The soul of Jem Deady was grievously . That calm and philosopher had lost his . It showed itself in many ways,—in violent abstraction at meal-times, and the ghoulish way in which he swallowed cups of tea, and bolted potatoes ; in strange muttered soliloquies in which he called himself violent and names; in sacrilegious gestures towards Father Letheby's house. And once, when Bess, alarmed about his , and hearing dreadful sounds of conflict from his bedroom, and such expressions as these: "How do you like that?" "Come on, you ruffian!" "You'll want a beefsteak for your eye and not for your stomach, you !" when Bess, in fear and trembling, entered the bedroom, she found her an innocent which, against the wall, did service vicariously for some imaginary monster of flesh and blood. To all Bess's anxious there was but one answer: "Let me alone, 'uman; I'm half out o' my mind!" There should be a , of course, to all this, and it came. It was not the odor of the steaks and onions that, across intervening gardens from Father Letheby's kitchen, the crisis; nor the tears of Lizzie, who appeared from time to time, a weeping Niobe, and whose would have touched the heart of a less Irishman than Jem Deady; nor yet the of the women of the village, who stung him with such as these: "Yes; Faynians begor, with their drilling, an' their antics, an' their corporals, an' their sergeants,—they couldn't hunt a flock of geese. Dere goes de captain!—look at him an' his airs; and thim Dublin jackeens above in the priest's house, atin' him out o' house and home, and not a man in Kilronan able to lay a wet finger on 'em." But, as in all great crises, it is the simple thing that proves the last straw, so in this. What steaks and onions, tears and taunts, could not do, was done by an innocent Havana, whose odors, sprung from a dainty weed, held between the lips of one of these great representatives of Her 's law, and wafted to the senses of Jem Deady, as he over his cabbages in his little garden, made him throw down his spade with something that seemed like, and most unlike, a prayer, and rush into the house and shout: " an' houns! Flesh and blood can't stand this! Don't shpake a word, 'uman! Don't shpake a word! but get me soap, and hot wather, and a towel, while you'd be saying thrapsticks!"
Bess did as she was directed; and then paused anxiously in the kitchen to what new form her husband's was taking. Occasionally a muttered came from the of the bedroom; and in about a quarter of an hour out came Jem, so transformed that Bess began to doubt her own sanity, and could only say, through her tears:—
"For the love of God, Jem, is 't yourself or your ghost?"
It certainly was not a ghost, but a fine, handsome man, over six feet high, his hair curled, and his whiskers shining with Trotter Oil, and his long pilot coat with the collar, which he had got from Father Laverty, and on which the merciful night, now falling, the of time. Bess looked at him with all a wife's ; and then, half crying, half laughing, said:—
"And what new divilmint are ye up to now?"
Jem answered not a word. He was on the war-path. He only said sarcastically:—
"Ye needn't expect me home to tay, Mrs. Deady. I'm taking tay with shupparior company to-night."
An hour later there were three gentlemen in Father Letheby's , who appeared to have known each other in antenatal times, so affectionate and were they. The gentleman in the middle was sympathizing with his brethren in the legal profession—for he had introduced himself as the local bailiff—on their being sent down from the and its gayeties, from their wives and children, into this remote and village called Kilronan.
"It ain't too bad," said one, with a strong Northern accent. "A' have bun in wuss diggins thon thus!"
Then the conversation drifted to possible dangers. And it appeared there was not, in Her Majesty's , a more lawless and fiendish set of ruffians than those who in Kilronan. Why, what did they do in the days of the Lague? Didn't they take his , as honest a man as ever lived, and strip him, and nail him by the ears to his door, where his neighbors found him in the morning? But "the poluss? the poluss?" "Oh! they're always looking the other way. But let us get the taste of these murderin' ruffians out o' our mout'! Come down to Mrs. Haley's. There isn't a better dhrop betune this and Dublin."
"But the proputty? the proputty?" said the bailiffs, looking around anxiously.
"As safe as if ye had it in yere waistcoat pockets," they were assured.
The three well-dressed gentlemen moved with easy dignity down the one dark street of the village, piloted carefully by the central figure, who linked his arms affectionately in his comrades', and smoked his weed with as much dignity as if he had been born in Cuba.
"Powerful dark hole!" said one; "one mut git a blow o' a and nuvver be the wiser."
