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The Emigrants Of Ahadarra, a novel by William Carleton |
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Chapter 25. The Old Places--Death Of A Patriarch |
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_ CHAPTER XXV. The Old Places--Death of a Patriarch As the day appointed for the auction of the M'Mahon's stock, furniture, etc., etc., at Carriglass drew near, a spirit of deep and unceasing distress settled upon the whole family. It had not been their purpose to apprise the old man of any intention on their part to emigrate at all, and neither indeed had they done so. The fact, however, reached him from the neighbors, several of whom, ignorant that it was the wish of his family to conceal the circumstance from him--at least as long as they could--entered into conversation with him upon it, and by this means he became acquainted with their determination. Age, within the last few months--for he was now past ninety--had made sad work with both his frame and intellect. Indeed, for some time past, he might be said to hover between reason and dotage. Decrepitude had set in with such ravages on his constitution that it could almost be marked by daily stages. Sometimes he talked with singular good sense and feeling; but on other occasions he either babbled quite heedlessly, or his intellect would wander back to scenes and incidents of earlier life, many of which he detailed with a pathos that was created and made touching by the unconsciousness of his own state while relating them. They also observed that of late he began to manifest a child-like cunning in many things connected with himself and family, which, though amusing from its very simplicity, afforded at the same time a certain indication that the good old grandfather whom they all loved so well, and whose benignant character had been only mellowed by age into a more plastic affection for them all, was soon to be removed from before their eyes, never again to diffuse among them that charm of domestic truth and love, and the holy influences of all those fine old virtues which ancestral integrity sheds over the heart, and transmits pure and untarnished from generation to generation. On the day he made the discovery of their intention, he had been sitting on a bench in the garden, a favorite seat of his for many a long year previously; "And so," said he to the neighbor with whom he had been speaking, "you tell me that all our family is goin' to America?" "Why, dear me," replied his acquaintance, "is it possible you didn't know it?" "Ha!" he exclaimed, "I undherstand now why they used to be whisperin' together so often, and lookin' at me; but indeed they might spake loud enough now, for I'm so deaf that I can hardly hear anything. Howaniver, Ned, listen--they all intend to go, you say; now listen, I say--I know one that won't go; now, do you hear that? You needn't say anything about it, but this I tell you--listen to me, what's your name? Barney, is it?" "Why, is it possible, you don't know Ned Gormley?" "Ay, Ned Gormley--och, so it is. Well listen, Ned--there's one they won't bring; I can tell you that--the sorra foot I'll go to--to--where's this you say they're goin' to, Jemmy?" Gormley shook his head. "Poor Bryan," said he, "it's nearly all over wid you, at any rate. To America, Bryan," he repeated, in a loud voice. "Ay, to America. Well, the sorra foot ever I'll go to America--that one thing I can tell them. I'm goin' in. Oh! never mind," he exclaimed, on Gormley offering him assistance, "I'm stout enough still; stout an' active still; as soople as a two-year ould, thank God. Don't I bear up wonderfully?" "Well, indeed you do, Bryan; it is wonderful, sure enough." In a few minutes they arrived at the door; and the old man, recovering as it were a portion of his former intellect, said, "lavin' this place--these houses--an' goin' away--far, far away--to a strange country--to strange people! an' to bring me, the ould white-haired grandfather, away from all! that would be cruel; but my son Tom will never do it." "Well, at any rate, Bryan," said his neighbor, "whether you go or stay, God be wid you. It's a pity, God knows, that the like of you and your family should leave the country; and sure if the landlord, as they say, is angry about it, why doesn't he do what he ought to do? an' why does he allow that smooth-tongued rap to lead him by the nose as he does? Howandiver, as I said, whether you go or stay, Bryan, God be wid you!" During all that morning Thomas M'Mahon had been evidently suffering very deeply from a contemplation of the change that was about to take place by the departure of himself and his family from Carriglass. He had been silent the