The Heir of Kilfinnan Part 2

Thus the winter pa.s.sed away. Dermot, in spite of wind and rain, or sleet or cold, persevered in his visits to the vicarage. He gained also an acquaintance with religious truth, of which before he had been profoundly ignorant. It was not very perfect, perhaps, but Mr Jamieson put the Bible into his hands, and he thus obtained a knowledge of its contents possessed by few of those around. Had the neighbouring parish priest, Father O'Rourke, discovered whither he was going, and the change that was constantly taking place in him, he would probably have endeavoured to interfere, and prevent him from paying his visits to the Protestant clergyman. Although he might not have hindered Dermot from doing as he chose, he probably would have alarmed his mother, who, though tolerably intelligent, was too completely under the influence of superst.i.tion to have understood clearly the cause of the priest's interference. In a certain sense, to Dermot's mind, the advantage he possessed was not so great as at first sight might appear. As he advanced in knowledge he became less and less contented with his lot in life, or rather the wish increased that he might be able to raise himself above it. By what means, however, was this to be accomplished?

He had no claim upon the Earl, who, although wis.h.i.+ng that he might be taught reading and writing, had not the slightest intention of raising him above his present occupation. Mr Jamieson gave him no encouragement; although perhaps, the idea had occurred to the worthy minister, that the boy was fitted for something above the mere life of an ordinary fisherman. Still the matter had not as yet troubled Dermot's mind. It probably only occasionally pa.s.sed through his thoughts, that there was an existence, even in this world, something above that to which it appeared he was doomed. Mr Jamieson had now resided for a considerable number of years at the vicarage. He came there with high antic.i.p.ations of the amount of good he was likely to effect in that neighbourhood. By degrees, however, he found that his efforts to raise the people out of the state of ignorance in which they had been brought up were likely to prove abortive. The parish priest did not indeed offer him any open opposition, but he set an under current to work, which silently, though effectually nullified all the vicar's efforts. Not one proselyte had he made, and at length he abandoned his previous intentions in despair of success, and consoled himself with the thought that at least he would perform thoroughly all the duties of his station. To such a conclusion many persons in his position have arrived, whether rightly or wrongly it need not here be said. Mr Jamieson had an only niece, who had of late years come to reside with him. She was no longer very young, but was a gentle, quiet woman, whose great desire was to do any good to her fellow-creatures which lay in her power.

Miss O'Reilly had been for some time aware that a severe affliction was about to overtake her. When she first arrived at the vicarage, she used to go among the neighbouring peasantry, carrying a basket to relieve the sick or starving, or to administer such comfort as she was able. She enjoyed the beautiful scenery by which she was surrounded. Now, however, she found that when she took a book the letters were dim and indistinct, while all distant scenes were shut out from her view, as if a thick mist hung over them. Blindness she felt was coming on. A journey to Dublin was in those days a long and tedious, if not somewhat dangerous undertaking. Still, at her uncle's desire, accompanied by him, she performed it. But no hope was given by the oculist whom she consulted, and she returned home with the knowledge that in a short time she would require some one to lead her by the hand whenever she might wish to move from the immediate neighbourhood of the house.

Dermot had made frequent visits to the vicarage before Miss O'Reilly was aware who he was. One day he met her while she was trying to find her way a short distance from the house. He had seen her and knew who she was. Seeing her in doubt as to the path she was to take, he, with the native gallantry of the Irish, sprang forward and begged that he might be allowed to lead her.

"And who are you, boy?" she asked. "What brings you to the vicarage?"

Dermot told her his short history.

"You are then a pupil of my uncle's?"

"Yes, his reverence has been teaching me, and I love to learn from him,"

answered Dermot.

This led to further conversation, and Dermot told her of his mother, who lived down in the little cottage in Blackwater cove.

"And have you any brothers, sisters, or relations?" she asked.

"Except Uncle Shane, none that I know of," said Dermot.

"Your mother, then, lives all alone."

"Yes, since my father's death, twelve years ago, she has lived by herself, with me alone to take care of, in her little hut."

"And you never wish to leave your home, and go and see the great world?"

asked Miss O'Reilly. Why she put the question it was difficult to say.

