St. Patrick's Eve
Page 3
veryideal of an Irish peasant of the west; somewhat above the middle size,rather slightly made, but with the light and neatly turned proportionthat betokens activity, more than great strength, endurance, rather thanthe power of any single effort. His face well became the character ofhis figure; it was a handsome and an open one, where the expressionschanged and crossed each other with lightning speed, now, beaming withgood nature, now, flashing in anger, now, sparkling with some wittyconception, or frowning a bold defiance as it met the glance of somemember of a rival faction. He looked, as he was, one ready and willingto accept either part from fortune, and to exchange friendship and hardknocks with equal satisfaction. Although in dress and appearance he wasboth cleanly and well clad, it was evident that he belonged to a veryhumble class among the peasantry. Neither his hat nor his greatcoat,those unerring signs of competence, had been new for many a day before;and his shoes, in their patched and mended condition, betrayed the painsit had cost him to make even so respectable an appearance as he thenpresented.
"She didn't even give you a look to-day, Owen," said one of the formerspeakers; "she turned her head the other way as she went by."
"Faix, I'm afeard ye've a bad chance," said the other.
"Joke away, boys, and welcome," said Owen, reddening to the eyes as hespoke, and shewing that his indifference to their banterings was veryfar from being real; "'tis little I mind what ye say,--as little as sheherself would mind _me_," added he to himself.
"She's the purtiest girl in the town-land, and no second word toit,--and even if she hadn't a fortune--"
"Bad luck to the fortune!--that's what I say," cried Owen, suddenly;"'tis that same that breaks my rest night and day; sure if it wasn't forthe money, there's many a dacent boy wouldn't be ashamed nor afeard togo up and coort her."
"She'll have two hundred, divil a less, I'm tould," interposed theother; "the ould man made a deal of money in the war-time."
"I wish he had it with him now," said Owen, bitterly.
"By all accounts he wouldn't mislike it himself. When Father John wasgiving him the rites, he says, 'Phil,' says he, 'how ould are ye now?'and the other didn't hear him, but went on muttering to himself; andthe Priest says agin, 'Tis how ould you are, I'm axing.' 'A hundred andforty-three,' says Phil, looking up at him. 'The Saints be good tous,' says Father John, 'sure you're not that ould,--a hundred andforty-three?' 'A hundred and forty-seven.' 'Phew! he's more of it--ahundred and forty-seven!' 'A hundred and fifty,' cries Phil, and he gavethe foot of the bed a little kick, this way--sorra more--and he died;and what was it but the guineas he was countin' in a stocking under theclothes all the while? Oh, musha! how his sowl was in the money, and hegoing to leave it all! I heerd Father John say, 'it was well they foundit out, for there'd be a curse on them guineas, and every hand thatwould touch one of them _in secla seclorum_;' and they wer' all tuckaway in a bag that night, and buried by the Priest in a saycret place,where they'll never be found till the Day of Judgment."
Just as the story came to its end, the attention of the group was drawnoff by seeing numbers of people running in a particular direction, whilethe sound of voices and the general excitement shewed something new wasgoing forward. The noise increased, and now, loud shouts were heard,mingled with the rattling of sticks and the utterance of those partycries so popular in an Irish fair. The young men stood still as if theaffair was a mere momentary ebullition not deserving of attention, norsufficiently important to merit the taking any farther interest in it;nor did they swerve from the resolve thus tacitly formed, as from timeto time some three or four would emerge from the crowd, leading forthone, whose bleeding temples, or smashed head, made retreat no longerdishonourable.
"They're at it early," was the cool commentary of Owen Connor, as with asmile of superciliousness he looked towards the scene of strife.
"The Joyces is always the first to begin," remarked one of hiscompanions.
"And the first to lave off too," said Owen; "two to one is what theycall fair play."
"That's Phil's voice!--there now, do you hear him shouting?"
"'Tis that he's best at," said Owen, whose love for the pretty MaryJoyce was scarcely equalled by his dislike of her ill-tempered brother.
