at the door and see."
Owen ascended a little rising ground in front of the cabin, from whichthe whole valley was visible; but except a group that followed a funeralupon the road, he could see no human thing around. The green where the"stations" were celebrated was totally deserted. There were neithertents nor people; the panic of the plague had driven all ideas ofrevelry from the minds of the most reckless; and, even to observe theduties of religion, men feared to assemble in numbers. So long as themisfortune was at a distance, they could mingle their prayers in common,and entreat for mercy; but when death knocked at every door, the terrorbecame almost despair.
"Is the 'stations' going on?" asked the old man eagerly, as Owenre-entered the room. "Is the people at the holy well?"
"I don't see many stirring at all, to-day," was the cautious answer; forOwen scrupled to inflict any avoidable pain upon his mind.
"Lift me up, then!" cried he suddenly, and with a voice stronger, froma violent effort of his will. "Lift me up to the window, till I see theblessed cross; and maybe I'd get a prayer among them. Come, be quick,Owen!"
Owen hastened to comply with his request; but already the old man's eyeswere glazed and filmy. The effort had but hastened the moment of hisdoom; and, with a low faint sigh, he lay back, and died.
To the Irish peasantry, who, more than any other people of Europe, areaccustomed to bestow care and attention on the funerals of their friendsand relatives, the Cholera, in its necessity for speedy interment, wasincreased in terrors tenfold. The honours which they were wont to lavishon the dead--the ceremonial of the wake--the mingled merriment andsorrow--the profusion with which they spent the hoarded gains ofhard-working labour--and lastly, the long train to the churchyard,evidencing the respect entertained for the departed, should all beforegone; for had not prudence forbid their assembling in numbers, andthus incurring the chances of contagion, which, whether real or not,they firmly believed in, the work of death was too widely disseminatedto make such gatherings possible. Each had some one to lament within thelimits of his own family, and private sorrow left little room for publicsympathy. No longer then was the road filled by people on horseback andfoot, as the funeral procession moved forth. The death-wail soundedno more. To chant the _requiem_ of the departed, a few--a veryfew--immediate friends followed the body to the grave, in silenceunbroken. Sad hearts, indeed, they brought, and broken spirits; for inthis season of pestilence few dared to hope.
By noon, Owen was seen descending the mountain to the village, to makethe last preparations for the old man's funeral. He carried little Patsyin his arms; for he could not leave the poor child alone, and in thehouse of death. The claims of infancy would seem never stronger than inthe heart sorrowing over death. The grief that carries the sufferer inhis mind's eye over the limits of this world, is arrested by the tenderties which bind him to life in the young. There is besides a hopefulnessin early life--it is, perhaps, its chief characteristic--that combatssorrow, better than all the caresses of friendship, and all theconsolations of age. Owen felt this now--he never knew it before. Butyesterday, and his father's death had left him without one in the worldon whom to fix a hope; and already, from his misery, there arose thatone gleam, that now twinkled like a star in the sky of midnight. Thelittle child he had taken for his own was a world to him; and as hewent, he prayed fervently that poor Patsy might be spared to him throughthis terrible pestilence.
When Owen reached the carpenter's, there were several people there;some, standing moodily brooding over recent bereavements; others, spokein low whispers, as if fearful of disturbing the silence; but all weresorrow-struck and sad.
"How is the ould man, Owen?" said one of a group, as he came forward.
"He's better off than us, I trust in God!" said Owen, with a quiveringlip. "He went to rest this morning."
A muttered prayer from all around shewed how general was the feeling ofkindness entertained towards the Connors.
"When did he take it, Owen?"
"I don't know that he tuk it at all; but when I came home last night hewas lying on the bed, weak and powerless, and he slept away, with scarcea pain, till daybreak; then--"
"He's in glory now, I pray God!" muttered an old man with a white beard."We were born in the same year, and I knew him since I was a child, likethat in your arms; and a good man he was."
"Whose is the child, Owen?" said another in the crowd.
