The crowd moved as requested. M’Donough repeated his former question, and was answered as before. There was a breathless silence. Fitzgerald fixed his eye upon O’Connor. The appointed signal, ‘Ready, fire!’ was given. There was a pause while one might slowly reckon three — Fitzgerald fired — and O’Connor fell helplessly upon the ground.
‘There is no time to be lost,’ said M’Creagrh; ‘for, by —— , you have done for him.’
So saying, he threw himself upon his horse, and was instantly followed at a hard gallop by Fitzgerald.
‘Cold-blooded murder, if ever murder was committed,’ said O’Grady. ‘He shall hang for it; d — n me, but he shall.’
A hopeless attempt was made to overtake the fugitives; but they were better mounted than any of their pursuers, and escaped with ease. Curses and actual yells of execration followed their course; and as, in crossing the brow of a neighbouring hill, they turned round in the saddle to observe if they were pursued, every gesture which could express fury and defiance was exhausted by the enraged and defeated multitude.
‘Clear the way, boys,’ said young O’Grady, who with me was kneeling beside O’Connor, while we supported him in our arms; ‘do not press so close, and be d — d; can’t you let the fresh air to him; don’t you see he’s dying?’
On opening his waistcoat we easily detected the wound: it was a little below the chest — a small blue mark, from which oozed a single heavy drop of blood.
‘He is bleeding but little — that is a comfort at all events,’ said one of the gentlemen who surrounded the wounded man.
Another suggested the expediency of his being removed homeward with as little delay as possible, and recommended, for this purpose, that a door should be removed from its hinges, and the patient, laid upon this, should be conveyed from the field. Upon this rude bier my poor friend was carried from that fatal ground towards Castle Connor. I walked close by his side, and observed every motion of his. He seldom opened his eyes, and was perfectly still, excepting a nervous WORKING of the fingers, and a slight, almost imperceptible twitching of the features, which took place, however, only at intervals. The first word he uttered was spoken as we approached the entrance of the castle itself, when he said; repeatedly, ‘The back way, the back way.’ He feared lest his mother should meet him abruptly and without preparation; but although this fear was groundless, since she never left her room until late in the day, yet it was thought advisable, and, indeed, necessary, to caution all the servants most strongly against breathing a hint to their mistress of the events which had befallen.
Two or three gentlemen had ridden from the field one after another, promising that they should overtake our party before it reached the castle, bringing with them medical aid from one quarter or another; and we determined that Mrs. O’Connor should not know anything of the occurrence until the opinion of some professional man should have determined the extent of the injury which her son had sustained — a course of conduct which would at least have the effect of relieving her from the horrors of suspense. When O’Connor found himself in his own room, and laid upon his own bed, he appeared much revived — so much so, that I could not help admitting a strong hope that all might yet be well.
‘After all, Purcell,’ said he, with a melancholy smile, and speaking with evident difficulty, ‘I believe I have got off with a trifling wound. I am sure it cannot be fatal I feel so little pain — almost none.’
I cautioned him against fatiguing himself by endeavouring to speak; and he remained quiet for a little time. At length he said:
‘Purcell, I trust this lesson shall not have been given in vain. God has been very merciful to me; I feel — I have an internal confidence that I am not wounded mortally. Had I been fatally wounded — had I been killed upon the spot, only think on it’ — and he closed his eyes as if the very thought made him dizzy— ‘struck down into the grave, unprepared as I am, in the very blossom of my sins, without a moment of repentance or of reflection; I must have been lost — lost for ever and ever.’
I prevailed upon him, with some difficulty, to abstain from such agitating reflections, and at length induced him to court such repose as his condition admitted of, by remaining perfectly silent, and as much as possible without motion.
O’Connor and I only were in the room; he had lain for some time in tolerable quiet, when I thought I distinguished the bustle attendant upon the arrival of some one at the castle, and went eagerly to the window, believing, or at least hoping, that the sounds might announce the approach of the medical man, whom we all longed most impatiently to see.
