CHAPTER XXIV.
Major Bryan’s outside car stopped one afternoon at Donat Clare’s house.
“Is your father at home? I have brought a literary friend to see his manuscripts—a gentleman who will know how to value them.” This to Maureen, as she appeared courtesying in the doorway.
“Will yer honor step inside, sir, if it’s plasin’ to ye? My father’s not far off—I’ll run for him.”
“I think I should like to see a native interior,” said the stranger, a keen-looking, elderly person; and both gentlemen got down from their respective sides of the conveyance; “especially the dwelling of such a man as you describe to me.”
Becoming accustomed to the dim light of the cottage kitchen, they percieved a tall, thin, elderly man standing up, leaning on a stick, and apparently saluting them.
“You seem ill,” said Major Bryan, compassionating the hollow cough that succeeded his effort to speak. “Pray don’t keep standing on our account: sit down, my poor man;” and he almost placed him back in the chair whence he had risen, for the ashy pallor of his face showed how unfit he was for any exertion. The other gentleman looked round for water, and gave him some in a cup—slipping his hand on the wrist at the same time, but lifting it off almost immediately.
“Pulse nearly as bad as it could be,” he said to the Major afterward.
But the Manuscript Man himself entered before the paroxysm of cough and gasping had fully subsided. He helped Redmond, at his own request, into the open air, under the weak, though sweet, sunshine of a mild November day, and left him leaning against the earthen bank, gradually recovering breath.
“My poor brother. He’s taken wid a wastin’, yer honor.” Clare seemed rather in haste to get to the business that had brought his visitors, and soon forgot every thing in his enjoyment of the appreciation which the stranger evidently had for his Gaelic treasures. The learned professor, on his side, was no less interested in this unlearned Celt. They conversed about the extant literature of old times in Erinn, such as The Vellum Book of the Snowy Hill, a record of the ages before Patrick; The Book of the Dun Cow, a transcript previous to 1106, compiled from yet older manuscripts by the monk Maelmuire, of Clonmacnois, and containing part of the book of Genesis, translated by Nennius, also an elegy on the death of St. Columba; of the Synchronisms of Fian of Monasterboice, another monk, contemporary with Edward the Confessor, who drew up a compendium of universal history; and of sundry other volumes well known to the students of Celtic literature.
Clare’s treasures were chiefly copies of ancient writings; also legends and poems transcribed by himself from oral tradition; but especially a parchment, containing an original fragment of the history of the Firbolgs, which had come to him by inheritance. “If you were disposed at any time to part with these manuscripts,” said the professor, after looking them throughout, “I could find you a purchaser. I have a theory about the Ogham character myself, and should be glad to possess the tracings you have made.”
The Manuscript Man woke as from a dream; it had been so delightful to converse with a polished and educated mind, really versed in what had been long the single pursuit of his own life. “Sir, I thank you kindly; but unless I wanted the money very particular, I’d not like to part wi’ them ould papers, though I haven’t the great thought for them I once had.”
And when the professor sought to know the reason, Clare told him how his attention had been turned from musings on the past, and explorations into antiquity, to the glorious certainties of the Christian’s future; and how, the eye of his soul being filled with these, the former seemed of comparatively small consequence or interest.
“Very right, very right, of course,” acquiesed the learned man, who was yet not learned enough to balance both truly. “But about your Ogham tracings—I have a theory of my own as to the character.”
“If yer honor has any curiosity to see two of the real original stones, they’re up in the grave-yard behind the cabin.”
The professor agreed, and they went forth. Then Clare percieved that Major Bryan was in close converse with Redmond, having left the house some time before. The haggard, anxious countenance of his brother gave him a vague feeling of uneasiness; and they had not half ascended the slope to the burial-ground when he turned back at Maureen’s call.
“Father, it’s only that you shouldn’t refuse to sell the ould papers,” she whispered. “O, father, think how ‘twould take us all beyond the sea, where there’s no priest to curse us!”
“My poor girl!” he wrung her hand, and went on again to where the professor waited for him. A glance back showed him that the Major and his brother had left the road and gone within the cabin. “I’m not sure he’ll be spakin’ some good words to poor Redmond,” thought Donat. But so much did he wish to hear that conversation, that the professor did not find him so interesting about the Ogham inscriptions as he expected; he seemed preoccupied, and even dull, and very unlike the enthusiast of half an hour before.
Yet he addressed no question to his brother when the gentlemen drove away; he saw enough in the grave, almost stern, demeanour of Major Bryan. Redmond had bent his head over his stick, so that his face was not visible; but the laboured breathing, the drops on the bald, furrowed brow, told their own tale. At last he looked up with some expression of relief in his sharpened features.
“Donat, I’m gion’ to give myself up to the police to-morrow. I wouldn’t be able for it to-day. I confessed to the Major,” he gasped, clearing the drops from his forehead with his hand. “I couldn’t stand it any longer when he talked of God’s pardon for every sin. I tould him I had been all my life tryin’ to make amends for one black, black sin, an’ it didn’t feel a bit nearer. I tould him more than ever you knew—that I was one of the two that fired at his own father!”
“What!”
“Ay, I was one of the two. You only knew I was of the council of them that planned it. An’ as both bullets didn’t hit, there’s a chance I’m not the actual murderer; but O, Donat, I was a murderer by intention, an’ I’ve had a murderer’s conscience ever since—years on years. Often I thought I’d give myself up, an’ not be any longer walkin’ the world wi’ the fire of purgatory eatin’ my heart. Now it’s settled. I’m glad it’s done. Now there’s nothin’ but to give myself up to the police to-morrow. May be I wouldn’t live to the ‘Sizes—that gentleman wid the spectacles didn’t know I felt him at my pulse to-day. But I think they’ll let you bury me by the ould father an’ mother.”
Thus he went on at intervals, evidently in a state of high excitement. His eyes glittered in their sockets, and a scarlet flush burned on the cheek bone. “That will be the last I can do to make amends. I hope the Lord will pardon me then. Do you think he might, Donat?” What could Donat do but go to the Book for his authority that Christ could save to the uttermost, as he had taken even the repentant sinner with him into Paradise! How many souls will have reason to bless God to all eternity for the record of that incident, perhaps the most heart-stirring throughout all Scripture! What sorrowful sin-stricken spirit need seek farther for a Gospel, the fullest, freest? One prayer of faith; and the immediate promise of salvation.
Redmond Clare wanted to hear that story again and again; it seemed to meet all his needs. He repeated the scene in his own picturesque Irish words; he appeared to rest on the fact as upon a strong arm.
Once, when his brother thought to leave him on some business, he piteously reminded him, “Our last evening, Donat, our last!” Which it was, though not in the sense he meant. The Manuscript Man heard him praying earnestly through much of the night; toward morning all slept. Donat Clare, waking with a sense of being late, crept down from the loft into the kitchen, where poor Redmond had his bed on the settle by the fire for the sake of warmth. He looked at his attitude of repose for some minutes before he realized that the pilgrim was dead.