"Martin Neale's," whispered Owen; for he feared that the little fellowmight catch the words. "What's the matter with Miles? he looks very lowthis morning."
This question referred to a large powerful-looking man, who, with asmith's apron twisted round his waist, sat without speaking in a cornerof the shop.
"I'm afeard he's in a bad way," whispered the man to whom he spoke."There was a process-server, or a bailiff, or something of the kind,serving notices through the townland yesterday, and he lost a shoe offhis baste, and would have Miles out, to put it on, tho' we all tould himthat he buried his daughter--a fine grown girl--that mornin'. And whatdoes the fellow do, but goes and knocks at the forge till Miles comesout. You know Miles Regan, so I needn't say there wasn't many wordspassed between them. In less nor two minutes--whatever the bailiffsaid--Miles tuck him by the throat, and pulled him down from the horse,and dragged him along to the lake, and flung him in. 'Twas the Lord'smarcy he knew how to swim; but we don't know what'll be done to Milesyet, for he was the new agent's man."
"Was he a big fellow, with a bull-dog following him?" asked Owen.
"No; that's another; sure there's three or four of them goin' about. Wehear, that bad as ould French was, the new one is worse."
"Well--well, it's the will of God!" said Owen, in that tone ofvoice which bespoke a willingness for all endurance, so long as theconsolation remained, that the ill was not unrecorded above; while hefelt that all the evils of poverty were little in comparison with theloss of those nearest and dearest. "Come, Patsy, my boy!" said he atlast, as he placed the coffin in the ass-cart, and turned towards themountain; and, leading the little fellow by the hand, he set out on hisway--"Come home."
It was not until he arrived at that part of the road from which thecabin was visible, that Owen knew the whole extent of his bereavement;then, when he looked up and saw the door hasped on the outside, andthe chimney from which no smoke ascended, the full measure of his lonecondition came at once before him, and he bent over the coffin and weptbitterly. All the old man's affection for him, his kind indulgence andforbearance, his happy nature, his simple-heartedness, gushed forth fromhis memory, and he wondered why he had not loved his father, in life,a thousand times more, so deeply was he now penetrated by his loss. Ifthis theme did not assuage his sorrows, it at least so moulded his heartas to bear them in a better spirit; and when, having placed the body inthe coffin, he knelt down beside it to pray, it was in a calmer and moresubmissive frame of mind than he had yet known.
It was late in the afternoon ere Owen was once more on the road downthe mountain; for it was necessary--or at least believed so--that theinternment should take place on the day of death.
"I never thought it would be this way you'd go to your last home, fatherdear," said Owen aloud and in a voice almost stifled with sobs; for theabsence of all his friends and relatives at such a moment, now smoteon the poor fellow's heart, as he walked beside the little cart on whichthe coffin was laid. It was indeed a sight to move a sterner nature thanhis: the coffin, not reverently carried by bearers, and followed by itslong train of mourners, but laid slant-wise in the cart, the spade andshovel to dig the grave beside it, and Patsy seated on the back of theass, watching with infant glee the motion of the animal, as with carefulfoot he descended the rugged mountain. Poor child! how your guilelesslaughter shook that strong man's heart with agony!
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It was a long and weary way to the old churchyard. The narrow road,too, was deeply rutted and worn by wheel-tracks; for, alas, it had beentrodden by many, of late. The grey daylight was fast fading as Owenpushed wide the old gate
and entered. What a change to his eyes did theaspect of the place present! The green mounds of earth which markedthe resting-place of village patriarchs, were gone; and heaps offresh-turned clay were seen on every side, no longer decorated, as ofold, with little emblems of affectionate sorrow; no tree, nor stone,not even a wild flower, spoke of the regrets of those who remained. Thegraves were rudely fashioned, as if in haste--for so it was--few daredto linger there!
Seeking out a lone spot near the ruins, Owen began to dig the grave,while the little child, in mute astonishment at all he saw, looked on.
"Why wouldn't you stay out in the road, Patsy, and play there, till Icome to you? This is a