It might not have been a very judicious one, as far as the boy was concerned, and yet it was but natural to suppose that a boy of Dermot's character would wish to go forth into the great world, that he might inspect its wonders.

"It may be, lady; I may have wished to go and see the world, though not to leave my mother; for who would care for her if I was gone? Uncle Shane would, but he is old and couldn't protect her for long. Besides you know that not a year pa.s.ses but that some of the men on our coast lose their lives."

"And does your mother know the truth? Can she read the Bible, boy?"

asked Miss O'Reilly.

"No, she cannot read the Bible, but the priest takes care that she should know what he believes to be the truth, I am sure."

"Your mother loves you?"

"Oh! indeed she does," answered Dermot; "she would spill her heart's blood for my sake, though she often sits melancholy and sad when alone, yet the moment I return, her eye brightens, and she opens her arms to receive me. Yes, lady, my mother does love me, that I know."

"I should like to come and talk to your mother," said the blind lady.

"Will you lead me to her some day? I should not be afraid to descend the cliff with so strong an arm as yours to rest on."

A few days after this, Dermot having finished his lesson with the vicar, met Miss O'Reilly close to the house, and expressed his readiness to take her to his mother's cottage, the sea at the time happening to be far too rough to allow their boat to go forth to fish.

"I am ready to go with you," said the blind lady; "but remember you must lead me all the way back, Dermot."

"That will just double the honour, lady," was the young Irishman's reply. Dermot talked much of his mother to the blind lady, as he led her down to the cottage.

The widow's voice pleased Miss O'Reilly, and all she said increased the interest she was inclined to take in her. Perhaps more than all, was that deep love which she felt for her only boy, and which had become, as it were, part of her being.

Dermot carefully conducted Miss O'Reilly back to the vicarage, and this was the first of many visits which she afterwards paid to the fishwife's hut.

Dermot was never idle. He had no a.s.sociates; indeed from his earliest days he had kept aloof from boys of his own age. It was not that he was morose, or proud or ill-tempered, but he appeared to have no sympathy with them, and thus, though possessed of many qualities which would have won him friends, he had not a single friend of his own rank or age in the neighbourhood. Whenever he was not out fis.h.i.+ng, he was engaged with his book, either at the vicarage or at home.

He was thus employed one afternoon in his mother's hut, when Father O'Rourke, the parish priest, made his appearance at the door.

"Come in, your reverence," said the widow, placing a stool for him near the hearth; "it is a long day since your reverence has been seen down the cove."

"May be you haven't seen me often enough," said Father O'Rourke, a stout broad-faced man, with a countenance of the ordinary low Irish type.

"How is it that Dermot there has so many books? Ah! I have heard about his doings; he often goes up, I am told, to the Protestant minister's.

What good can he get by going there?"

"Much good, your reverence," observed Dermot; "I have been learning to read and write, and gain other knowledge such as I had no other means of obtaining."

"Such knowledge may be bad for one like you," said Father O'Rourke; "there is no good can come from the place where you go to get it."

"Pardon me, Father O'Rourke," said Dermot, with spirit; "the knowledge I get there is good, and the gentleman who gives it is kind and good too.

I will not hear him spoken against."

"What, lad! do you dare to speak to me in that way?" exclaimed the priest. "You will be going over to the Protestants, and then the curse of Saint Patrick and all the holy saints will rest upon you,--you too, who are born to be a priest of the holy faith. Look; you were marked before you came into the world with the emblem of our faith, and if your mother had followed the wishes of her true friends, you would even now be training for the priesthood, instead of being a poor fisher-boy, as you now must be for ever, and nothing more." The priest as he spoke seized Dermot's hand, and bared his arm to the shoulder. There, curiously enough, above the elbow, was a red mark which might easily have been defined as a cross.

The boy drew away his hand indignantly: "I tell you, Father O'Rourke, I am as true a son of the Holy Church as ever I was. Mr Jamieson is no bigot; he gives me instruction, but does not ask me to turn to his faith, and yet, Father O'Rourke, I tell you, to my mind it is a pure and holy faith, whatever you may say to the contrary."

The boy spoke boldly and proudly, as he again drew down the sleeve of his s.h.i.+rt.

