Part 4

''Not whilst I live'!--I seized the babe, and cried. ''The corse is mine--the fun'ral I'll provide-- Beneath my bed its resting-place shall be: 'Twill bring me sleep when slumber fain would flee. Thou ne'er hast felt that heart-consuming power, That rage increasing each successive hour, That desp'rate longing to annihilate The wretch who dares augment our cruel fate; But think not I to foes would thee betray: No, hidden there the infant safe shall lay Till coming years shall rot each bone away.''

"Swear this to me,' he said, 'and I depart; But let no temptings of thy magic art Lead thee astray, for death must be thy lot If e'er the oath of silence be forgot.

But as I'd keep thee now from further sin, Whene'er I pass this way I'll just look in; Or send you gold, which ne'er fails to impart The balm of comfort to a broken heart.'

"I willing swear, but not through threats,' said I, "For life's a burden; but I'll tell you why: Uncertain fears shall wear away his heart, And even wealth shall fail to soothe his smart.'

"He left--the babe beneath my couch was laid, Beside the gold which seemed for murder paid, With larger sums at diff'rent seasons brought, For though half starved I yet would handle naught.

"But in the morn you it shall all exhume If you will swear my body to entomb Within this spot, and faithfully incline To grant my dying wishes--then 'tis thine. I would the haughty Baron soon should know What hand it is has laid his glory low, That she it is whose hut he once destroyed Who now of heirs has made his house thus void.''

"She more had said, but sense appeared to stray, Yea, even life was ebbing fast away. 'Begone! begone!' was all she'd strength to say. I left, persuaded morn would see her clay. This morning early rising there I went, --To seek the money, p'rhaps, my chief intent-- When neither the hut could anywhere be found, Nor yet the old lady, or trace on the ground; So that really I thought, ere from slumber I woke, She had vanished away like a cigar, in smoke.

"This then is, your rev'rence, the whole of my tale-- That I'm disappointed I greatly bewail, For I meant to enrich with this wealth given me (As a proof of my zeal) this great monastery."

"And this," said the Abbot, "you plead in defence? I'm almost persuaded 'tis but a pretence; Yet, in justice, I cannot my credence refuse Until I discover my trust you abuse. But if ever in falsehood you once are found out, My anger would heavily fall there's no doubt. Then it was, after all, but a slumb'ring delusion,-- Just a slight indigestion, which caused this illusion? Still tell me, how is it I find you out here?" "To meditate, sir, on these doings so queer, I meant to devote a few moments to thought, To see if by chance I could recollect aught Of the hut's situation, as likely I might P'rhaps have lost the right track through the darkness of night, For the scenes of each action so plain to me seem, I can never believe 'twas a shadowy dream." "May I ask," said the Abbot, "what book you're perusing? I am sure 'tis instructive, I hope 'tis amusing." "Well really, your rev'rence, I can't say it aint, For 'tis an account of a very great saint, Who all kinds of evil with boldness defied, And ever was victor when battle he tried."

Oh how heartily now the poor friar did wish He would go, for his foot was nigh crushing his fish; But suppose he had seen them, I have little doubt He'd have said that, unaided, the stream they crept out, For he ne'er could be trapped for the want of excuse; Yet was still his companion most anxious to lose, For the turn of a rush would have cost him his dinner. But kind Fate had determined he should not get thinner, For the Abbot departed without a word more, And so neither the fish nor the little hook saw, Which was dangling about--quite in sight you'll suppose, As he nearly was caught once or twice by the nose.

"Ah, ah, ah!" said the friar, "now isn't it good? But I'd better not crow till he's out of the wood. I'm certain he's left me to look for the money, The greedy old fellow: now isn't it funny, To know that I have done him who thinks he's so 'cute He ne'er can be baffled in any dispute? O bravo, dear Fiction! you clever old girl, Your banner with pleasure I'll ever unfurl, And rejoice as a slave at your feet low to lie, Till old Fate shall determine that Peter must die. But just wait, let me see Where my rod and line be. Oh, there down midst the rushes they lie snug concealed. But those ill-fated fish Won't get cooked as I wish, For I'm sure by this time that the taties are peeled. But I know what I'll do: While they're boiling--there's two, But remarkably small--more's the pity! I will just take a nap In old Somnus's lap, And will dream of that angel, Miss Kitty."