greater part of the morning, and not unfrequently forced to give away to tears, in which he was joined by his daughters, with the exception of Dora, who, having assumed the office of comforter, felt herself bound to maintain the appearance of a firmness which she did not feel. In this mood he was when "grandfather," as they called him, entered the house, after having been made acquainted with their secret. "Tom," said he, approaching his son, "sure you wouldn't go to bring an ould man away?" "Where to, father?" asked the other, a good deal alarmed. "Why, to America, where you're all goin' to. Oh! surely you wouldn't bring the old man away from the green fields of Carriglass? Would you lay my white head in a strange land, an' among a strange people? Would you take poor ould grandfather away from them that expects him down, at Carndhu where they sleep? Carndhu's a holy churchyard. Sure there never was a Protestant buried in it but one, an' the next mornin' there was a boortree bush growin' out o' the grave, an' it's there yet to prove the maricle. Oh! ay, Carndhu's holy ground, an' that's where I must sleep." These words were uttered with a tone of such earnest and childlike entreaty as rendered them affecting in a most extraordinary degree, and doubly so to those who heard him. Thomas's eyes, despite of every effort to the contrary, filled with tears. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "he has found it out at last; but how can I give him consolation, an' I stands in need of it so much myself?" "Father," said he, rising and placing the old man in the arm-chair, which for the last half century had been his accustomed seat, "father, we will go together--we will all be wid you. You'll not be among strangers--you'll have your own about you still." "But what's takin' you all away?" "Neglect and injustice, an' the evil tongues of them that ought to know us betther. The landlord didn't turn out to be what he ought to be. May God forgive him! But at any rate I'm sure he has been misled." "Ould Chevydale," said his father, "never was a bad landlord, an' he'd not become a bad one now. That's not it." "But the ould man's dead, father, an' its his son we're spakin' of." "And the son of ould Chevydale must have something good about him. The heart was always right wid his father, and every one knows there's a great deal in true blood. Sooner or later it'll tell for itself--but what is this? There was something troublin' me this minute. Oh! ay, you're goin' away, then, to America; but, mark my words:--I won't go. You may, but I'll stay here. I won't lave the green fields of Carriglass for any one. It's not much I'll be among them now, an' it isn't worth your while to take me from them. Here's where I was born--here's where the limbs that's now stiff an' feeble was wanst young and active--here's where the hair that's white as snow was fair an' curlin' like goold--here's where I was young--here's where I grew ould--among these dark hills and green fields--here you all know is where I was born; and, in spite o' you all, here's where I'll die." The old man was much moved by all these recollections; for, as he proceeded, the tears fell fast from his aged eyes, and his voice became tremulous and full of 'sorrow. "Wasn't it here, too," he proceeded, "that Peggy Slevin, she that was famed far an' near for her beauty, and that the sweet song was made upon--'Peggy Na Laveen'---ay--ay, you may think yourselves fine an' handsome; but, where was there sich a couple as grandfather and Peggy Na Laveen was then?" As he uttered these words, his features that had been impressed by grief, were lit up by a smile of that simple and harmless vanity which often attends us to the very grave; after which he proceeded:-- "There, on the side of that hill is the roofless house where she was born; an' there's not a field or hill about the place that her feet didn't make holy to me. I remember her well. I see her, an' I think I hear her voice on the top of Lisbane, ringin' sweetly across the valley of the Mountain Wather, as I often did. An' is it to take me away now from all this? Oh! no, childre', the white-haired grandfather couldn't go. He couldn't lave the ould places--the ould places. If he did, he'd die--he'd die. Oh, don't, for God's sake, Tom, as you love me!" There was a spirit of helpless entreaty in these last words that touched his son, and indeed all who heard him, to the quick. "Grandfather dear, be quiet," he replied; "God will direct all things for the best. Don't cry," he added, for the old man was crying like an infant; "don't cry, but be quiet, and everything will be well in time. It's a great trial, I know; but any change is better than to remain here till we come, like