Chapter II: At the Dawning

It was easy enough to see from Geraldine’s manner that although she had never put the precarious state of her father’s health before herself plainly, yet that she had vaguely dreaded the worst.

As a rule, our fears travel so much faster than actual danger, that before danger absolutely appears in sight, we are well prepared for its advent; and there was not one of Mr. Drewitt’s family, unless indeed it might be Harold, who had not been long prepared for the worst.

Mrs. Drewitt, and Brian and Geraldine had known, for many a day, that he could never be better. Once admit the idea that improvement is impossible, and it is not difficult to imagine that the last change of all is probable.

There are times when it is the truest wisdom to look upon our living as dying; when it is well to meet the mournful truth boldly and without disguise; when it is well to buckle on all our charity and forbearance; to call together love, and duty, and tenderness, so that we may not pain the departing by opposition which might be imperative for their sakes as well as our own, were they not already at the mouth of that river where all human leave-takings must be ended.

“If we had but known how ill he was—If we had only imagined he was dying!”

“Had we thought he was in danger!”

How often we hear these sentences—happy only if we have never had need to utter them ourselves!

Geoffry Pryor resolved that Geraldine should have no sorrow of this kind. It was right for her to understand, and yet the intelligence did not seem strange to her.

She had feared—and the fear was true—and she went down the hill towards Kincorth, crying, as I have said, bitterly.

As she went Mr. Pryor began to marvel whether he had done right; whether, after all, Mr. Drewitt’s case was so hopeless; but then he remembered many an unfailing symptom which assured him that Kincorth would soon be in want of a new master.

“And the sooner the better, say I,” was the conclusion he arrived at; but then his conscience chid him, and he added, “though God knows best.”

As for Harold, nothing could induce him to think badly of his father’s state.

“You told me more than a year ago he could not be cured, and he is alive now,” he argued.

“I said I feared he never could be better, and I was right,” answered Brian.

“Well, he may live for a hundred years yet,” was the reply. “He is dying—you are dying—I am dying; but although we are dying we are not near our deaths; at least I hope not,” added Harold; and he went whistling out of the gates, to seek for more cheerful companionship abroad.

He did not like all work and no play, not he; give him a good tumbler of punch, a pretty country-girl for partner, and a jolly good dance up at Regan’s—a public-house on the way to Cragantlet, where he and a lot of other young fellows got together—and Kincorth might go hang.

“‘For I’m a fine young Irish gentleman,
All of the ancient school,’”

Master Harold would shout out as he came reeling home, arm-in-arm with three or four more as drunk as himself; and Brian, who had never taken a glass too much wine in his life, looked at his brother and asked helplessly—“What can I do? what can I do?”

He never knew where to find Harold when he wanted him; and one night when the worst, so long apprehended, had to be faced, Brian, flinging himself on the fastest thing in the stable—Madcap—knew no more where to go to look for his brother than if he were the greatest stranger in the world.

“There is a dance up at Regan’s to-night, sir,” said the man who had saddled the chesnut; “and if you’ll ride up there, I’ll cut across the hills to Durrow, for Mr. Maxwell’s dining with Mr. Pryor, and should Master Harold not be at Regan’s he’ll be there.”

“Which is the nearest road to Regan’s?” Brian asked, stroking the neck of the chesnut, who was one of the most fidgety brutes a man ever undertook to ride.

“Straight on till Cragantlet, then take the turn before you come to the gates, and keep on about half-a-mile. He’s nearly sure to be there; but if he’s not there, you might call at Dan Glynn’s as you’re comin’ back.”

“I’ll call there as I’m going,” was the reply; for Dan Glynn was an individual who resided about a mile inland from Duranmore, and who was reputed to make his living by less honest means than tilling bad land or sending lean sheep to Ballinasloe fair for the Leinster graziers to buy and fatten.

It was a dark night for August, but Brian knew every inch of the road, and so for that matter did the chesnut, who brought him to the Moor Farm in less than a quarter of an hour.

Brian rode straight up to the door and, without dismounting, rapped for admittance with the handle of his whip.

There were no lights to be seen, there was no one stirring about the place; but the youth knew Mr. Glynn’s habits, and not thinking these at all sufficient reasons for supposing the household had retired to rest, he jumped to the ground, and with whip and boots made such vigorous onslaughts on the door as soon brought Mr. Glynn out of his bed to inquire what the —— he wanted.

“I want my brother, Glynn; do you know where he is?”

“The Lord be good to me, it’s Mister Brian. I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure; I thought it was some damned gauger. No, I haven’t seen Masther Harold, not these two days. Anything wrong, sir? can I be of any help?”

“No, thank you,” answered Brian, who had one foot already in the stirrup. “I’ll go on to Regan’s.”