"Or the of a pike," suggested the middle gentleman.
"Huv tha' no gaws here?" cried his neighbor.
"No. But we're thinkin' of getting up the electric light; at laste the parish priest do be talkin' about it, and sure that's the same as havin' it. But here we are. Now, one word! There's one ruffian here whose name mustn't pass yere mout', or we don't know the consekinces. He's a most consaited and ruffian, doesn't care for law or judge, or priest or pope; he's the only one ye have to be afeard of. Listen, that ye may remimber. His name is Jem Deady. Keep yere mouths locked on that while ye 're here."
It was a pleasant little party in Mrs. Haley's "cosey" or "snuggery." There was warmth, and light, and music, and the odor of rum-punch and lemon, and the of cigars, and the pleasant of agreeable conversation. Occasionally one of the "byes" looked in, but was to the taproom, at a civil distance from the "gintlemin." By and by, however, as more charity and less exclusiveness prevailed under the generous influences of good liquor, the "gintlemin" requested to be allowed to show the light of their glowing faces in the taproom; and the of the latter, prompt at recognizing this infinite , cheered the gentlemen to the echo.
"'T is the likes of ye we wants down here," they cried; "not a set of naygurs who can't buy their tay without credit."
But the local bailiff didn't seem to like it, and kept from the dissipation. Also, he drank only "liminade." It was admitted in after years that this was the greatest act of self-denial that was recorded in history. His comrades chaffed him unmercifully.
"Come, mon, and git out o' the . Whoy, these are the jolliest fullows we uver mot."
"And there isn't better liquor in the Cawstle cellars. Here's to yer health, missus."
So the night wore on.
But two poor women had an anxious time. These were Lizzie, who, in some mysterious manner, persuaded herself that she was responsible for the and safe keeping of the bailiffs in the eyes of the law; and if anything happened to them she might be summoned up to Dublin, and put on her trial on the capital charge. The other was Mrs. Deady. When eleven o'clock struck, she expected to hear every moment the well-known footsteps of her spouse; but no! Half-past eleven—twelve struck—and Jem had not returned. At half-past twelve there was a scratching sound at the back-door, and Bess opened it and dragged Jem into her arms, whilst she poured into his face a fire of cross-questions.
"Ax me no questions an' I'll tell ye no lies," said Jem. "Have ye anythin' to ate?"
Bess had, in the shape of cold fat bacon. Jem set to hungrily.
"Would ye mind covering up the light in the front windy, Bess?" said Jem.
Bess did so promptly, all the while looking at her spouse in a and puzzled manner.
"Jem," said she at length, "may the Lord forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think ye're quite sober."
Jem nodded. A knock came to the door. It was Lizzie.
"Have ye no news of the bailiffs, Jem?"
"I have, acushla. I left them at your dure half an hour ago, and they're now fast asleep in their warm and comfortable beds."
"They're not in our house," said Lizzie, alarmed. "Oh, Jem, Jem, what have ye done, at all, at all?"
"I'll tell ye, girl," said Jem, emphatically. "I left the gintlemin at your dure, shook hands wid them, bid them good-night, and came down here. Is that thrue, Bess?"
"Every word of it," said Bess.
"Go back to your bed, alanna," said Jem, "and have pleasant dhreams of your future. Thim gintlemin can mind theirselves."
"'T is thrue, Lizzie," said Bess. "Go home, like a good girl, and make your mind aisy."
Lizzie departed, crying softly to herself.
"What have ye done, Jem?" said Bess, when she had carefully locked and bolted the door. "Some day ye'll be dancin' upon nothin', I'm thinkin'."
"Nabocklish!" said Jem, as he knelt down and said his prayers for the night.
