Phil Purcel, The Pig-Driver; The Geography Of An Irish Oath; The Lianhan Shee Part 14

"Mrs. Connell, for Heaven's sake."--.

"Is this--is this--Father Mulcahy? Oh! I'm ill--ill!"--

"It is, dear; it is. Compose yourself and confess your sins."

"Where's Mary? She'll neglect--neglect to lay in a stock o' linen, although I--I--Oh, Father, avourneen! won't you pity me! I'm sick--oh, I'm very sick!"

"You are, dear--you are, G.o.d help you, very sick, but you'll be better soon. Could you confess, dear?--do you think you could?"

"Oh, this pain--this pain!--it's killin' me!--Pether--Pether, _a suillish, machree_, (* The light of my heart) have, have you des--have you desarted me."

The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his appearance she might feel soothed, and perhaps sufficiently composed to confess, called him in from the next room.

"Here's Peter," said the priest, presenting him to her view--"Here's Peter, dear."

"Oh! what a load is on me! this pain--this pain is killin' me--won't you bring me, Pether? Oh, what will I do? Who's there?"

The mental pangs of poor Peter were, perhaps, equal in intensity to those which she suffered physically.

"Ellish," said he, in smothered sobs--"Ellish, acushla machree, sure I'm wid you here; here I'm sittin' on the bed wid you, achora machree."

"Catch my hand, thin. Ah, Pether! won't you pity your Ellish?--Won't you pity me--won't you pity me? Oh! this pain--this pain--is killin' me!"

"It is, it is, my heart's delight--it's killin' us both. Oh, Ellish, Ellis.h.!.+ I wish I was dead sooner nor see you in this agony. I ever loved you!--I ever an' always loved you, avourneen dheelish; but now I would give my heart's best blood, if it'ud save you. Here's Father Mulcahy come."

"About the mon--about the money--Pether--what do you intind----Oh! my blood--my blood's a-fire!--Mother o'Heaven!--Oh! this pain is--is takin'

me from all--faix!--Rise me up!"

"Here, my darlin'--treasure o' my heart here--I'm puttin' your head upon my breast--upon my breast, Ellish, ahagur. Marciful Virgin--Father dear," said Peter, bursting into bitter tears--"her head's like fire! O!

Ellish, Ellish, Ellis.h.!.+--but my heart's brakin' to feel this! Have marcy on her, sweet G.o.d--have marcy on her! Bear witness, Father of heaven--bear witness, an' hear the vow of a brakin' heart. I here solemnly promise before G.o.d, to make, if I'm spared life an' health to do it, a Station on my bare feet to Lough Derg, if it plases you, sweet Father o' pity, to spare her to me this day! Oh! but the hand o' G.o.d, Father dear, is terrible!--feel her brow!--Oh! but it's terrible!"

"It is terrible," said the priest; "and terribly is it laid upon her, poor woman! Peter, do not let this scene be lost. Remember it."

"Oh, Father dear, can I ever forget it?--can I ever forget seein' my darlin' in sich agony?"

"Pether," said the sick woman, "will you get the car ready for to-mor--to-morrow--till I look at that piece o' land that Dan bought, before he--he closes the bargain?"

"Father, jewel!" said Pether, "can't you get the world banished out of her heart? Oh, I'd give all I'm worth to see that heart fixed upon G.o.d!

I could bear to part wid her, for she must die some time; but to go wid this world's thoughts an' timptations ragin' strong in her heart--mockin' G.o.d, an' hope, an' religion, an' everything:--oh!--that I can't bear! Sweet Jasus, change her heart!--Queen o' Heaven, have pity on her, an' save her!"

The husband wept with great sorrow as he uttered these words.

"Neither reasoning nor admonition can avail her," replied the priest; "she is so incoherent that no train of thought is continued for a single minute in her mind. I will, however, address her again. Mrs. Connell, will you make a straggle to pay attention to me for a few minutes? Are you not afraid to meet G.o.d? You are about to die!--prepare yourself for judgment."

"Oh, Father dear! I can't--I can't--I am af--afraid--Hooh!--hooh!--G.o.d!

You must do some thin'for--for me! I never done anything for myself."

"Glory be to G.o.d! that she has that much sinse, any way," exclaimed her husband. "Father, ahagur, I trust my vow was heard."

"Well, my dear--listen to me," continued the priest--"can you not make the best confession possible? Could you calm yourself for it?"

"Pether, avick machree--Pether,"--

"Ellish, avourneen, I'm here!--my darlin', I am your vick machree, an'

ever was. Oh, Father! my heart's brakin'! I can't bear to part wid her.

Father of heaven, pity us this day of throuble?"

"Be near me, Pether; stay wid me--I'm very lonely. Is this you keepin'

my head up?"

"It is, it is! I'll never lave you till--till"--

"Is the carman come from Dublin wid--wid the broadcloth?"

"Father of heaven! she's gone back again!" exclaimed the husband.

"Father, jewel! have you no prayers that you'd read for her? You wor ordained for these things, an' comin' from you, they'll have more stringth. Can you do nothin' to save my darlin'?"

"My prayers will not be wanting," said the priest: "but I am watching for an interval of sufficient calmness to hear her confession; and I very much fear that she will pa.s.s in darkness. At all events, I will anoint her by and by. In the meantime, we must persevere a little longer; she may become easier, for it often happens that reason gets clear immediately before death."

Peter sobbed aloud, and wiped away the tears that streamed from his cheeks. At this moment her daughter and son-in-law stole in, to ascertain how she was, and whether the rites of the church had in any degree soothed or composed her.

"Come in, Denis," said the priest to his nephew, "you may both come in.

Mrs. Mulcahy, speak to your mother: let us try every remedy that might possibly bring her to a sense of her awful state."

"Is she raving still?" inquired the daughter, whose eyes were red with weeping.

The priest shook his head; "Ah, she is--she is! and I fear she will scarcely recover her reason before the judgment of heaven opens upon her!"

"Oh thin may the Mother of Glory forbid that!" exclaimed her daughter--"anything at all but that! Can you do nothin' for her, uncle?"

"I'm doing all I can for her, Mary," replied the priest; "I'm watching a calm moment to get her confession, if possible."

The sick woman had fallen into a momentary silence, during which, she caught the bed-clothes like a child, and felt them, and seemed to handle their texture, but with such an air of vacancy as clearly manifested that no corresponding a.s.sociation existed in her mind.

The action was immediately understood by all present. Her daughter again burst into tears; and Peter, now almost choked with grief, pressing the sick woman to his heart, kissed her burning lips.

"Father, jewel," said the daughter, "there it is, and I feard it--the sign, uncle--the sign!--don't you see her gropin' the clothes? Oh, mother, darlin', darlin'!--are we going to lose you for ever?"

"Oh! Ellish, Ellish--won't you spake one word to me afore you go? Won't you take one farewell of me--of me, aroon asth.o.r.e, before you depart from us for ever!" exclaimed her husband.

"Feeling the bed-clothes," said the priest, "is not always a, sign of death; I have known many to recover after it.

"Husht," said Peter--"husht!--Mary--Mary! Come hear--hould your tongues!

Oh, it's past--it's past!--it's all past, an' gone--all hope's over!

Heavenly fither!"

The daughter, after listening for a moment, in a paroxysm of wild grief, clasped her mother's rec.u.mbent body in her arms, and kissed hen lips with a vehemence almost frantic. "You won't go, my darlin'--is it from your own Mary that you'd go? Mary, that you loved best of all your childhre!--Mary that you always said, an' every body said, was your own image! Oh, you won't go without one word, to say you know her!"