Tom Burke Of Ours, Volume I, Page 2

  CHAPTER I. MYSELF.

  It was at the close of a cold, raw day in January--no matter for theyear--that the Gal way mail was seen to wind its slow course throughthat long and dull plain that skirts the Shannon, as you approach the"sweet town of Athlone." The reeking box-coats and dripping umbrellasthat hung down on every side bespoke a day of heavy rain, while thesplashed and mud-stained panels of the coach bore token of cut-uproads, which the jaded and toil-worn horses amply confirmed. If theoutsiders--with hats pressed firmly down, and heads bent against thecutting wind--presented an aspect far from comfortable, those within,who peeped with difficulty through the dim glass, had little to charmthe eye; their flannel nightcaps and red comforters were only to be seenat rare intervals, as they gazed on the dreary prospect, and then sankback into the coach to con over their moody thoughts, or, if fortunate,perhaps to doze.

  In the rumble, with the guard, sat one whose burly figure and rosycheeks seemed to feel no touch of the inclement wind that made hiscompanions crouch. An oiled-silk foraging-cap fastened beneath the chin,and a large mantle of blue cloth, bespoke him a soldier, if even theassured tone of his voice and a certain easy carriage of his head hadnot conveyed to the acute observer the same information. Unsubdued inspirit, undepressed in mind, either by the long day of pouring rain orthe melancholy outline of country on every side, his dark eye flashed asbrightly from beneath the brim of his cap, and his ruddy face beamed ascheerily, as though Nature had put forth her every charm of weatherand scenery to greet and delight him. Now inquiring of the guard of thevarious persons whose property lay on either side, the name of some poorhamlet or some humble village; now humming to himself some stray verseof an old campaigning song,--he passed his time, diversifying theseamusements by a courteous salute to a gaping country girl, as, withunmeaning look, she stared at the passing coach. But his principaloccupation seemed to consist in retaining one wing of his wide cloakaround the figure of a little boy, who lay asleep beside him, and whosehead jogged heavily against his arm with every motion of the coach.

  "And so that's Athlone, yonder, you tell me," said the captain, for suchhe was,--"'the sweet town of Athlone, ochone!' Well, it might be worse.I 've passed ten years in Africa,--on the burning coast, as they callit: you never light a fire to cook your victuals, but only lay thembefore the sun for ten minutes, game something less, and the joint'sdone; all true, by Jove! Lie still, my young friend, or you'll heave usboth over! And whereabouts does he live, guard?"

  "Something like a mile and a half from here," replied the gruff guard.

  "Poor little fellow! he's sleeping it out well. They certainly don'ttake overmuch care of him, or they'd never have sent him on the top ofa coach in weather like this, without even a greatcoat to cover him.I say, Tom, my lad, wake up; you're not far from home now. Are youdreaming of the plum-pudding and the pony and the big spaniel, eh?"

  "Whisht!" said the guard, in a low whisper. "The chap's father is dying,and they've sent for him from school to see him."

  A loud blast of the horn now awoke me thoroughly from the half-dreamyslumber in which I had listened to the previous dialogue, and I sat upand looked about me. Yes, reader, my unworthy self it was who was thenindulging in as pleasant a dream of home and holidays as ever blessedeven a schoolboy's vigils. Though my eyes were open, it was some minutesbefore I could rally myself to understand where I was, and with whatobject. My senses were blunted by cold, and my drenched limbs werecramped and stiffened; for the worthy captain, to whose humanity I owedthe share of his cloak, had only joined the coach late in the day,and during the whole morning I had been exposed to the most pitilessdownpour of rain and sleet.

  "Here you are!" said the rough guard, as the coach drew up to let medown. "No need of blowing the horn here, I suppose?"

  This was said in allusion to the miserable appearance of the ruinedcabin that figured as my father's gate lodge, where some naked childrenwere seen standing before the door, looking with astonishment at thecoach and passengers.

  "Well, good-by, my little man. I hope you 'll find the governor better.Give him my respects; and, hark ye, if ever you come over to Athlone,don't forget to come and see me: Captain Bubbleton,--George FrederickAugustus Bubbleton, Forty-fifth Regiment; or, when at home, LittleBubbleton, Herts, and Bungalow Hut, in the Carnatic^ that's the mark. Sogood-by! good-by!"