“How’s the Masther, Mister Brian?”

“Dying, Glynn,” was the reply that came back through the night, for the chesnut was galloping down the cross road leading to Duranmore, and Brian turned round in his saddle to shout out these words.

“Faith, then, an’ if he’s dyin’ it’s not Dan Glynn that’ll go back till his bed, an’ sleep contint. I’ll follow the boy: shure an’ it’s at a time like this a man stands in need of company, let him be rich or let him be poor.” And straightway Mr. Glynn “clapped a saddle” on his black pony Tom, and cantered away to Cragantlet in pursuit of Brian Drewitt.

Brian, meantime, had gone galloping on under the darkness. He gave the chesnut her head, and she went tearing away as though she thought he was riding a steeple-chase. Over those lonely roads, what did it matter? Among those desolate hills, who cared if he rode like a fiend through the night? The same country as Maxwell had traversed, while the moon shone down on lake, and hill, and bog, and ravine, Brian now dashed through without turning his eyes to right or left. He thought of his father—of the great mystery—of how hard he had tried to do his duty—and of how his reward was—

“Harold, Harold,” but never once, “Brian, my son.”

And now his father was going where all his eldest born had tried to effect could benefit him no more. He would never see Kincorth clear of debt; never know how disinterested Brian had been; never understand how this boy-man had worked to free him from anxiety; never comprehend how wild and reckless, how selfish and thoughtless, his favourite son was growing up.

“It is best as it is,” thought Brian, bitterly; “better for him to die than for Harold to break his heart!” And as he thought this, the sound of music was borne down the lane, and he heard shouting and laughing and the noise of the dancers’ feet as they were thumped at regular intervals upon the earthen floor.

“Hold my horse, boy,” he shouted to an urchin standing by the open door, and the boy ran forward and took the mare, and was about to lead her round to the yard, when Brian stopped him.

“Don’t put her up,” he said, “I only want to speak a word inside. I shall be out again in a minute,” and he strode into the house, a finer-looking man than Harold was ever likely to grow to.

“Is my brother within, Mrs. Regan?” he asked of the landlady, who met him at the door.

“Mr. Brian! an’ it’s welcome ye are, sir. Your brother? I’m not just sure, sir; will ye step in and sit down while I see?”

“I’ll see for myself, Mrs. Regan, if you please,” answered Brian, gently putting the landlady on one side. “You need not be afraid; I’m not going to scold the boy; nobody is going to be angry with him, only his father wants to see him before he dies!”

“God save us all, is he that bad, Mr. Brian?” But Brian had already flung open the kitchen-door and was among the merrymakers.

In a moment every dancer stood still, every voice was hushed, and only the piper who had been playing Paddy O’Rafferty went on with his tune, unmindful of the intruder.

“Hush! Jamsie,” said one in his ear, “it is the young master;” and the piper stopped.

Although it was summer, a tremendous turf-fire blazed on the hearth, and collected together in the kitchen were a number of pretty young country-girls, young farmers, labourers, and two or three gentlemen’s sons, foremost among whom stood Harold.

There were wooden forms round the room for the convenience of the lookers on; there was whiskey in abundance; one or two dogs lay on the hearth, and the blind piper was accommodated with a seat in a dark corner.

“Welcome, Brian!” shouted out Harold, boisterously; “welcome! we’ll get you a pretty partner and drink your health with three times three.”

“Not to-night, Harold,” answered Brian. “I want you a minute; come here;” and thinking all the time of the room in which he had left his father, of the contrast between the one scene and the other, he led his brother into the passage, and told him he must hurry home.

Like one listening in a dream, Harold heard all Brian said in silence.

In silence also he allowed himself to be taken out of the house into the darkness, to the spot where the chesnut was standing.

“Don’t spare her, Harold,” said Brian, helping his brother into the saddle; “lose no time.”

“But you, Brian—but you?” and Harold was on the ground again.

“I’ll walk back,” was the answer. “Hang it! can’t you do as I tell you for once? Jump up; it is you he wants to see—not me.”

And Brian almost lifted his brother into his seat as he spoke.

“Are you all right now?” he asked.

“Yes, only I wish——”

Brian struck the mare on her flank, and the creature was off through the darkness, through the night, bearing Harold towards Kincorth.

A mile after leaving Regan’s, Brian met Glynn. “Take my pony, Master Brian,” he said; “I brought him up here on purpose, and I can send to Kincorth for him in the morning.”

“And you, Glynn?”

“I can tramp it,” was the answer; and Brian accepted his offer; only as he rode he wondered how much of all the respect and civility which was accorded to him he owed to the fact of his being the eldest son, the next heir.

“It is Harold they like,” he reflected, “and not me.”