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_CHAPTER THE THIRD._

We must now leave the monk for a moment or two, And quick after the steps of the Abbot pursue, Who can very fast walk when he thinks he's not seen, And is scamp'ring now o'er the meadows (so green), For he really believed that the friar said true, That he'd lost the right path which would lead the hut to, But he felt quite determined to find it. And although the sun's rays were so scorchingly hot That he red in the face as a furnace had got, Yet he seemed not a moment to mind it; But clambered each hill's side and ran down each hollow, Oft looking to see if the friar would follow, Not thinking howe'er he'd be found thus. But when we do actions of which we're ashamed, And conscience informs us we ought to be blamed, We're sure to look anxious around us. "But had not old Peter abandoned the chase," The Abbot exclaimed, "ere I popp'd in his place, As executor to the old lady? Then, besides, but a moment or two back he told That he meant to devote to our use all the gold. Oh, how conscience soon quieted may be!"

Now the Abbot remembered that somewhere he'd seen An old tumble-down hut when out rambling he'd been, Which he thought might be it,--and 'twas, by the bye, The same Peter had all the while in his eye; For he had not erected, as Truth must declare, The castle on clouds up aloft in the air. But the gold and old lady were really a joke, And had both been dug out of and buried in smoke. Then he happened to know, About eight years ago, A child had been lost by the Baron--and oh! He never should think Old Peter could link Such strange facts together as well deserved ink. So his story was true, For he very well knew The friar possessed not a grain of romance. 'Tis not book study that Has made him grow so fat, 'Tis earth's lower pleasures, he fears, does entrance.

Now a distant rise Presents to the eyes Of the Abbot the hut, and with joy on he flies; It is rugged indeed, But he takes little heed, Though the walls are of mud, and each flower is a weed.