My conjecture was right; I had the satisfaction of seeing him dismount and prepare to enter the castle, when my observations were interrupted, and my attention was attracted by a smothered, gurgling sound proceeding from the bed in which lay the wounded man. I instantly turned round, and in doing so the spectacle which met my eyes was sufficiently shocking.
I had left O’Connor lying in the bed, supported by pillows, perfectly calm, and with his eyes closed: he was now lying nearly in the same position, his eyes open and almost starting from their sockets, with every feature pale and distorted as death, and vomiting blood in quantities that were frightful. I rushed to the door and called for assistance; the paroxysm, though violent, was brief, and O’Connor sank into a swoon so deep and deathlike, that I feared he should waken no more.
The surgeon, a little, fussy man, but I believe with some skill to justify his pretensions, now entered the room, carrying his case of instruments, and followed by servants bearing basins and water and bandages of linen. He relieved our doubts by instantly assuring us that ‘the patient’ was still living; and at the same time professed his determination to take advantage of the muscular relaxation which the faint had induced to examine the wound — adding that a patient was more easily ‘handled’ when in a swoon than under other circumstances.
After examining the wound in front where the ball had entered, he passed his hand round beneath the shoulder, and after a little pause he shook his head, observing that he feared very much that one of the vertebrae was fatally injured, but that he could not say decidedly until his patient should revive a little. ‘Though his language was very technical, and consequently to me nearly unintelligible, I could perceive plainly by his manner that he considered the case as almost hopeless.
O’Connor gradually gave some signs of returning animation, and at length was so far restored as to be enabled to speak. After some few general questions as to how he felt affected, etc., etc., the surgeon, placing his hand upon his leg and pressing it slightly, asked him if he felt any pressure upon the limb? O’Connor answered in the negative — he pressed harder, and repeated the question; still the answer was the same, till at length, by repeated experiments, he ascertained that all that part of the body which lay behind the wound was paralysed, proving that the spine must have received some fatal injury.
‘Well, doctor,’ said O’Connor, after the examination of the wound was over; ‘well, I shall do, shan’t I?’
The physician was silent for a moment, and then, as if with an effort, he replied:
‘Indeed, my dear sir, it would not be honest to flatter you with much hope.’
‘Eh?’ said O’Connor with more alacrity than I had seen him exhibit since the morning; ‘surely I did not hear you aright; I spoke of my recovery — surely there is no doubt; there can be none — speak frankly, doctor, for God’s sake — am I dying?’
The surgeon was evidently no stoic, and his manner had extinguished in me every hope, even before he had uttered a word in reply.
‘You are — you are indeed dying. There is no hope; I should but deceive you if I held out any.’
As the surgeon uttered these terrible words, the hands which O’Connor had stretched towards him while awaiting his reply fell powerless by his side; his head sank forward; it seemed as if horror and despair had unstrung every nerve and sinew; he appeared to collapse and shrink together as a plant might under the inf
luence of a withering spell.
It has often been my fate, since then, to visit the chambers of death and of suffering; I have witnessed fearful agonies of body and of soul; the mysterious shudderings of the departing spirit, and the heartrending desolation of the survivors; the severing of the tenderest ties, the piteous yearnings of unavailing love — of all these things the sad duties of my profession have made me a witness. But, generally speaking, I have observed in such scenes some thing to mitigate, if not the sorrows, at least the terrors, of death; the dying man seldom seems to feel the reality of his situation; a dull consciousness of approaching dissolution, a dim anticipation of unconsciousness and insensibility, are the feelings which most nearly border upon an appreciation of his state; the film of death seems to have overspread the mind’s eye, objects lose their distinctness, and float cloudily before it, and the apathy and apparent indifference with which men recognise the sure advances of immediate death, rob that awful hour of much of its terrors, and the deathbed of its otherwise inevitable agonies.