so many others, to beggary. God will support us, father." The old man wiped his eyes, and seemed as if he had taken comfort from the words of his son; whereas, the fact was, that his mind had altogether passed from the subject; but not without that unconscious feeling of pain which frequently remains after the recollection of that which has occasioned it has passed away. It was evident, from the manner of the old man, that the knowledge of their intended emigration had alarmed into action all the dormant instincts of his nature; but this was clearly more than they were competent to sustain for any length of time. Neither the tottering frame, nor the feeble mind was strong enough to meet the shock which came so unexpectedly upon them. The consequence may be easily anticipated. On the following day he was able to be up only for an hour; yet he was not sick, nor did he complain of any particular pain. His only malady appeared to consist in that last and general prostration of bodily and intellectual strength, by which persons of extreme old age, who have enjoyed uninterrupted health, are affected at, or immediately preceding their dissolution. His mind, however, though wandering and unsteady, was vigorous in such manifestations as it made. For instance, it seemed to be impressed by a twofold influence,--the memory of his early life,--mingled with a vague perception of present anxiety, the cause of which he occasionally was able to remember, but as often tried to recollect in vain. On the second day after his discovery he was unable to rise at all; but, as before, he complained of nothing, neither were his spirits depressed. On the contrary they were rather agitated--sometimes into cheerfulness, but more frequently into an expression of sorrow and lamentation, which were, however, blended with old by-gone memories that were peculiarly reflecting to those who heard them. In this way he went on, sinking gradually until the day previous to the auction. On that morning, to their surprise, he appeared to have absolutely regained new strength, and to have been gifted with something like renovated power of speech. "I want to get up," said he, "and it's only Tom an' Dora that I'll allow to help me. You're all good, an' wor always good to grandfather, but Tom was my best son, and signs on it--everything thruv wid him, an' God will prosper an' bless him. Where's Dora?" "Here, grandfather." "Ay, that's the voice above all o' them that went like music to my heart; but well I know, and always did, who you have that voice from; ay, an' I know whose eyes--an' it's them that's the lovely eyes--Dora has. Isn't the day fine, Dora?" "It is, grandfather, a beautiful day." "Ay, thank God. Well then I want to go out till I look--take one look at the ould places; for somehow I think my heart was never so much in them as now." It is impossible to say how or why the feeling prevailed, but the fact was, that the whole family were impressed with a conviction that this partial and sudden restoration of his powers was merely what is termed the lightening before death, and the consequence was, that every word he spoke occasioned their grief, for the loss of the venerable and virtuous patriarch, to break out with greater force. When he was dressed he called Dora to aid her father in bringing him out, which she did with streaming eyes and sobbings that she could scarcely restrain. After having reached a little green eminence that commanded a glorious view of the rich country beneath and around them, he called for his chair; "an', Bryan," said he, "the manly and honest-hearted, do you bring it to me. A blessin' will follow you, Bryan--a blessin' will follow my manly grandson, that I often had a proud heart out of. An'; Bryan," he proceeded, when the latter had returned with the chair and placed him in it, "listen, Bryan--when you and Kathleen Cavanagh's married--but I needn't say it--where was there one of your name to do an unmanly thing in that respect?--but when you and Kathleen's married, be to her as your own father was to her that's gone--ever and always kind and lovin', an' what your grandfather that's now spaking to you, maybe for the last time, was to her that's long, long an angel in heaven--my own Peggy Slevin--but it's the Irish sound of it I like--Peggy Na Laveen. Bring them all out here--but what is this?