Not a sound then was heard, Not a chirp from a bird, Nor yet from a little grasshopper; Should he knock at the shed, Or straight walk in instead? He wish'd to know which was most proper. For there spread o'er his heart such a feeling of awe, He felt nervous whenever he ugly sights saw; And now p'rhaps the bed must be moved from the hovel, Before at the gold he can get--then the shovel: O dear, he's forgot it--oh, what shall he do If there's none within when he penetrates through? Then without much dispatch He uplifted the latch, When he felt 'gainst his legs such a terrible poke, That he staggered with fear, And had swooned away near, Ere he saw 'twas a pig who inflicted the stroke; While a rough Irish laugh on his reverie broke, Whose possessor appeared to enjoy much the joke, And cried, "Och, the pig has got out of the door! Why couldn't you make a slight shindy before You poked in your carcase?--We'd held then his tail--it Must now be 'gen cotched, or some feller will stale it." But a terrible frown From the Abbot proceeded, And he rustled his gown, Which at once Loony heeded; For the priests then were held by the whole of the nation In the highest respect, and in great veneration. "Your pardon, your rev'rence, I knew not 'twas you," He humbly exclaimed, whilst his head he was scratching. "Pray do me the honour to step just into This bit of a dwelling--it p'rhaps may want thatching; Still the holes in the roof make the fire burn better, Though rain, than is pleasant oft makes us much wetter." "No, what I would say I will speak here outside,-- 'Tis of the old lady who yesternight died." "She dead! Oh no, no! Though I oft wished she were, Still yonder she sits in the corner down there, On the edge of a tub, for want of a chair." "Quite true," said the Abbot, "for Socrates tells us, Old ladies in breath are as lasting as bellows; But is she not troubled with gout or rheumatic? Or is she, from rain oft descending, aquatic? "Rheumatics! yes, sure, there's much truth in that question. But what is far worse is her pow'rful digestion; For would ye believe it--within bounds I speak-- A sack of best praties would last but a week, If she was supplied whene'er victuals she'd seek. But she gave us last night such a terrible fright, When we chanced late to come from the wake of old Wright. For her pains were so bad That she raved just like mad, And called for a priest, though no priest could be had. Still up in the morn she rose better than ever. Pain never will kill her, I'm certain,--no, never! She's my mother-in-law, sir, and not my own mother, Or as welcome she'd be in this world as another." ("Oh, oh!" thought the Abbot, "the way's growing clearer! I feared I had strayed--but I find the game nearer.") "She would see then a priest? with her wish I'll comply; But alone it must be, for should you remain by, Any facts I would prove she would surely deny, Though of Mary's great abbey the Primate am I." "Well, if ever!" said Looney, with a wild kind of stare, As he bolted inside, crying, "Meg! quick--a chair! There's the Abbot of Mary's a-standing out there!" Now that Meg was not well might be very well seen, She'd been waking too late where she'd yesternight been, For her eyes were as red as a lobster fresh boiled, And her nose looked like beetroot in cooking when spoiled; So she ran in a corner, where safe she might hide From the flood of reproofs which she feared might betide. Then enter'd the Abbot, his eyes cast around, And snug in a corner the old lady found, While away on an errand had Looney been sent, To prevent his eaves-dropping--if such his intent. ("That shows skill," thought Ted, "but I yet shall defeat it, For Meg will hear all, and is sure to repeat it.") "She sleeps," said the priest, "and I don't like to wake her, But fear she won't rouse if I try not to make her; So as time flies fast I will make bold to shake her." "Fire! thieves!" cried the dame. "O, Meg, what are you arter? You wicked, ungrateful, neglectful, young darter! I was dreaming of dinner--oh, such a fine treat! Not of biled praties only, but roast and biled meat." "Hush, hush!" said the Abbot, "I've heard your sad story, And much I was grieved at, but felt sorry for ye." "Ay, ay," she exclaimed, "did yer spake of the child? It's nigh broke my heart, and will soon drive me wild. Though I don't wish to die, yet the dochters can't save, When there's grief and rheumatics a-digging my grave." "But the gold," said the Abbot, "I hope it's secure?" "Did yer spake? Just spake out, for I'm deaf, certain sure." "Down there?" said he louder, and pointed close by, "Yes, there, there," she answered, "the creature will lie, Dead drunk as a baste, while I'm forced to attend To the cooking and washing, or else a hand lend For to keep the house tidy, or else the clothes mend: Yet I get but half-fed, Whilst she's snoring in bed. I often have thought I had better be dead." "Just so," said the priest; "sure the woman's quite mad. Or else forgot all--oh, a spade that I had! I'd soon have a look if the gold were there still, And then set to work just to make out her will." While speaking, he spied 'neath the bed a small leg Without shoe or stocking, which proved to be Meg. "Oh, she's heard every word, then!" the Abbot exclaimed; "For the want of more caution I'm much to be blamed; They will search every spot, and the wealth I shall lose it. But the old dame can help it, and she may not choose it." "Och then it is you, sir? I thought it was Ted," Cried Meg, as she crept from her nook near the bed; "For he's in such a pet of a passion to-day, That I'm forced for peace sake to keep out of his way." Then too entered Looney, who, panting for breath, Had made up his mind to be in at the death. "Tom Smithers, yer rev'rence, I met close by here, With pleasure he'd see yer whenever ye're near. His old father's but bad still--you've heard, I suppose, He was thrown from his horse and was pitched on his nose?" "Yes, I have of it heard, and will see him ere long; He'd been drinking too much, which was dreadfully wrong. This cottage is small," he continued; "I fear That comfort and ease you can ne'er enjoy here. Besides, you're so far off that you don't get your share Of the gifts I bestow on those under my care. Now I have a neat cottage, and 'tis my intent, Ted, to let it to you at a moderate rent. And as to the Abbey, you'll then be so nigh, Its garden will work for your spare hours supply." "Hurrah! thanks! your rev'rence!" cried Ted with delight; "I am grateful, contented, and happy now quite. Sure I'll back with you now, sir, and see what it's like, Then with pleasure the bargain I'll readily strike." "Then with me at once, and your wife, if she'd see The dwelling I speak of, can come too with me. Though 'tis out of repair, yet to you 'twill appear Like a palace, compared with this old hut out here. Then Jenkins will lend you his cart to remove Your goods; and, I think, a good neighbour will prove." "Sure I'm ready," said Meg, As she took from a peg Her bonnet, which once might have been an old hat. "And," cried Ted, "so am I, Though I feel rather dry, And maybe his rev'rence admires a good vat." But a dark frown descending, Made him tremble with awe; He was sadly offending The proud Abbot, he saw. Then they went out together, And, it being hot weather, Their pace was exceedingly slow; While the Abbot endeavours From converse to gather If they of the treasure aught know. Now what after befell It is needless to tell, Save the cottage was liked and they went there to dwell. While their hut and its ground Was dug up all around, Though there never a bone or a guinea was found.