But Brian was wrong; the country-people liked Harold much, but they liked him better. They were fond of the free-mannered impetuous boy, but they were fonder still of the young gentleman who was doing his best so soon; who was out with the labourers in the morning, and was overseeing the men, and planning this and measuring that, from sunrise to sunset.

“Doing his best to keep the ould place from the stranger,” as they pathetically said.

It was two o’clock before Brian reached home. Glynn’s pony cast a shoe six miles from Kincorth, and the young man had been obliged to walk him every step of those six miles home.

“An’ ye never stopped to pick up the shoe, Master Brian,” said Nannie, who was now stooped with age, and old and withered, regretfully. “I only hope no harm will come of it. Won’t you eat a bite before you go up to him? He has been asking for you.”

“For my brother, I suppose you mean,” answered Brian; “is he not with him?”

“Yes; but it has been Brian, Brian, this last two hours. You look white like, won’t you have a drop of something?”

“No, Nannie, not now; let me alone, like a good soul. Where is my mother?”

“Where wud she be but wid him?” was the reply; and Brian ascended the staircase and entered his father’s room.

There lay Mr. Drewitt, waiting for the final summons; there sat Mrs. Drewitt, and Harold, and Geraldine, and Doctor Sheen. From side to side the dying man tossed restlessly. “Brian, Brian!” he cried; and Brian answered, “I am here.”

“Will you take care of your mother, Brian, and your sister, and—and Harold?”

“I will, father,” and the young man bowed his head as though he felt himself in the presence of something mightier than mortality.

“Will you be good to him, patient with him?”

“I will,” and Brian Drewitt took his father’s hand.

“Swear it,” murmured the dying man.

“As I hope for peace here and salvation hereafter, I swear!” said Brian.

“I have left you all,” Mr. Drewitt muttered feebly; “perhaps it is not right—and I did not mean to do it—but you will be good to him, Brian, you will?”

“Before God!” was the reply.

“And may He enable you to fulfil your vow!” said a voice behind him; and Brian, looking round, saw the Rector of Duranmore, who laid a kindly hand on his shoulder.

“My boy,” he whispered, “you have undertaken great responsibilities this night; but God will give you strength if you ask for His help.”

And then they all knelt down, while the clergyman prayed that intensely-pathetic prayer which is ordered, in the visitation of the sick, for those for whom there appeareth small hope of recovery.

“Amen,” said the sick man, but there was no other Amen, only sobs from the women and Harold, and a profound silence as regarded Brian and Doctor Sheen.

“Amen!”—the sands in the glass had almost run out; the sun of his life was close upon its setting; the river of his existence was flowing out into the sea.

Amen! His day was declining; his grass withering. This man was going to his long home, and the mourners were gathered round about him.

Amen! He could not take up his life again and make a better thing of it; he could not go back through the years and redress the wrong, and undo the misery he had brought on others. For him in this world there was no future, only a barren and unprofitable past.

Amen! Throw open the shutters, and fling up the windows, that he may look his last in the grey light of morning, over the country he has loved so long.

“Lift me up,” he said feebly; and they raised him up that he might see the trees standing quietly in the first blush of dawn—the sea lying still as a glassy lake—the grand old mountains and Eversbeg’s Head.

From the far-off mountains, from the nearer hills, from the sea and the woods, and the cold grey sky, the dying man’s eyes came back slowly to the room where was a “sound of weeping and a noise of lamentation.”

Maxwell had come in and stood beside the bed, waiting till his uncle should notice him. Against an old-fashioned escritoire leant Mr. Pryor, who felt himself an intruder and a stranger in the midst of such a scene. The Rector supported the sick man, and whispered some words of consolation to him. He saw the end coming; he knew the moment when the keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men bow themselves, and the grinders cease, was close at hand; and though he could not hear what the dying man was muttering, he yet liked to see his lips move, hoping it was in prayer.

He looked very peaceful; his face was calm and placid; but as he brought back his eyes from the Bennebeola mountains, from Eversbeg and the nearer hills, his glance fell on Maxwell, who stepped closer to speak to him.

But his uncle turned from him, and calling out “Brian—Brian!” fell forward into the arms of his first-born.

And over his father’s grey head, which lay on his bosom, Brian looked defiantly at his cousin. There was no man living could step between them now; in that hour his son was closer to Archibald Drewitt than the wife of his bosom.

As the magnet attracts iron, so the stronger nature attracts the weaker in the hour of its most grievous need.

No man could separate the father and his child now—for still the grey head lay on Brian’s breast, growing heavier—heavier each moment.

There was a great silence in the chamber, and then Doctor Sheen walked round the bed, and taking one cold hand in his, felt the pulse.

It was gone—the “silver cord was loosed, and the golden bowl broken, and the pitcher broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern.”

The dust had returned to the earth, and the spirit unto God who gave it.