Part 13 (2/2)
the other stacks ought to be thrashed out of hand.”
”Well, well; so it will be all done. Tare alive! if myself knows how you're able to keep an eye on everything. Come in, an' let us have our tay.”
For a few months after this, Ellish was perfectly in her element. The jaunting-car was procured; and her spirits seemed to be quite elevated.
She paid regular visits to both her sons, looked closely into their manner of conducting business, examined their premises, and subjected every fixture and improvement made or introduced without her sanction, to the most rigorous scrutiny. In fact, what, between Peter's farm, her daughter's shop, and the establishments of her sons, she never found herself more completely enc.u.mbered with business. She had intended ”to make her soul,” but her time was so fully absorbed by the affairs of those in whom she felt so strong an interest, that she really forgot the spiritual resolution in the warmth of her secular pursuits.
One evening, about this time, a horse belonging to Peter happened to fall into a ditch, from which he was extricated with much difficulty by the laborers. Ellish, who thought it necessary to attend, had been standing for some time directing them how to proceed; her dress was rather thin, and the hour, which was about twilight, chilly, for it was the middle of autumn. Upon returning home she found herself cold, and inclined to s.h.i.+ver. At first she thought but little of these symptoms; for having never had a single day's sickness, she was scarcely competent to know that they were frequently the forerunners of very dangerous and fatal maladies. She complained, however, of slight illness, and went to bed without taking anything calculated to check what she felt. Her sufferings during the night were dreadful: high fever had set in with a fury that threatened to sweep the powers of life like a wreck before it. The next morning the family, on looking into her state more closely, found it necessary to send instantly for a physician.
On arriving, he p.r.o.nounced her to be in a dangerous pleurisy, from which, in consequence of her plethoric habit, he expressed but faint hopes of her recovery. This was melancholy intelligence to her sons and daughters: but to Peter, whose faithful wife she had been for thirty years, it was a dreadful communication indeed.
”No hopes, Docthor!” he exclaimed, with a bewildered air: ”did you say no hopes, sir?--Oh! no, you didn't--you couldn't say that there's no hopes!”
”The hopes of her recovery, Mr. Connell, are but slender,--if any.”
”Docthor, I'm a rich man, thanks be to G.o.d an' to----” he hesitated, cast back a rapid and troubled look towards the bed whereon she lay, then proceeded--”no matther, I'm a rich man: but if you can spare her to me, I'll divide what I'm worth in the world wid you: I will, sir; an' if that won't do, I'll give up my last s.h.i.+llin' to save her, an' thin I'd beg my bit an' sup through the counthry, only let me have her wid me.”
”As far as my skill goes,” said the doctor, ”I shall, of course, exert it to save her; but there are some diseases which we are almost always able to p.r.o.nounce fatal at first sight. This, I fear, is one of them.
Still I do not bid you despair--there is, I trust, a shadow of hope.”
”The blessin' o' the Almighty be upon you, sir, for that word! The best blessing of the heavenly Father rest upon you an' yours for it!”
”I shall return in the course of the day,” continued the physician; ”and as you feel the dread of her loss so powerfully, I will bring two other medical gentlemen of skill with me.”
”Heavens reward you for that, sir! The heavens above reward you an' them for it! Payment!--och, that signifies but little: but you and them 'll be well paid. Oh, Docthor, achora, thry an' save her!--Och, thry an'
save her!”
”Keep her easy,” replied the doctor, ”and let my directions be faithfully followed. In the meantime, Mr. Connell, be a man and display proper fort.i.tude under a dispensation which is common to all men in your state.”
To talk of resignation to Peter was an abuse of words. The poor man had no more perception of the consolation arising from a knowledge of religion than a child. His heart sank within him, for the prop on which his affections had rested was suddenly struck down from under them.
Poor Ellish was in a dreadful state. Her malady seized her in the very midst of her worldly-mindedness; and the current of her usual thoughts, when stopped by the aberrations of intellect peculiar to her illness, bubbled up, during the temporary returns of reason, with a stronger relish of the world. It was utterly impossible for a woman like her, whose habits of thought and the tendency of whose affections had been all directed towards the acquisition of wealth, to wrench them for ever and at once from the objects on which they were fixed. This, at any time, would have been to her a difficult victory to achieve; but now, when stunned by the stroke of disease, and confused by the pangs of severe suffering, tortured by a feverish pulse and a burning brain, to expect that she could experience the calm hopes of religion, or feel the soothing power of Christian sorrow, was utter folly. 'Tis true, her life had been a harmless one: her example, as an industrious and enterprising member of society, was worthy of imitation. She was an excellent mother, a good neighbor, and an admirable wife; but the duties arising out of these different relations of life, were all made subservient to, and mixed up with, her great principle of advancing herself in the world, whilst that which is to come never engaged one moment's serious consideration.
When Father Mulcahy came to administer the rites of the church to Ellish, he found her in a state of incoherency. Occasional gleams of reason broke out through the cloud that obscured her intellect, but they carried with them the marks of a mind knit indissolubly to wealth and aggrandizement. The same tenor of thought, and the same broken fragments of ambitious speculation, floated in rapid confusion through the tempests of delirium which swept with awful darkness over her spirit.
”Mrs. Connell,” said he, ”can you collect yourself? Strive to compose your mind, so far as to be able to receive the aids of religion.”
”Oh, oh!--my blood's boilin'! Is that--is that Father Mulcahy?”
”It is, dear: strive now to keep your mind calm, till you prepare yourself for judgment.”
”Keep up his head, Paddy--keep up his head, or he'll be smothered undher the wather an' the sludge. Here, Mike, take this rope: pull, man,--pull, or the horse will be lost! Oh, my head!--I'm boilin'--I'm burnin'!”
”Mrs. Connell, let me entreat you to remember that you are on the point of death, and should raise your heart to G.o.d, for the pardon and remission of your sins.”
”Oh! Father dear, I neglected that, but I intinded--I intinded--Where's Pether!--bring, bring--Pether to me!”
”Turn your thoughts to G.o.d, now, my dear. Are you clear enough in your mind for confession?”
”I am, Father! I am, avourneen. Come, come here, Pether! Pether, I'm goin' to lave you, asth.o.r.e machree! I could part wid them all but--but you.”
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