence, with a heart--with a happy heartens day, to return you thanks in the name of myself and the beloved partner you have given me through the cares and thrials of this world, to give you our heart's best thanks for graciously permittin' us to see this day! It is to you we owe it, good Father of Heaven! It is to you we owe this--an' him--my heart's own son, that kneels before me to be blessed by my lips! Yes--yes, he is--he is the pride of our lives!--He is the mornin' star among us! he was ever a good son; and you know that from the day he was born to this minute, he never gave me a sore heart! Take him under your own protection! Oh, bless him as we wish, if it be your holy will to do so!--Bless him and guard him, for my heart's in him: it is--he knows it--everybody knows it;--and if anything was to happen him----”

He could proceed no further: the idea of losing his son, even in imagination, overpowered him;--he rose, locked him to his breast, and for many minutes the grief of both was loud and vehement.

Denis's uncle now interposed: “The horses,” said he, “are at the door, an' time's passin'.”

“Och, thrue for you, Barny,” said old Denis; “come, _acushla_, an' let me help you on your horse. We will go on quickly, as we're to meet Father Finnerty at the crass-roads.”

Denis then shook hands with them all, not forgetting honest Phadrick Murray, who exclaimed, as he bid him farewell, “Arrah! Misther Denis, aroon, won't you be thinkin' of me now an' thin in the College? Faix, if you always argue as bravely wid the Collegians as you did the day you proved me to be an ass you'll soon be at the head of them!”

“Denis,” said the uncle, “your father excuses me in regard of havin' to attend my cattle in the fair to-day. You won't be angry wid me, dear, for lavin' you now, as my road lies this other way. May the blessin' of God and his holy mother keep you till I see you agin! an', Denis, if you'd send me a scrape or two, lettin' me know what a good parish 'ud be worth; for I intend next spring to go wid little Barny to the Latin!”

This Denis promised to do; and after bidding him farewell, he and his friends--some on horseback and numbers on foot--set out on their journey; and as they proceeded through their own neighborhood, many a crowd was collected to get a sight of Denis O'Shaughnessy going to Maynooth.

*****

It was one day in autumn, after a lapse of about two years, that the following conversation took place between a wealthy grazier from the neighboring parish, and one of our hero's most intimate, acquaintances. It is valuable only as it throws light upon Denis's ultimate situation in life, which, after all, was not what our readers might be inclined to expect.

“Why, then, honest man,” said Denis's friend, “that's a murdherin' fine dhrove o' bullocks you're bringin' to the fair?”

“Ay!” replied the grazier, “you may say that. I'm thinkin' it wouldn't be asay to aquil them.”

“Faix, sure enough. Where wor they fed, wid simmission?”

“Up in Teernahusshogue. Arrah, will you tell me what weddin' was that that passed awhile agone?”

“A son of ould Denis O'Shaughnessy's, God be merciful to his sowl!”

“Denis O'Shaughnessy! Is it him they called the 'Pigeon-house?' An' is it possible he's dead?”

“He's dead, nabor, an' in throth, an honest man's dead!”

“As ever broke the world's bread. The Lord make his bed in heaven this day! Hasn't he a son larnin' to be a priest in May-newth?”

“Ah! _Fahreer gairh!_ That's all over.”

“Why, is he dead, too?”

“Be Gorra, no--but the conthrairy to that. 'Twas his weddin' you seen passin' a minute agone.”

“Is it the young sogarth's? Musha, bad end to you, man alive, an' spake out. Tell us how that happened. Sowl it's a quare business, an' him was in Maynewth!”

“Faith, he was so; an' they say there wasn't a man in Maynewth able to tache him. But, passin' that over--you see, the father, ould Denis--an' be Gorra, he was very bright, too, till the son grewn up, an' drownded him wid the languidges--the father, you see, ould Denis himself, tuck a faver whin the son was near a year in the college, an' it proved too many for him. He died; an' whin young Dinny hard of it, the divil a one of him would stay any longer in Maynewth. He came home like a scarecrow, said he lost his health in it, an' refused to go back. Faith, it was a lucky thing that his father died beforehand, for it would brake his heart. As it was, they had terrible work about it. But ould Denis is never dead while young Denis is livin'. Faix, he was as stiff as they wor stout, an' wouldn't give in; so, afther ever so much' wranglin', he got the upper hand by tellin' them that he wasn't able to bear the college at all; an' that if he'd go back to it he'd soon folly his father.”

“An' what turned him against the college? Was that thrue?”

“Thrue!--thrue indeed! The same youth was never at a loss for a piece of invintion whin it sarved him. No, the sarra word of thruth at all was in it. He soodered an' palavered a daughther of Owen Connor's, Susy--all the daughther he has, indeed--before he wint to Maynewth at all, they say. She herself wasn't for marryin' him, in regard of a vow she had; but there's no doubt but he made her fond of him, for he has a tongue that 'ud make black white, or white black, for that matther. So, be Gorra, he got the vow taken off of her by the Bishop; she soon recovered her health, for she was dyin' for love of him, an'--you seen their weddin'. It 'ud be worth your while to go a day's journey to get a sight of her--she's allowed to be the purtiest girl that ever was in this part o' the counthry.”

“Well! well! It's a quare world. An' is the family all agreeable to it now?”

“Hut! where was the use of houldin' out aginst him? I tell you, he'd make them agreeable to any thing, wanst he tuck it into his head. Indeed, it's he that has the great larnin' all out! Why, now, you'd hardly b'lieve me, when I tell you that he'd prove you to be an ass in three minutes; make it as plain as the sun. He would; an' often made an ass o' myself.”

“Why, now that I look at you--aren't you Dan Murray's nephew?”

“Phadrick Murray, an' divil a one else, sure enough.”

“How is your family, Phadrick? Why, man, you don't know your friends--my name's Cahill.”

“Is it Andy Cahill of Phuldhu? Why, thin, death alive, Andy, how is every bit of you? Andy, I'm regulatin' everything at this weddin', an' you must turn over your horse till we have a dhrop for ould times. Bless my sowl! sure, I'd know your brother round a corner; an' yourself, too, I ought to know, only that I didn't see you since you wor a slip of a gorsoon. Come away, man, sure thim men o' yours can take care o' the cattle. You'll asily overtake thim.”

“Throth, I don't care if I have a glass wid an ould friend. But, I hope your whiskey won't overtake me, Phadrick?”

“The never a fear of it, your father's son has too good a head for that. Ough! man alive, if you could stay for the weddin'! Divil a sich a let out ever was seen in the county widin the mimory of the ouldest man in it, as it'll be. Denis is the boy that 'ud have the dacent thing or nothin'.”

The grazier and Phadrick Murray then bent their steps to Owen Connor's house, where the wedding was held. It is unnecessary to say that Phadrick plied his new acquaintance to some purpose. Ere two hours passed the latter had forgotten his bullocks as completely as if he had never seen them, and his drovers were left to their own discretion in effecting their sale. As for Andy Cahill, like many another sapient Irishman, he preferred his pleasure to his business, got drunk, and danced, and sung at Denis O'Shaughnessy's wedding, which we are bound to say was the longest, the most hospitable, and most frolicsome that ever has been remembered in the parish from that day to the present.