Part 20 (1/2)

”You are certainly a very strange people,” said Harcourt.

”And yet there's another thing stranger still, which is, that your countrymen never took any advantage of our eccentricities, to rule us by; and if they had any wit in their heads, they 'd have seen, easy enough, that all these traits are exactly the clews to a nation's heart.

That's what Pitt meant when he said, 'Let me make the _songs_ of a people, and I don't care who makes the _laws_.' Look down now in that glen before you, as far as you can see. There's Belmullet, and ain't you glad to be so near your journey's end? for you're mighty tired of all this discoorsin'.”

”On the contrary, Billy, even when I disagree with what you say, I'm pleased to hear your reasons; at the same time, I 'm glad we are drawing nigh to this poor boy, and I only trust we may not be too late.”

Billy muttered a pious concurrence in the wish, and they rode along for some time in silence. ”There's the Bay of Belmullet now under your feet,” cried Billy, as he pulled up short, and pointed with his whip seaward. ”There's five fathoms, and fine anchoring ground on every inch ye see there. There's elegant shelter from tempestuous winds. There's a coast rich in herrings, oysters, lobsters, and crabs; farther out there's cod, and haddock, and mackerel in the sayson. There's sea wrack for kelp, and every other con-vanience any one can require; and a poorer set of devils than ye 'll see when we get down there, there's nowhere to be found. Well, well! 'if idleness is bliss, it's folly to work hard.'”

And with this paraphrase, Billy made way for the Colonel, as the path had now become too narrow for two abreast, and in this way they descended to the sh.o.r.e.

CHAPTER XV. A SICK BED

Although the cabin in which the sick boy lay was one of the best in the village, its interior presented a picture of great poverty. It consisted of a single room, in the middle of which a mud wall of a few feet in height formed a sort of part.i.tion, ab.u.t.ting against which was the bed,--the one bed of the entire family,--now devoted to the guest. Two or three coa.r.s.ely fas.h.i.+oned stools, a rickety table, and a still more rickety dresser comprised all the furniture. The floor was uneven and fissured, and the solitary window was mended with an old hat,--thus diminis.h.i.+ng the faint light which struggled through the narrow aperture.

A large net, attached to the rafters, hung down in heavy festoons overhead, the corks and sinks dangling in dangerous proximity to the heads underneath. Several spars and oars littered one corner, and a newly painted buoy filled another; but, in spite of all these enc.u.mbrances, there was s.p.a.ce around the fire for a goodly company of some eight or nine of all ages, who were pleasantly eating their supper from a large pot of potatoes that smoked and steamed in front of them.

”G.o.d save all here!” cried Billy, as he preceded the Colonel into the cabin.

”Save ye kindly,” was the courteous answer, in a chorus of voices; at the same time, seeing a gentleman at the door, the whole party arose at once to receive him. Nothing could have surpa.s.sed the perfect good-breeding with which the fisherman and his wife did the honors of their humble home; and Harcourt at once forgot the poverty-struck aspect of the scene in the general courtesy of the welcome.

”He 's no better, your honor,--no better at all,” said the man, as Harcourt drew nigh the sick bed. ”He does be always ravin',--ravin'

on,--beggin' and implorin' that we won't take him back to the Castle; and if he falls asleep, the first thing he says when he wakes up is, 'Where am I?--tell me I'm not at Glencore!' and he keeps on screechin', 'Tell me, tell me so!'”

Harcourt bent down over the bed and gazed at him. Slowly and languidly the sick boy raised his heavy lids and returned the stare.

”You know me, Charley, boy, don't you?” said he, softly.

”Yes,” muttered he, in a weak tone.

”Who am I, Charley? Tell me who is speaking to you.”

”Yes,” said he again.

”Poor fellow!” Bighed Harcourt, ”he does _not_ know me!”

”Where's the pain?” asked Billy, suddenly.

The boy placed his hand on his forehead, and then on his temples.

”Look up! look at _me!_” said Billy. ”Ay, there it is! the pupil does not contract,--there's mischief in the brain. He wants to say something to you, sir,” said he to Harcourt; ”he's makin' signs to you to stoop down.”

Harcourt put his ear close to the sick boy's lips, and listened.

”No, my dear child, of course not,” said he, after a pause. ”You shall remain here, and I will stay with you too. In a few days your father will come--”

A wild yell, a shriek that made the cabin ring, now broke from the boy, followed by another, and then a third; and then with a spring he arose from the bed, and tried to escape. Weak and exhausted as he was, such was the strength supplied by fever, it was all that they could do to subdue him and replace him in the bed; violent convulsions followed this severe access, and it was not till after hours of intense suffering that he calmed down again and seemed to slumber.

”There's more than we know of here, Colonel,” said Billy, as he drew him to one side. ”There's moral causes as well as malady at work.”