Many years before, when the red mark on Dermot's arm had first been seen by the neighbours, it was suggested that it was evidently placed there as a sign from heaven that he should become a priest, and that in all probability he would rise to be a bishop, if not a cardinal. When, however, Dermot grew a little older, and the idea was suggested to him, he indignantly refused to accept the offers made him. In the first place, nothing would induce him to leave his mother, and in the second, he had no ambition to become like Father O'Rourke, for whom it must be confessed, that at a very early age the boy had entertained a considerable antipathy. Even with the widow, though she was ignorant and superst.i.tious, Father O'Rourke had never been a favourite; still when she could get so far as the chapel, she went to hear ma.s.s, and attended confession, as did her neighbours. The feeling which governed her was fear, rather than love for the parish priest. Father O'Rourke was excessively indignant at being thus addressed by the young fisher-boy. He turned from him, however, to his mother, and began to pour out his abuse on her head. He had not proceeded far, however, when Dermot again sprang to his feet.

"Father O'Rourke!" he exclaimed; "you may say what you like to me; you may curse me, and if you like you may threaten me with excommunication even, but do not lift up your tongue against my poor old mother. There are things a man can bear and some he ought not to bear, and I tell you, boy as I am, I will not have her spoken against. Your words may frighten her, and she may fancy that your curses may fall upon her head, but I tell you when uttered against a poor helpless widow, they will fall back on him who dares to speak them. There, Father O'Rourke, I have had my say, and I defy you."

The priest had never before been spoken to in this manner by one of his flock, and he found no words to reply. At first he felt inclined to anathematise both the widow and her son, but doubts as to the effects it might produce upon Dermot restrained him, or perhaps a better feeling came into his heart.

"Very well, boy, remember I have warned you," he exclaimed, "I have told you that by going to that Protestant minister, you may be led to turn heretic, and forsake our holy faith, and if you should, do not forget the heavy curses that will follow you. I do not wish you ill, nor do I wish your mother ill, but I cannot stand by and see one of my flock carried the downward way to destruction."

Having thus delivered himself, Father O'Rourke left the hut and took the path up the steep glen, which led inland from the sea.

Often Dermot's mind reverted to the days when the castle was inhabited, and he thought of the beautiful and kind ladies he had seen there, and of the fair little girl who had smiled so sweetly when she spoke to him.

He felt the immeasurable distance between them and him, and yet he longed for their return, that he might gaze on them at a distance, and again hear their voices. He was generally too much occupied to go to the castle to inquire when the Earl was likely to return, because when not engaged in fis.h.i.+ng, he was constantly at the house of Mr Jamieson.

More than once he had ventured to ask him whether he thought the Earl was likely to come back again, but the minister replied that he was ignorant of the Earl's movements, and had not heard that any orders had been received at the castle to make preparations for the reception of the family. The time was approaching when they had come on the previous year, and Dermot, though he scarcely acknowledged his feelings to himself, became more and more anxious for their arrival. After leaving Mr Jamieson, though the round was a long one, and he had to prepare his nets for the day's fis.h.i.+ng, he could not resist the temptation of going to the castle before he returned home. From his frequent visits during the previous summer, he was not a stranger there, and the housekeeper, pleased with his good looks and his unaffected manner, was not sorry to see him.

"Wait a bit, boy, wait a bit, and I think I can tell you when the ladies will come back and make another likeness of you," she said, putting her hand on his head. "Ah! they will spoil you if we don't take care, but do not be led away by them, boy. They look upon you, likely enough, as they do upon a pet dog, or any other animal, and when they are away, it is little they trouble their heads about you."

These remarks were made in kindness by good Mrs Rafferty. She had heard all about the boy, and knew very well that if it became the custom to have him up at the castle, and to make much of him, as she thought was likely to be the case, he would inevitably be spoiled.

"When you come we will buy your fish, no fear of that, and take my advice, get a supply of the finest you can by to-morrow or the day after, and may be when you come there will be mouths enough at the castle to eat them."

"What! are the family coming so soon then?" exclaimed Dermot, and a thrill of pleasure ran through his frame; "and the beautiful lady who draws so well, and all the others! I will go and catch the fish, never fear, Mrs Rafferty, and it will not be my fault if I don't bring a basket of as fine as ever were caught up to the castle to-morrow."

"I did not say 'to-morrow,' boy; I said the day after, and that will be time enough."