The following day was Sunday and All Saints' Day besides; and Jem, being a man, heard an early Mass; and being a constitutional man, he strolled down to take the fresh air—down the slopes that lead to the sea. Jem was smoking and at peace with himself and the world. One trifle troubled him. It was a burn on the lip, where the candle had caught him the night before at Mrs. Haley's, when he was induced to relax a little, and with his hands tied behind his back, grabbed at a apple, and caught the lighted candle in his mouth. But that was a trifle. As Jem calmly strolled along, he became suddenly aware of a phenomenon; and Jem, as a profound student of natural history, was so interested in the phenomenon that he actually took the pipe from his mouth and studied the long and carefully. About twenty yards from where he was , a huge pile of rock started suddenly from the deep—a square, embattled mass, covered by the short, springy turf that alone can resist the action of the sea. Beside it, a tall needle of rock, serrated and sharp, shot up. These two islands, the of goats and , were known in local geography as the Cow and . Now the Cow and Calf were familiar to Jem Deady from his childhood. So were the deep, hollow caves beneath. So was the angry of the tide that, parted outside the rocks, swept around in fierce , and met with a shock of strength and a sweat of at the angle near the cliffs. Therefore, these things did not surprise the calm, equable mind of Jem. But perched on the sward on the top were two strange beings, the like of whom Jem had never seen before, and whom his fancy now at once recognized as the mermen of and romance. Their faces were dark as that of his majesty; their hair was tossed wildly. But they looked the picture of despair, whereas mermen were generally reputed to be jolly. It might be no harm to them, and Jem was not shy about strangers.
"Hallo, there!" he cried across the ; "who the—are ye? Did ye shwim across from ole Virginny, or did ye escape from a throupe of Christy Minstrels?"
"You, fellow," said a mournful voice, "go at once for the poluss."
"Aisier said than done," said Jem. "What am I to say suppose the gintlemin are not out of their warm beds?"
"Tell them that two of Her gracious Majesty's servants are here—brought here by the worst set of ruffians that are not yet hanged in Ireland."
"And what do ye expect the police to do?" said Jem, calmly.
"To do? Why, to get a boat and tuk us out o' thus, I suppose!"
"Look at yere feet," said Jem, "and tell me what kind of a boat would live there?"
True enough. The angry waters were , and embracing, and back, and trying to leap the cliffs, and feeling with all their awful strength and for some channel through which they might reach and the prisoners.
By some secret telegraphy a crowd had soon gathered. One by one, the "byes" dropped down from the village, and to each in turn Jem had to tell all he knew about the mermen. Then commenced a running fire of from every quarter.
"Where are yere banjoes, gintlemin? Ye might as well spind the Sunday pleasantly, for the sorra a o' ye will get off before night."
"Start 'Way down the Suwanee River,' Jem, and we'll give 'em a chorus."
"You're Jem Deady, I suppose," said one of the bailiffs. "Well, Deady, remember you're a marked mon. I yer cherickter last night from a gentleman as the greatest ruffian amongst all the ruffians of Kilronan—"
"Yerra, man, ye're takin' lave of yer sinses. Is 't Jem Deady? Jem Deady, the biggest omadhaun in the village."
"Jem Deady, the greatest gommal[9] that ever lived."
"Jem Deady, that doesn't know his right hand from his left."
"Jem Deady, who doesn't know enough to come in out of the wet."
"Jem Deady, the innocent, that isn't from his mother ayet."
During all these compliments Jem smoked placidly. I had forgotten one of the most serious duties of a novelist—the description of Jem's toilette. I had forgotten to say that a black pilot coat with velvet collar, red silk handkerchief, etc., was a veritable Nessus shirt to Jem. So fond of work was he, and so high an idea had he conceived on the sacredness and nobleness of work, that integuments of Sabbath indolence were particularly intolerable to him. He moved about stiffly in them, was glad to shake them off, and resume his white, lime-stained, patched, and torn, but oh! such easy garments of every-day life. Then I regret to have to record an act of vanity, that might be pardonable or in a young lady going to a ball or coming out in her first concert, but was simply shocking in a man going out to Mass on a Sunday morning. Jem Deady actually powdered his face! I do not say that it was violet powder or that he used a . His methods were more and more successful. He went to a pot where lime was , or rather had been seething. He took up the thick lumps and crushed them into dust. He made his face as white as if he were going to play the king in Macbeth, and Banquo's ghost was arising; and he turned his locks into a cadaverous and grayness, and Bess didn't like it. She wanted to see him only one Sunday in "his best shuit"; but Jem, unkind fellow, would not grant her that gratification.
Where was I? Oh, yes!
Jem, nothing loth, "ruz" the "Suwanee River," and accompanying himself on an imaginary banjo, drew tears from all eyes by singing, with and regret:—
"All the world am sad and
Eberywhere I roam;
Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary,
Far from the old folks at home."
Then commenced a............