This is a merciful dispensation; but the rule has its exceptions — its terrible exceptions. When a man is brought in an instant, by some sudden accident, to the very verge of the fathomless pit of death, with all his recollections awake, and his perceptions keenly and vividly alive, without previous illness to subdue the tone of the mind as to dull its apprehensions — then, and then only, the deathbed is truly terrible.
Oh, what a contrast did O’Connor afford as he lay in all the abject helplessness of undisguised terror upon his deathbed, to the proud composure with which he had taken the field that morning. I had always before thought of death as of a quiet sleep stealing gradually upon exhausted nature, made welcome by suffering, or, at least, softened by resignation; I had never before stood by the side of one upon whom the hand of death had been thus suddenly laid; I had never seen the tyrant arrayed in his terror till then. Never before or since have I seen horror so intensely depicted. It seemed actually as if O’Connor’s mind had been unsettled by the shock; the few words he uttered were marked with all the incoherence of distraction; but it was not words that marked his despair most strongly, the appalling and heart-sickening groans that came from the terror-stricken and dying man must haunt me while I live; the expression, too, of hopeless, imploring agony with which he turned his eyes from object to object, I can never forget. At length, appearing suddenly to recollect himself, he said, with startling alertness, but in a voice so altered that I scarce could recognise the tones:
‘Purcell, Purcell, go and tell my poor mother; she must know all, and then, quick, quick, quick, call your uncle, bring him here; I must have a chance.’ He made a violent but fruitless effort to rise, and after a slight pause continued, with deep and urgent solemnity: ‘Doctor, how long shall I live? Don’t flatter me. Compliments at a deathbed are out of place; doctor, for God’s sake, as you would not have my soul perish with my body, do not mock a dying man; have I an hour to live?’
‘Certainly,’ replied the surgeon; ‘if you will but endeavour to keep yourself tranquil; otherwise I cannot answer for a moment.’
‘Well, doctor,’ said the patient, ‘I will obey you; now, Purcell, my first and dearest friend, will you inform my poor mother of — of what you see, and return with your uncle; I know you will.’
I took the dear fellow’s hand and kissed it, it was the only answer I could give, and left the room. I asked the first female servant I chanced to meet, if her mistress were yet up, and was answered in the affirmative. Without giving myself time to hesitate, I requested her to lead me to her lady’s room, which she accordingly did; she entered first, I supposed to announce my name, and I followed closely; the poor mother said something, and held out her hands to welcome me; I strove for words; I could not speak, but nature found expression; I threw myself at her feet and covered her hands with kisses and tears. My manner was enough; with a quickness almost preternatural she understood it all; she simply said the words: ‘O’Connor is killed;’ she uttered no more.
How I left the room I know not; I rode madly to my uncle’s residence, and brought him back with me — all the rest is a blank. I remember standing by O’Connor’s bedside, and kissing the cold pallid forehead again and again; I remember the pale serenity of the beautiful features; I remember that I looked upon the dead face of my friend, and I remember no more.
For many months I lay writhing and raving in the frenzy of brain fever; a hundred times I stood tottering at the brink of death, and long after my restoration to bodily health was assured, it appeared doubtful whether I should ever be restored to reason. But God dealt very mercifully with me; His mighty hand rescued me from death and from madness when one or other appeared inevitable. As soon as I was permitted pen and ink, I wrote to the bereaved mother in a tone bordering upon frenzy. I accused myself of having made her childless; I called myself a murderer; I believed myself accursed; I could not find terms strong enough to express my abhorrence of my own conduct. But, oh! what an answer I received, so mild, so sweet, from the desolate, childless mother! its words spoke all that is beautiful in Christianity — it was forgiveness — it was resignation. I am convinced that to that letter, operating as it did upon a mind already predisposed, is owing my final determination to devote myself to that profession in which, for more than half a century, I have been a humble minister.
