The Poor Scholar Part 16

back agin, if it plases him! Success to Colonel B------! Blood-an-turf!

what'll we do for a fight? Long life to n.o.ble Colonel B------, the poor man's friend!--long life to him for ever an' a day longer! Whoo! my darlins! Huzza!" etc.

The warm interest which the Colonel took in M'Evoy's behalf, was looked upon by the other tenants as a guarantee of his sincerity in all he promised. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They got out his carriage from the Inn-Yard, and drew it through the town, though the Colonel himself, beyond the fact of their shouting, remained quite ignorant of what was going forward.

After Carson's departure, the Colonel's friends, having been first asked to dine with him at the inn, also took their leave, and none remained but M'Evoy, who waited with pleasing anxiety to hear what the Colonel proposed to say--for he felt certain that it would be agreeable.

"M'Evoy," said the Colonel, "I am truly sorry for what you have suffered through the villany of my agent; but I will give you redress, and allow you for what you have lost by the transaction. It is true, as I have been lately told by a person who pleaded your cause n.o.bly and eloquently, that I can never repay you for what you have suffered.

However, what we can, we will do. You are poor, I understand?"

"G.o.d he sees that, sir; and afflicted, too, plase your honor."

"Afflicted? How is that?"

"I had a son, sir--a blessed boy! a darlin' boy!--once our comfort, an'

once we thought he'd be our pride an' our staff, but"--

The poor man's tears here flowed fast; he took up the skirt of his "Cotha More," or great-coat, and, after wiping his eyes, and clearing his voice, proceeded:--

"He was always, as I said, a blessed boy, and we looked up to him alwayrs, sir. He saw our poverty, your honor, an' he felt it, sir, keen enough, indeed, G.o.d help him! How an'-iver, he took it on him to go up to Munster, sir, undher hopes of risin' us--undher the hopes, poor child--an' G.o.d knows, sir,--if--oh, Jemmy avourneen ma-chree!--doubt--I doubt you sunk undher what proved too many for you!--I doubt my child's dead, sir--him that all our hearts wor fixed upon; and if that 'ud happen to be the case, nothin'--not even your kindness in doin' us justice, could make us happy. We would rather beg wid him, sir, nor have the best in the world widout him. His poor young heart, sir, was fixed upon the place your honor is restorin' us to; an I'm afeard his mother, sir, would break her heart if she thought he couldn't share our good fortune! And we don't know whether he's livin' or dead! That, sir, is what's afflictin' us. I had some notion of goin' to look for him; but he tould us he would never write, or let us hear from him, till he'd be either one thing or other."

"I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that your son is well, M'Evoy.

Believe me, he is well--I know it."

"Well! Before G.o.d, does your honor spake truth? Well! Oh, sir, for His sake that died for us, an' for the sake of his blessed mother, can you tell me is my darlin' son alive?"

"He is living; is in excellent health; is as well dressed as I am; and has friends as rich and as capable of a.s.sisting him as myself. But how is this? What's the matter with you? You are pale! Good G.o.d! Here, waiter! Waiter! Waiter, I say!"

The Colonel rang the bell violently, and two or three waiters entered at the same moment.

"Bring a little wine and water, one of you, and let the other two remove this man to the open window. Be quick. What do you stare at?"

In a few minutes the old man recovered, and untying the narrow coa.r.s.e cravat which he wore, wiped the perspiration off his pale face.

"Pray, don't be too much affected," said the Colonel. "Waiter, bring up refreshment--bring wine--be quiet and calm--you are weak, poor fellow--but we will strengthen you by-and-by."

"I am wake, sir," he replied; "for, G.o.d help us! this was a hard year upon us; and we suffered what few could bear. But he's livin', Colonel.

Our darlin' is livin! Oh, Colonel, your kindness went to my heart this day afore, but that was nothin'--he's livin' an' well! On my two knees, before G.o.d, I thank you for them words! I thank you a thousand an' a thousand times more for them words, nor for what your honor did about Yallow Sam."

"Get up," said the Colonel--"get up. The proceedings of the day have produced a revulsion of feeling which has rendered you incapable of sustaining intelligence of your son. He is well, I a.s.sure you. Bring those things to this table, waiter."

"But can your honor tell me anything in particular about him, sir? What he's doin'--or what he intends to do?"

"Yes! he is at a respectable boarding-school."

"Boordin'-school! But isn't boordin'-schools Protestants, sir?"