At this moment the shouts became louder and wilder, the screams of thewomen mingling with the uproar, which no longer seemed a mere passingskirmish, but a downright severe engagement.
"What is it all about, Christy?" said Owen, to a young fellow led pastbetween two friends, while the track of blood marked every step he went.
"'Tis well it becomes yez to ax," muttered the other, with his swollenand pallid lips, "when the Martins is beating your landlord's eldest sonto smithereens."
"Mr. Leslie--young Mr. Leslie?" cried the three together; but a wildwar-whoop from the crowd gave the answer back. "Hurroo! Martin for ever!Down with the Leslies! Ballinashough! Hurroo! Don't leave one of themliving! Beat their sowles out!"
"Leslie for ever!" yelled out Owen, with a voice heard over every partof the field; and with a spring into the air, and a wild flourish of hisstick, he dashed into the crowd.
"Here's Owen Connor, make way for Owen;" cried the non-combatants, asthey jostled and parted each other, to leave a free passage for onewhose prowess was well known.
"He'll lave his mark on some of yez yet!" "That's the boy will give youmusic to dance to!" "Take that, Barney!" "Ha! Terry, that made your nobring like a forty-shilling pot!" Such and such-like were the commentson him who now, reckless of his own safety, rushed madly into the verymidst of the combatants, and fought' his way onwards to where some sevenor eight were desperately engaged over the fallen figure of a man. Witha shrill yell no Indian could surpass, and a bound like a tiger, Owencame down in the midst of them, every stroke of his powerful blackthorntelling on his man as unerringly as though it were wielded by the handof a giant.
"Save the young Master, Owen! Shelter him! Stand over him, Owen Connor!"were how the cries from all sides; and the stout-hearted peasant,striding over the body of young Leslie, cleared a space around him, and,as he glanced defiance on all sides, called out, "Is that your courage,to beat a young gentleman that never handled a stick in his life? Oh,you cowardly set! Come and face the men of your own barony if you dare!Come out on the green and do it!--Pull him away--pull him away quick,"whispered he to his own party eagerly. "Tear-an-ages! get him out ofthis before they're down on me."
As he spoke, the Joyces rushed forward with a cheer, their party nowtrebly as strong as the enemy. They bore down with a force that nothingcould resist. Poor Owen--the mark for every weapon--fell almost thefirst, his head and face one undistinguishable mass of blood andbruises, but not before some three or four of his friends had rescuedyoung Leslie from his danger, and carried him to the outskirts ofthe fair. The fray now became general, neutrality was impossible, andself-defence almost suggested some participation in the battle. Thevictory was, however, with the Joyces. They were on their own territory;they mustered every moment stronger; and in less than half an hour theyhad swept the enemy from the field, save where a lingering wounded manremained, whose maimed and crippled condition had already removed himfrom all the animosities of combat.
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"Where's the young master?" were the first words Owen Connor spoke, ashis friends carried him on the door of a cabin, hastily unhinged for thepurpose, towards his home.
"Erra! he's safe enough, Owen," said one of his bearers, who was by nomeans pleased that Mr. Leslie had made the best of his way out of thefair, instead of remaining to see the fight out.
"God be praised for that same, anyhow!" said Owen piously. "His life wasnot worth a 'trawneen' when I seen him first."
It may be supposed from this speech, and the previous conduct of himwho uttered it, that Owen Connor was an old and devoted adherent of theLeslie family, from whom he had received many benefits, and to whom hewas linked by long acquaintance. Far from it. He neither knew Mr. Leshenor his father. The former he saw for the first time as he stood overhim in the fair
; the latter he had never so much as set eyes upon, atany time; neither had he or his been favoured by them. The sole tie thatsubsisted between them--the one link that bound the poor man to therich one--was that of the tenant to his landlord. Owen's father andgrandfather before him had been cottiers on the estate; but being verypoor and humble men, and the little farm they rented, a half-tilledhalf-reclaimed mountain tract, exempt from all prospect of improvement,and situated in a remote and