Years roll away, and we count them not as they pass, but their influence is not the less certain that it is silent; the deepest wounds are gradually healed, the keenest griefs are mitigated, and we, in character, feelings, tastes, and pursuits, become such altered beings, that but for some few indelible marks which past events must leave behind them, which time may soften, but can never efface; our very identity would be dubious. Who has not felt all this at one time or other? Who has not mournfully felt it? This trite, but natural train of reflection filled my mind as I approached the domain of Castle Connor some ten years after the occurrence of the events above narrated. Everything looked the same as when I had left it; the old trees stood as graceful and as grand as ever; no plough had violated the soft green sward; no utilitarian hand had constrained the wanderings of the clear and sportive stream, or disturbed the lichen-covered rocks through which it gushed, or the wild coppice that overshadowed its sequestered nooks — but the eye that looked upon these things was altered, and memory was busy with other days, shrouding in sadness every beauty that met my sight.
As I approached the castle my emotions became so acutely painful that I had almost returned the way I came, without accomplishing the purpose for which I had gone thus far; and nothing but the conviction that my having been in the neighbourhood of Castle Connor without visiting its desolate mistress would render me justly liable to the severest censure, could overcome my reluctance to encountering the heavy task which was before me. I recognised the old servant who opened the door, but he did not know me. I was completely changed; suffering of body and mind had altered me in feature and in bearing, as much as in character. I asked the man whether his mistress ever saw visitors. He answered:
‘But seldom; perhaps, however, if she knew that an old friend wished to see her for a few minutes, she would gratify him so far.’
At the same time I placed my card in his hand, and requested him to deliver it to his mistress. He returned in a few moments, saying that his lady would be happy to see me in the parlour, and I accordingly followed him to the door, which he opened. I entered the room, and was in a moment at the side of my early friend and benefactress. I was too much agitated to speak; I could only hold the hands which she gave me, while, spite of every effort, the tears flowed fast and bitterly.
‘It was kind, very, very kind of you to come to see me,’ she said, with far more composure than I could have commanded; ‘I see it is very painful to you.’
I endeavoured to compose myself, and for a little time we remained silent; she was the first to speak:
‘You will be surprised, Mr. Purcell, when you observe the calmness with
which I can speak of him who was dearest to me, who is gone; but my thoughts are always with him, and the recollections of his love’ — her voice faltered a little— ‘and the hope of meeting him hereafter enables me to bear existence.’
I said I know not what; something about resignation, I believe.
‘I hope I am resigned; God made me more: so,’ she said. ‘Oh, Mr. Purcell, I have often thought I loved my lost child TOO well. It was natural — he was my only child — he was — — ‘ She could not proceed for a few moments: ‘It was very natural that I should love him as I did; but it may have been sinful; I have often thought so. I doated upon him — I idolised him — I thought too little of other holier affections; and God may have taken him from me, only to teach me, by this severe lesson, that I owed to heaven a larger share of my heart than to anything earthly. I cannot think of him now without more solemn feelings than if he were with me. There is something holy in our thoughts of the dead; I feel it so.’ After a pause, she continued— ‘Mr. Purcell, do you remember his features well? they were very beautiful.’ I assured her that I did. ‘Then you can tell me if you think this a faithful likeness.’ She took from a drawer a case in which lay a miniature. I took it reverently from her hands; it was indeed very like — touchingly like. I told her so; and she seemed gratified.
As the evening was wearing fast, and I had far to go, I hastened to terminate my visit, as I had intended, by placing in her hand a letter from her son to me, written during his sojourn upon the Continent. I requested her to keep it; it was one in which he spoke much of her, and in terms of the tenderest affection. As she read its contents the heavy tears gathered in her eyes, and fell, one by one, upon the page; she wiped them away, but they still flowed fast and silently. It was in vain that she tried to read it; her eyes were filled with tears: so she folded the letter, and placed it in her bosom. I rose to depart, and she also rose.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 664