"Not at all; he is at a Catholic boarding-school, and reading hard to be a priest, which, I hope, he will soon be. He has good friends, and you may thank him for being restored to your farm."

"Glory be to my Maker for that! Oh, sir, your tenants wor desaved in you! They thought, sir, that you wor a hard-hearted gintleman, that didn't care whether they lived or died."

"I feel that I neglected them too long, M'Evoy. Now take some refreshment: eat something, and afterwards drink a few gla.s.ses of wine.

Your feelings have been much excited, and you will be the better for it.

Keep up your spirits. I am going to ride, and must leave you: but if you call on me to-morrow, at one o'clock, I shall have more good news for you. We must stock your farm, and enable you to enter upon it creditably."

"Sir," said M'Evoy, "you are a Protestant; but, as I hope to enther glory, I an' my wife an' childhre will pray that your bed may be made in heaven, this night; and that your honor may be led to see the truth an'

the right coorse."

The Colonel then left him; and the simple man, on looking at the cold meat, bread, and wine before him, raised his hands and eyes towards heaven, to thank G.o.d for his goodness, and to invoke a blessing upon his n.o.ble and munificent benefactor.

But how shall we describe the feelings of his family, when, after returning home, he related the occurrences of that day. The severe and pressing exigencies under which they labored had prevented his sons from attending the investigation that was to take place in town. Their expectations, however, were raised, and they looked out with intense anxiety for the return of their father.

At length he was seen coming slowly up the hill; the spades were thrown aside, and the whole family a.s.sembled to hear "what was done."

The father entered in silence, sat down, and after wiping his brow and laying down his hat, placing his staff across it upon the floor, he drew his breath deeply.

"Dominick," said the wife, "what news? What was done?"

"Vara," replied Dominick, "do you remimber the day--fair and handsome you wor then--when I first kissed your lips, as my own darlin' wife?"

"Ah, avourneen, Dominick, don't spake of them times. The happiness we had then is long gone, acushla, in one sense."

"It's before me like yestherday, Vara--the delight that went through my heart, jist as clear as yestherday, or the blessed sun that's shinin'

through the broken windy on the floor there. I remimber, Vara, saying to you that day--I don't know whether you remimber it or not--but I remimber sayin' to you, that if I lived a thousand years, I could never feel sich happiness as I did when I first pressed you to my heart as my own wife."

"Well, but we want to hear what happened, Dominick, achora."

"Do you remimber the words, Vara?"

"Och! I do, avourneen. Didn't they go into my heart at the time, an' how could I forget them? But I can't bear, somehow, to look back at what we wor then, bekase I feel my heart brakin', acushla!"

"Well, Vara, look at me. Amn't I a poor wasted crathur now, in comparishment to what I was thin?"

"G.o.d he sees the change that's in you, darlin'! But sure 'twasn't your fau't, or mine either, Dominick, avilish!"

"Well, Vara, you see me now--I'm happpier--before G.o.d, I'm happier--happier, a thousand degrees than I was thin! Come to my arms, asth.o.r.e machree--my heart s breakin'--but it's wid happiness--don't be frightened--it's wid joy I'm sheddin' these tears--it's wid happiness an' delight In' cryin'! Jemmy is livin', an' well, childhre--he's livin'

an' well, Vara--the star of our hearts is livin', an' well, an' happy!

Kneel down, childhre--kneel down! Bend before the great G.o.d, an' thank him for his kindness to your blessed brother--to our blessed son.

Bless the Colonel, childhre; bless him whin you're down, Protestant an'

all, as he is. Oh, bless him as if you prayed for myself, or for Jemmy, that's far away from us!"

He paused for a few minutes, bent his head upon his hands as he knelt in supplication at the chair, then resumed his seat, as did the whole family, deeply affected.

"Now, childhre," said he, "I'll tell yez all; but don't any of you be so poor a crathur as I was to-day. Bear it mild an' asy, Vara, acushla, for I know it will take a start out of you. Sure we're to go back to our own ould farm! Ay, an' what'a more--oh, G.o.d of heaven, bless him!--what's more, the Colonel is to stock it for us, an' to help us; an' what is more, Yallow Sam is out! out!!"

"Out!" they exclaimed: "Jemmy well, an' Yallow Sam out! Oh, father, surely"--

"Now behave, I say. Ay, and never to come in again! But who do you think got him out?"

"Who?--why G.o.d he knows. Who could get him out?"