  I waved my hand to him in adieu, and then turned to enter the gate.

  "Well, Freney," said I, to a half-dressed, wild-looking figure thatrushed out to lift the gate open,--for the hinges had been long broken,and it was attached to the pier by some yards of strong rope,--"how ismy father?"

  A gloomy nod and a discouraging sign with his open hand were the onlyreply.

  "Is there any hope?" said I, faintly.

  "Sorrow one of me knows; I dare n't go near the house. I was sarved withnotice to quit a month ago, and they tell him I 'm gone. Oh vo, vo! what's to become of us all!"

  I threw the bag which contained my humble wardrobe on my shoulder,and without waiting for further questioning, walked forward. Nightwas falling fast, and nothing short of my intimacy with the place frominfancy could have enabled me to find my way. The avenue, from longneglect and disuse, was completely obliterated; the fences were brokenup to burn; the young trees had mostly shared the same fate; the cattlestrayed at will through the plantations; and all bespoke utter ruin anddestruction.

  If the scene around me was sad, it only the better suited my own heart.I was returning to a home where I had never heard the voice of kindnessor affection; where one fond word, one look of welcome, had nevermet me. I was returning, not to receive the last blessing of a lovingparent, but merely sent for as a necessary ceremony on the occasion. Andperhaps there was a mock propriety in inviting me once more to the housewhich I was never to revisit. My father, a widower for many years, hadbestowed all his affection on my elder brother, to whom so much of hisproperty as had escaped the general wreck was to descend. He had beensent to Eton under the guidance of a private tutor, while an obscureDublin school was deemed good enough for me. For him every nerve wasstrained to supply all his boyish extravagance, and enable him tocompete with the sons of men of high rank and fortune, whose names,mentioned in his letters home, were an ample recompense for all thelavish expenditure their intimacy entailed. My letters were few andbrief; their unvaried theme the delay in the last quarter's payment,or the unfurnished condition of my little trunk, which more than onceexposed me to the taunts of my schoolfellows.

  He was a fair and delicate boy, timid in manner and retiring indisposition; I, a browned-faced varlet, who knew every one from the herdto the high-sheriff. To him the servants were directed to look up as thehead of the house; while I was consigned either to total neglect, orthe attentions of those who only figured as supernumeraries in our ArmyList. Yet, with all these sources of jealousy between us, we loved eachother tenderly. George pitied "poor Tommy," as he called me; and forthat very pity my heart clung to him. He would often undertake to pleadmy cause for those bolder infractions his gentle nature never venturedon; and it was only from long association with boys of superior rank,whose habits and opinions he believed to be standards for his imitation,that A" at length a feeling of estrangement grew up between us, and welearned to look somewhat coldly on each other.

  From these brief details it will not be wondered at it I turnedhomeward with a heavy heart. From the hour I received the letter of myrecall--which was written by my father's attorney in most concise andlegal phrase--I had scarcely ceased to shed tears; for so it is, thereis something in the very thought of being left an orphan, friendlessand unprotected, quite distinct from the loss of affection and kindnesswhich overwhelms the young heart with a very flood of wretchedness.Besides, a stray word or two of kindness had now and then escaped myfather towards me, and I treasured these up as my richest possession.I thought of them over and over. Many a lonely night, when my heart hasbeen low and sinkings I repeated them to myself, like talismans againstgrief; and when I slept, my d
reams would dwell on them and make mywaking happy.

  As I issued from a dark copse of beech-trees, the indistinct outline ofthe old house met my eye. I could trace the high-pitched roof, thetall and pointed gables against the sky; and with a strange sense ofundefinable fear,' beheld a solitary light that twinkled from the windowof an upper room, where my father lay. The remainder of the buildingwas in deep shadow. I mounted the long flight of stone steps that ledto what once had been a terrace; but the balustrades were broken many ayear ago; and even the heavy granite stone had been smashed in severalplaces. The hall door lay wide open, and the hall itself had no otherlight save such as the flickering of a wood fire afforded, as itsuncertain flashes fell upon the dark wainscot and the floor.