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_CHAPTER THE FOURTH._

Now back to the friar I fain must desire My reader's attention to turn; Who is round the place looking, While his fish are a-cooking, A snug spot for a nap to discern. A box full of worms he has laid by his side-- A present young Pat never fails to provide, And gives him whenever he sees him. Though often for fun he would place there instead A snail or a frog, or defunct chicken's head; It gave him such pleasure to tease him. For old Peter was one who could not stand a joke, And at one time young Pat got his head nearly broke Through a comical trick which he played him. For as slumb'ring one day by the water he sat, Pat had fixed to his hook the stale corpse of a cat, And then snug in the river's depth laid him. Which the friar, when waking, had deemed a rich prize, And his little mouth watered, and twinkled both eyes, As in scales, in his mind's eye, he weighed him. "I shall lose it, I fear; I've no landing-net here: I am sure it's a carp or a bream. Should he run I am done, While to help me there's none; O that even young Pat could be seen!" At that moment appeared, And up suddenly reared The head of Miss Puss, in a very droll way. While a loud laugh up high, In an oak-tree close by, Told Peter who he for the trick had to pay. "Oh, you imp of all mischief!" he cried, "come down here; For this trick that you've served me I'll make you pay dear." "No, thank you," said Pat, with a kind friendly nod; "I'd rather--much rather--not taste of your rod." Now who could stand this? Oh, not he! Round he lashed His rod; and young Pat, who disliked to be thrashed, Tried to climb up still higher, but losing his hold, Swiftly down to the ground like an o'er-ripe pear roll'd. "His neck's broke!" said Peter; "the mad, careless calf!" But Pat rose unhurt, and ran off with a laugh.

Now deep in the forest the friar had sought A snug shady spot, where no mortal he thought Would ere chance to disturb his repose; For with talking and fright He is tired out quite, And would fain on the world his eyes close. Above his head A tall oak spread Its leafy shade; And 'midst the trees The sportive breeze With young boughs played. From ev'ry bird A song was heard As forth they strayed Some grub to seize, While busy bees A buzzing made. Reclining on a grassy mound, His head a velvet cushion found, And bushes weave a curtain round; Here ponders he the morning's scene, Till things that are with things that seem Together blend and form a dream. Again he feels red-hot with fright, Once more his tale he must recite, Must conjure up a thousand lies To blind Suspicion's wakeful eyes-- Must rise with hope and sink with fear, And all the while must feel most queer.

His tale when told--instead of going, The Abbot looks most wondrous knowing; And says "'Tis a falsehood,--a fable, Which he to deny is not able," As with throbbings of conscience he shook; For he could not then think of the frailest excuse, Though he rummaged his brains--it was all of no use, For his cunning and skill him forsook. "You are guilty, you sinner!" the stern Abbot cried; "Your confusion betrays you! Now don't try to hide Your wickedness more, for I shall not believe A word that you say, as you've tried to deceive." Then the poor friar thought That for pardon he sought, But the Abbot appeared not to hear, When he swooned right away, And insensible lay, Overcome with remorse or with fear. As he came to himself, thinks he, "I'm in bed;" But very soon after thinks he, "No, I'm dead: Oh, I feel so uncommonly queer! I can move neither leg nor an arm, And my tongue's unaccountably calm,-- There is something wrong, certainly, here. Where's the Abbot?--He's gone--'tis most like for assistance. They will bury me, p'rhaps, and I can't make resistance: Oh, my doom is now sealed I see clear!"