--why are you all cryin'? Sure; there's nothing wrong--an' why do you cry?" The other members of the family then assembled with tearful faces, and the good old man proceeded:-- "Thomas M'Mahon, stand before me." The latter, with uncovered head, did so; and his father resumed:--"Thomas M'Mahon, you're the only livin' son I have, an' I'm now makin' my Will. I lave this farm of Carriglass to you, while you live, wid all that's on it and in it;--that is, that I have any right to lave you--I lave it to you wid my blessin', and may God grant you long life and health to enjoy it. Ahadarra isn't mine to give, but, Bryan, it's your's; an' as I said to your father, God grant you health and long life to enjoy it, as he will to both o' you." "Oh! little you know, grandfather dear," replied Shibby, "that we've done wid both of them for ever." "Shibby, God bless you, achora," he returned; "but the ould man's lips can spake nothing now but the truth; an' my blessin' an' my wish, comin' from the Almighty as they do, won't pass away like common words." He then paused for a few minutes, but appeared to take a comprehensive view of the surrounding country. "But, grandfather," proceeded simple-hearted Shibby, "sure the match between Bryan and Kathleen Cavanagh is broken up, an' they're not to be married at all." "Don't I say, darlin', that they will be married, an' be happy--ay, an' may God make them happy! as He will, blessed be His holy name! God, acushla, can bring about everything in His own good way." After another pause of some minutes he murmured to himself--"Peggy Na Laveen--Peggy Na Laveen--how far that name has gone! Turn me round a little. What brought us here, childre'? Oh! ay--I wanted to see the ould places--there's Claghleim, where the walls of the house she was born in, and the green garden, is both to the fore; yet I hope they won't be disturbed, if it was only for the sake of them that's gone; an' there's the rock on the top of Lisbane,where, in the summer evening, long, long ago, I used to sit an' listen to Peggy Na Laveen singin' over our holy songs--the darlin' ould songs of the counthry. Oh! clear an' sweet they used to ring across the glen of the Mountain Wather. An' there's the hills an' the fields where she an' I so often sported when we wor both young; there they are, an' many a happy day we had on them; but sure God was good to us, blessed be His name, as He ever will be to them that's obadient to His holy will!" As he uttered the last words he clasped his two hands together, and, having closed his eyes, he muttered something internally which they could not understand. "Now," said he, "bring me in again; I have got my last look at them all--the ould places, the brave ould places! oh, who would lave them for any other country? But at any rate, Tom, achora, don't take me away from them; sure you wouldn't part me from the green fields of Carriglass? Sure you'd not take me from the blessed graveyard of Carndhu, where we all sleep. I couldn't rest in a sthrange grave, nor among strange people; I couldn't rest, barrin' I'm wid her, Peggy Na Laveen." These words he uttered after his return into the house. "Grandfather," said Bryan, "make your mind aisy; we won't take you from the brave ould places, and you will sleep in Carndhu with Peggy Na Laveen; make your heart and mind easy, then, for you won't be parted." He turned his eyes upon the speaker, and a gleam of exultation and delight settled upon his worn but venerable features; nor did it wholly pass away, for, although his chin sank upon his breast, yet the placid expression remained. On raising his head they perceived that this fine and patriarchal representative of the truthful integrity and simple manners of a bygone class had passed into a life where neither age nor care can oppress the spirit, and from whose enjoyment no fear of separation can ever disturb it. It is unnecessary to describe the sorrow which they felt. It must be sufficient to say that seldom has grief for one so far advanced in years been so sincere and deep. Age, joined to the knowledge of his affectionate heart and many virtues, had encircled him with a halo of love and pious veneration which caused his disappearance from among them to be felt, as if a lamb of simple piety and unsullied truth had been removed from their path for ever. That, indeed, was a busy and a melancholy day with the M'Mahons; for, in addition to the death of the old grandfather, they were obliged to receive farewell visits to no end from their relations, neighbors, and acquaintances. Indeed it would be difficult to find a family in a state of greater distress and sorrow. The auction, of course, was postponed for a week--that is, until after the old man's funeral--and the consequence was that circumstances, affecting the fate of our dramatis personae had time to be developed, which would otherwise have occurred too late to be available for the purposes of our narrative. This renders it necessary that we should return to a period in it somewhat anterior to that at which we have now arrived. _ |
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