  I had just recognized the grim, old-fashioned portraits that coveredthe walls, when my eye was attracted by a figure near the fire. Iapproached, and beheld an old man doubled with age. His bleared eyeswere bent upon the wood embers, which he was trying to rake togetherwith a stick; his clothes bespoke the most miserable poverty, andafforded no protection against the cold and cutting blast. He wascroning some old song to himself as I drew near, and paid no attentionto me. I moved round so as to let the light fall on his face, and thenperceived it was old Lanty, as he was called. Poor fellow! Age andneglect had changed him sadly since I had seen him last. He had beenthe huntsman of the family for two generations; but having somehowdispleased my father one day at the cover, he rode at him and struck himon the head with his loaded whip. The man fell senseless from his horse,and was carried home. A few days, however, enabled him to rally and beabout again; but his senses had left him forever. All recollectionof the unlucky circumstance had faded from his mind, and his ramblingthoughts dwelt on his old pursuits; so that he passed his days aboutthe stables, looking after the horses and giving directions about them.Latterly he had become too infirm for this, and never left his owncabin; but now, from some strange cause, he had come up to "the house,"and was sitting by the fire as I found him.

  They who know Ireland will acknowledge the strange impulse which, at theapproach of death, seems to excite the people to congregate about thehouse of mourning. The passion for deep and powerful excitement--themost remarkable feature in their complex nature--seems to revel inthe details of sorrow and suffering. Not content even with the tragedybefore them, they call in the aid of superstition to heighten theawfulness of the scene; and every story of ghost and banshee' is connedover in tones that need not the occasion to make them thrill upon theheart. At such a time the deepest workings of their wild spirits arerevealed. Their grief is low and sorrow-struck, or it is loud andpassionate; now breaking into some plaintive wail over the virtuesof the departed, now bursting into a frenzied appeal to the Father ofMercies as to the justice of recalling those from earth who were itsblessing: while, stranger than all, a dash of reckless merriment willbreak in upon the gloom; but it is like the red lightning through thestorm, that as it rends the cloud only displays the havoc and desolationaround, and at its parting leaves even a blacker darkness behind it.

  From my infancy I had been familiar with scenes of this kind; and myhabit of stealing away unobserved from home to witness a country wakehad endeared me much to the country-people, who felt this no smallkindness from "the master's son." Somehow the ready welcome andattention I always met with had worked on my young heart, and I learnedto feel all the interest of these scenes fully as much as those aboutme. It was, then, with a sense of desolation that I looked upon the onesolitary mourner who now sat at the hearth,--that poor old idiot manwho gazed on vacancy, or muttered with parched lip some few words tohimself. That he alone should be found to join his sorrows to ours,seemed to me like utter destitution, and as I leaned against the chimneyI burst into tears.

  "Don't cry, alannah! don't cry," said the old man; "it 's the worst wayat all. Get up again and ride him at it bould. Oh vo! look at where thethief is taking now,--along the stonewall there!" Here he broke out intoa low, wailing ditty:--

  "And the fox set him down and looked about-- And many were feared to follow; 'Maybe I 'm wrong,'says he, 'but I doubt That you 'll be as gay to-morrow. For loud as you cry, and high as you ride, And little you feel my sorrow, I'll be free on the mountain-side, While you 'll lie low to-morrow. Oh, Moddideroo, aroo, aroo!'"

  "Ay, just so; they 'll run to earth in the cold churchyard.Whisht!--hark there! Soho, soho! That's Badger I hear."

  I turned away with a bursting heart, and felt my way up the broad oakstair, which was left in complete darkness. As I reached the corridor,off which the bedrooms lay, I heard voices talking together in a lowtone; they came from my father's room, the door of which lay ajar. Iapproached noiselessly and peeped in: by the fire, which was the onlylight now in the apartment, sat two persons at a set table, one ofwhom I at once recognized as the tall, solemn-looking figure of DoctorFinnerty; the other I detected, by the sharp tones of his voice, to beMr. Anthony Basset, my father's confidential attorney.

  On the table before them lay a mass of papers, parchments, leases,deeds, together with glasses and a black bottle, whose accompaniments ofhot water and sugar left no doubt as to its contents. The chimney-piecewas crowded with a range of vials and medicine bottles, some of themempty, some of them half finished.

