His coat was taken off, and between us we managed to bandage the wound. The priest, who had some surgical knowledge, came to the conclusion that there was only a simple fracture. He splinted and bandaged the arm, and we all agreed that it would be better for Joyce to wait until the storm was over before starting for home. Andy said he could take him on the car, as he knew the road well, and that as it was partly on the road to Carnaclif, we should only have to make a short detour and would pass the house of the doctor, by whom the arm could be properly attended to.
So we sat around the fire again, while without the storm howled and the fierce gusts which swept the valley seemed at times as if they would break in the door, lift off the roof, or in some way annihilate the time-worn cabin which gave us shelter.
There could, of course, be only one subject of conversation now, and old Dan simply interpreted the public wish when he said:
“Tell us, Phelim — sure we’re all friends here — how Black Murdock got ye in his clutches? Sure any wan of us would get you out of thim if he could.”
There was a general acquiescence. Joyce yielded himself, and said:
“Let me thank ye, neighbors all, for yer kindness to me and mine this sorrafril night. Well, I’ll say no more about that; but I’ll tell ye how it was that Murdock got me into his power. Ye know that boy of mine — Eugene?”
“Oh, and he’s the fine lad, God bless him! an’ the good lad, too!” — this from the women.
“Well, ye know, too, that he got on so well whin I sint him to school that Dr. Walsh recommended me to make an ingineer of him. He said he had such promise that it was a pity not to see him get the right start in life, and he gave me, himself, a letther to Sir George Henshaw, the great ingineer. I wint and seen him, and he said he would take the boy. He tould me that there was a big fee to be paid, but I was not to throuble about that; at any rate, that he himself didn’t want any fee, and he would ask his partner if he would give up his share too. But the latther was hard up for money. He said he couldn’t give up all fee, but that he would take half the fee, provided it was paid down in dhry money. Well, the regular fee to the firm was five hundhred pounds, and as Sir George had giv up half an’ only half, th’ other half was to be paid, if that was possible. I hadn’t got more’n a few pounds by me; for what wid dhrainin’ and plantin’ and fencin’, and the payin’ the boy’s schoolin’ and the girl’s at the Nuns’ in Galway, it had put me to the pin iv me collar to find the money up to now. But I didn’t like to let the boy lose his chance in life for want of an effort, an’ I put me pride in me pocket an’ kem an’ asked Murdock for the money. He was very smooth an’ nice wid me — I know why now — an’ promised he would give it at wanst if I would give him security on me land. Sure, he joked an’ laughed wid me, an’ was that cheerful that I didn’t misthrust him. He tould me it was only forrums I was signin’ that’d never be used.”
Here Dan Moriarty interrupted him:
“What did ye sign, Phelim?”
“There wor two papers. Wan was a writin’ iv some kind, that in considheration iv the money lent an’ his own land — which I was to take over if the money wasn’t paid at the time appointed — he was to get me lease from me; an’ the other was a power of attorney to Enther Judgment for the amount if the money wasn’t paid at the right time. I thought I was all safe, as I could repay him in the time named, an’ if the worst kem to the worst I might borry the money from some wan else — for the lease is worth the sum tin times over — an’ repay him. Well, what’s the use of lookin’ back, anyhow? I signed the papers — that was a year ago, an’ one week. An’ a week ago the time was up!”
He gulped down a sob, and went on:
“Well, ye all know the year gone has been a terrible bad wan, an’ as for me it was all I could do to hould on — to make up the money was impossible. Thrue, the lad cost me next to nothin’, for he arned his keep be exthra work, an’ the girl, Norah, kem home from school and labored wid me, an’ we saved every penny we could. But it was all no use; we couldn’t get the money together anyhow. Thin we had the misfortin wid the cattle that ye all know of; an’ three horses that I sould in Dublin, up an’ died before the time I guaranteed them free from sickness.”
Here Andy stuck in:
“Thrue for ye! Sure there was some dhreadful disordher in Dublin among the horse cattle, intirely; an’ even Misther Docther Perfesshinal Ferguson himself couldn’t git undher it!”
Joyce went on:
“An’ as the time grew nigh I began to fear, but Murdock came down to see me whin I was alone, an’ tould me not to throuble about the money, an’ not to mind about the sheriff, for he had to give him notice. ‘An’,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t, if I was you, tell Norah anythin’ about it, for it might frighten the girl; for weemin is apt to take to heart things like that that’s only small things to min like us.’ An’ so, God forgive me, I believed him; an’ I niver tould me child anything about it — even whin I got the notice from the sheriff. An’ whin the notice tellin’ iv the sale was posted up on me land, I tuk it down meself, so that the poor child wouldn’t be frightened — God help me!”
He broke down for a bit, but then went on:
“But somehow I wasn’t asy in me mind, an’ whin the time iv the sale dhrew nigh I couldn’t keep it to meself any longer, an’ I tould Norah. That was only yisterday, and look at me to-day! Norah agreed wid me that we shouldn’t trust the Gombeen, an’ she sent me off to the Galway Bank to borry the money. She said I was an honest man an’ farmed me own land, and that the bank might lind the money on it. An’, sure enough, whin I wint there this mornin’ be appointment, wid the Coadjuthor himself to inthroduce me, though he didn’t know why I wanted the money — that was Norah’s idea, and the Mother Superior settled it for her — the manager, who is a nice gintleman, tould me at wanst that I might have the money on me own note iv hand. I only gave him a formal writin’, an’ I took away the money. Here it is in me pocket in good notes; they’re wet wid the lake, but, I’m thankful to say, all safe. But it’s too late, God help me!”
Here he broke down for a minute, but recovered himself with an effort:
“Anyhow, the bank that thrusted me musn’t be wronged. Back the money goes to Galway as soon as iver I can get it there. If I am a ruined man, I needn’t be a dishonest wan! But poor Norah! God help her! it will break her poor heart.”
There was a spell of silence, only broken by sympathetic moans. The first to speak was the priest:
“Phelim Joyce, I told you a while ago, in the midst of your passion, that God knows what he is doin’, and works in his own way. You’re an honest man, Phelim, and God knows it, and, mark me, he won’t let you nor yours suffer. ‘I have been young,’ said the Psalmist, ‘and now am old; and I have not seen the just forsaken, nor his seed seeking bread.’ Think of that, Phelim! — may it comfort you and poor Norah. God bless her, but she’s the good girl! You have much to be thankful for, with a daughter like her to comfort you at home and take the place of her poor mother, who was the best of women; and with such a boy as Eugene, winnin’ name and credit, and perhaps fame to come, even in England itself. Thank God for His many mercies, Phelim, and trust Him.”
There was a dead silence in the room. The stern man rose, and coming over took the priest’s hand.
“God bless ye, Father!” he said, “it’s the true comforter ye are.”
The scene was a most touching one; I shall never forget it. The worst of the poor man’s trouble seemed now past. He had faced the darkest hour; he had told his trouble, and was now prepared to make the best of everything — for the time at least — for I could not reconcile to my mind the idea that that proud, stern man, would not take the blow to heart for many a long day, that it might even embitter his life.
Old