  Law and Physic in the Chamber of Death 008]

  From the bed in the corner of the room came the heavy sound of snoringrespiration, which either betokened deep sleep or insensibility. IfI enjoyed but little favor in my father's house, I owed much of thecoldness shown to me to the evil influence of the very two persons whosat before me in conclave. Of the precise source of the doctor's dislikeI was not quite clear, except, perhaps, that I recovered from themeasles when he predicted my certain death; the attorney's was, however,no mystery.

  About three years before, he had stopped to breakfast at our house onhis way to Ballinasloe fair. As his pony was led round to the stable, itcaught my eye. It was a most tempting bit of horseflesh, full of spiritand in top condition, for he was going to sell it. I followed him round,and appeared just as the servant was about to unsaddle him. The attorneywas no favorite in the house, and I had little difficulty in persuadingthe man, instead of taking off the saddle, merely to shorten thestirrups to the utmost limit. The next minute I was on his back flyingover the lawn at a stretching gallop. Fences abounded on all sides, andI rushed him at double ditches, stone walls, and bog-wood rails, with amad delight that at every leap rose higher. After about three quartersof an hour thus passed, his blood, as well as my own, being by this timethoroughly roused, I determined to try him at the wall of an old poundwhich stood some few hundred yards from the front of the house. Itsexposure to the window at any other time would have deterred me fromeven the thought of such an exploit, but now I was quite beyond the paleof such cold calculations; besides that, I was accompanied by a selectparty of all the laborers, with their wives and children, whose praisesof my horsemanship would have made me take the lock of a canal if beforeme. A tine gallop of grass sward led to the pound, and over this I went,cheered with as merry a cry as ever stirred a light heart. One glance Ithrew at the house as I drew near the leap. The window of the breakfastparlor was open; my father and Mr. Basset were both at it, I sawtheir faces red with passion; I heard their loud shout; my veryspirit sickened within me. I saw no more; I felt the pony rush at thewall,--the quick stroke of his feet,--the rise,--the plunge,--and thena crash,--and I was sent spinning over his head some half-dozen yards,ploughing up the ground on face and hands. I was carried home with abroken head; the pony's knees were in the same condition. My father saidthat he ought to be shot for humanity's sake; Tony suggested the sametreatment for me, on similar grounds. The upshot, however, was, Isecured an enemy for life; and worse still, one whose power to injure wasequalled by his inclination.

  Into the company of these two worthies I now found myself thusaccidentally thrown, and would gladly have retreated at once, but thatsome indesc
ribable impulse to be near my father's sickbed was on me; andso I crept stealthily in and sat down in a large chair at the foot ofthe bed, where unnoticed I listened to the long-drawn heavings of hischest, and in silence wept over my own desolate condition.

  For a long time the absorbing nature of my own grief prevented mehearing the muttered conversation near the lire; but at length, as thenight wore on and my sorrow had found vent in tears, I began to listento the dialogue beside me.

  "He 'll have five hundred pounds under his grandfather's will, in spiteof us. But what 's that?" said the attorney.

  "I 'll take him as an apprentice for it, I know," said the doctor, witha grin that made me shudder.

  "That's settled already," replied Mr. Basset. "He's to be articled tome for five years; but I think it 's likely he 'll go to sea before thetime expires. How heavily the old man is sleeping! Now, is that naturalsleep?"

  "No, that's always a bad sign; that puffing with the lips is generallyamong the last symptoms. Well, he'll be a loss anyhow, when he's gone.There's an eight-ounce mixture he never tasted yet,--infusion of gentianwith soda. Put your lips to that."

  "Devil a one o' me will ever sup the like!" said the attorney,finishing his tumbler of punch as he spoke. "Faugh! how can you drinkthem things that way?"

  "Sure it's the compound infusion, made with orangepeel and cardamomseeds. There is n't one of them did n't cost two and ninepence. He 'llbe eight weeks in bed come Tuesday next."

  "Well, well! If he lived till the next assizes, it would be telling mefour hundred pounds; not to speak of the costs of two ejectments I havein hand against Mullins and his father-in-law."

  "It's a wonder," said the doctor, after a pause, "that Tom didn't comeby the coach. It's no matter now, at any rate; for since the eldestson's away, there's no one here to interfere with us."

  "It was a masterly stroke of yours, doctor, to tell the old man theweather was too severe to bring George over from Eton. As sure as hecame he'd make up matters with Tom; and the end of it would be, I 'dlose the agency, and you would n't have those pleasant little bills forthe tenantry,--eh. Fin?"

  "Whisht! he's waking now. Well, sir; well, Mr. Burke, how do you feelnow? He 's off again!"

  "The funeral ought to be on a Sunday," said Basset, in a whisper;"there 'll be no getting the people to come any other day. He 's sayingsomething, I think."

  "Fin," said my father, in a faint, hoarse voice,--"Fin, give me a drink.It 's not warm!"

  "Yes, sir; I had it on the fire."

  "Well, then, it 's myself that 's growing cold. How 's the pulse now.Fin? Is the Dublin doctor come yet?"

  "No, sir; we 're expecting him every minute. But sure, you know, we 'redoing everything."

  "Oh! I know it. Yes, to be sure, Fin; but they 've many a new thing upin Dublin there, we don't hear of. Whisht! what's that?"

  "It 's Tony, sir,--Tony Basset; he 's sitting up with me."

  "Come over here, Tony. Tony, I'm going fast; I feel it, and my heart islow. Could we withdraw the proceedings about Freney?"

  "He 's the biggest blackguard--"

  "Ah! no matter now; I 'm going to a place where we 'll all need mercy.What was it that Canealy said he 'd give for the land?"

  "Two pound ten an acre; and Freney never paid thirty shillings out ofit."

  "It's mighty odd George didn't come over."

  "Sure, I told you there was two feet of snow on the ground."

  "Lord be about us, what a severe season! But why isn't Tom here?" Istarted at the words, and was about to rush forward, when he added,--"Idon't want him, though."

  "Of course you don't," said the attorney; "it's little comfort he evergave you. Are you in pain there?"

  "Ay, great pain over my heart. Well, well! don't be hard to him when I'm gone."

  "Don't let him talk so much," said Basset, in a whisper, to the doctor.

  "You must compose yourself, Mr. Burke," said the doctor. "Try and take asleep; the night isn't half through yet."

  The sick man obeyed without a word; and soon after, the heavyrespiration betokened the same lethargic slumber once more.

  The voices of the speakers gradually fell into a low, monotonous sound;the long-drawn breathings from the sickbed mingled with them; the fireonly sent forth an occasional gleam, as some piece of falling turfseemed to revive its wasting life, and shot up a myriad of brightsparks; and the chirping of the cricket in the chimney-corner sounded tomy mournful heart like the tick of the death-watch.

  As I listened, my tears fell fast, and a gulping fulness in my throatmade me feel like one in suffocation. But deep sorrow somehow tends tosleep. The weariness of the long day and dreary night, exhaustion, thedull hum of the subdued voices, and the faint light, all combined tomake me drowsy, and I fell into a heavy slumber.

  I am writing now of the far-off past,--of the long years ago of myyouth,--since which my seared heart has had many a sore and scaldinglesson; yet I cannot think of that night, fixed and graven as it lies inmy memory, without a touch of boyish softness. I remember every wakingthought that crossed my mind: my very dream is still before me. Itwas of my mother. I thought of her as she lay on a sofa in the olddrawing-room; the window open, and the blinds drawn, the gentle breezeof a June morning flapping them lazily to and fro as I knelt besideher to repeat my little hymn, the first I ever learned; and how at eachmoment my eyes would turn and my thoughts stray to that open casement,through which the odor of flowers and the sweet song of birds werepouring, and my little heart was panting for liberty, while her gentlesmile and faint words bade me remember where I was. And then I wasstraying away through the old garden, where the very sunlight fellscantily through the thick-woven branches, loaded with perfumedblossoms; the blackbirds hopped fearlessly from twig to twig, minglingtheir clear notes with the breezy murmur of the leaves and the deep humof summer bees. How happy was I then! And why cannot such happiness belasting? Why can we not shelter ourselves from the base contamination ofworldly cares, and live on amid pleasures pure as these, with hearts asholy and desires as simple as in childhood?

  Suddenly a change came over my dream, and the dark clouds began togather from all quarters, and a low, creeping wind moaned heavily along.I thought I heard ray name called. I started and awoke. For a second ortwo the delusion was so strong that I could not remember where I was;but as the gray light of a breaking morning fell through the half-openshutters, I beheld the two figures near the fire. They were bothsound asleep, the deep-drawn breathing and nodding heads attesting theheaviness of their slumber.

  I felt cold and cramped, but still afraid to stir, although a longing toapproach the bedside was still upon me. A faint sigh and some mutteredwords here came to my ear, and I listened. It was my father; but soindistinct the sounds, they seemed more like the ramblings of a dream.I crept noiselessly on tiptoe to the bed, and drawing the curtain gentlyover, gazed within. He was lying on his back, his hands and arms outsidethe clothes. His beard had grown so much and he had wasted so far that Icould scarcely have known him. His eyes were wide open, but fixed on thetop of the bed; his lips moved rapidly, and by his hands, as they wereclosely clasped, I thought it was in prayer. I leaned over him, andplaced my hand in his. For some time he did not seem to notice it; butat last he pressed it softly, and rubbing the fingers to and fro, hesaid, in a low, faint voice,--"Is this your hand, my boy?"

  I thought my heart had split, as in a gush of tears I bent down andkissed him.

  "I can't see well, my dear; there's something between me and the light,and a weight is on me--here--here--"

  A heavy sigh, and a shudder that shook his whole frame, followed thesewords.

  "They told me I wasn't to see you once again," said he, as a sicklysmile played over his mouth; "but I knew you'd come to sit by me. It's a lonely thing not to have one's own at such an hour as this. Don'tweep, my dear, my own heart's failing me fast."

  A broken, muttering sound followed, and then he said, in a loud voice;"I never did it! it was Tony Basset. He told me,--
he persuaded me. Ah!that was a sore day when I listened to him. Who 's to tell me I 'm notto be master of my own estate? Turn them adrift,--ay, every man of them.I 'll weed the ground of such wretches,--eh, Tony? Did any one sayFreney's mother was dead? they may wake her at the cross roads, if theylike. Poor old Molly! I 'm sorry for her, too. She nursed me and mysister that's gone; and maybe her deathbed, poor as she was, waseasier than mine will be,--without kith or kin, child or friend. Oh,George!--and I that doted on you with all my heart! Whose hand's this?Ah, I forgot; my darling boy, it's you. Come to me here, my child! Wasn't it for you that I toiled and scraped this many a year? Wasn't it foryou that I did all this? and--God, forgive me!--maybe it 's my soulthat I 've perilled to leave you a rich man. Where 's Tom? where 's thatfellow now?"

  "Here, sir!" said I, squeezing his hand, and pressing it to my lips.

  He sprang up at the words, and sat up in his bed, his eyes dilated totheir widest, and his pale lips parted asunder.

  "Where?" cried he, as he felt me over with his thin fingers, and drew metowards him.

  "Here, father, here!"

  "And is this Tom?" said he, as his voice fell into a low, hollow sound;and then added: "Where's George? answer me at once. Oh, I see it! Heisn't here; he would n't come over to see his old father. Tony! TonyBasset, I say!" shouted the sick man, in a voice that roused thesleepers, and brought them to his bedside, "open that window there. Letme look out,--do it as I bid you,--open it wide. Turn in all the cattleyou can find on the road. Do you hear me, Tony? Drive them in from everyside. Finnerty, I say, mind my words; for" (here he uttered a most awfuland terrific oath), "as I linger on this side of the grave, I 'll notleave him a blade of grass I can take from him."

  His chest heaved with a convulsive spasm; his face became pale as death;his eyes fixed; he clutched eagerly at the bedclothes; and then, witha horrible cry, he fell back upon the pillow, as a faint stream of redblood trickled from his nostril and ran down his chin.

  "It 's all over now!" whispered the doctor.

  "Is he dead?" said Basset.

  The other made no reply; but drawing the curtains close, he turned away,and they both moved noiselessly from the room.