"And will he get us blankets, mammy?".

"Yes, darlin', I hope so."

"Me id rady he'd get us sometin' to ait fust, mammy; I'm starvin' wid hungry;" and the poor child began to cry for food.

The disconsolate mother was now a.s.sailed by the clamorous outcries of nature's first want, that of food. She surveyed her beloved little brood in the feeble light, and saw in all its horror the fearful impress of famine stamped upon their emaciated features, and strangely lighting up their little heavy eyes. She wrung her hands, and looking up silently to heaven, wept aloud for some minutes.

"Childre," she said at length, "have patience, poor things, an' you'll soon get something to eat. I sent over Nanny Hart to my sisther's, an'

when she comes back yell get something;--so have patience, darlins, till then."

"But, mother," continued little Atty, who could not understand her allusion to the sleep from which there is no awakening; "what kind of sleep is it that people never waken from?"

"The sleep that's in the grave, Atty, dear; death is the sleep I mean."

"An' would you wish to die, mother?"

"Only for your sake, Atty, and for the sake of the other darlins, if it was the will of G.o.d, I would; and," she added, with a feeling of indescribable anguish, "what have I now to live for but to see you all about me in misery and sorrow!"

The tears as she spoke ran silently, but bitterly, down her cheeks.

"When I think of what your poor lost father was," she added, "when we wor happy, and when he was good, and when I think of what he is now--oh, my G.o.d, my G.o.d," she sobbed' out, "my manly young husband, what curse has come over you that has brought you down to this! Curse! oh, fareer gair, it's a curse that's too well known in the country--it's the curse that laves many an industrious man's house as ours is this bitther night--it's the curse that takes away good name and comfort, and honesty (that's the only thing it has left us)--that takes away the strength of both body and mind--that banishes dacency and shame--that laves many a widow and orphan to the marcy of an unfeelin' world--that fills the jail and the madhouse--that brings many a man an' woman to a disgraceful death--an' that tempts us to the commission of every evil;--that curse, darlins, is whiskey--drinkin' whiskey--an' it is drinkin' whiskey that has left us as we are, and that has ruined your father, and destroyed him forever."

"Well, but there's no other curse over us, mother?"

The mother paused a moment--

"No, darlin'," she replied; "not a curse--but my father and mother both died, and did not give me their blessin'; but now, Atty, don't ask me anything more about that, bekase I can't tell you." This she added from a feeling of delicacy to her unhappy husband, whom, through all his faults and vices, she constantly held up to her children as an object of respect, affection, and obedience.

Again the little ones were getting importunate for food, and their cries were enough to touch any heart, much less that of a tender and loving mother. Margaret herself felt that some unusual delay must have occurred, or the messenger she sent to her sister must have long since returned; just then a foot was heard outside the door, and there was an impatient cessation of the cries, in the hope that it was the return of Nanny Hart--the door opened, and Toal Finnigan entered this wretched abode of sorrow and dest.i.tution.

There was something peculiarly hateful about this man, but in the eyes of Margaret there was something intensely so. She knew right well that he had been the worst and most demoralizing companion her husband ever a.s.sociated with, and she had, besides, every reason to believe that, were it not for his evil influence over the vain and wretched man, he might have overcome his fatal propensity to tipple. She had often told Art this; but little Toal's tongue was too sweet, when aided by his dupe's vanity. Many a time had she observed a devilish leer of satanic triumph in the misshapen little scoundrel's eye, when bringing home her husband in a state of beastly intoxication, and for this reason, independently of her knowledge of his vile and heartless disposition, and infamous character, she detested him. After entering, he looked about him, and even with the taint light of the rush she could mark that his unnatural and revolting features were lit up with a h.e.l.lish triumph.

"Well, Margaret Murray," said he, "I believe you are now nearly as badly off as you can be; your husband's past hope, and you are as low as a human bein' ever was. I'm now satisfied; you refused to marry me--you made a May-game of me--a laughin' stock of me, and your father tould my father that I had legs like reapin' hooks! Now, from the day you refused to marry me, I swore I'd never die till I'd have my revinge, and I have it; who has the laugh now, Margaret Murray?"

"You say," she replied calmly, "that I am as low as a human bein' can be, but that's false, Toal Finnigan, for I thank G.o.d I have committed no crime, and my name is pure and good, which is more than any one can say for you; begone from my place."

"I will," he replied, "but before I go jist let me tell you, that I have the satisfaction to know that, if I'm not much mistaken, it was I that was the princ.i.p.al means of leavin' you as you are, and your respectable husband as he is; so my blessin' be wid you, an that's more than your father left you. Raipin' hooks, indeed!"

The little vile Brownie then disappeared.

Margaret, the moment he was gone, immediately turned round, and going to her knees, leaned, with her half-cold infant still in her arms, against a creaking chair, and prayed with as much earnestness as a distracted heart permitted her. The little ones, at her desire, also knelt, and in a few minutes afterwards, when her drunken husband came home, he found his miserable family, grouped as they were in their misery, worshipping G.o.d in their own simple and touching manner. His entrance disturbed them, for Margaret knew she must go through the usual ordeal to which his nightly return was certain to expose her.

"I want something to ait," said he.

"Art, dear," she replied--and this was the worst word she ever uttered against him--"Art, dear, I have nothing for you till by an' by; but I will then."

"Have you any money?"

"Money, Art! oh, where would I get it? If I had money I wouldn't be without something' for you to eat, or the childre here that tasted nothin' since airly this mornin'."

"Ah, you're a cursed useless wife," he replied, "you brought nothin' but bad luck to me an' them; but how could you bring anything else, when you didn't get your father's blessin'."

"But, Art, don't you remember," she said meekly in reply, "you surely can't forget for whose sake I lost it."

"Well, he's fizzin' now, the hard-hearted ould scoundrel, for keepin'

it from you; he forgot who you wor married to, the extortin' ould vagabone--to one of the great Fermanagh Maguires, an' he' not fit to wipe their shoes. The curse o' heaven upon you an' him, wherever he is!

It was an unlucky day to me I ever seen the face of one of you--here, Atty, I've some money; some strange fellow at the inn below stood to me for the price of a naggin, an' that blasted Barney Scaddhan wouldn't let me in, bekase, he said, I was a disgrace to his house, the scoundrel."

"The same house was a black sight to you, Art."

"Here, Atty, go off and, get me a naggin."

"Wouldn't it be better for you to get something to eat, than to drink it, Art."

"None of your prate, I say, go off an' bring me a naggin o' whiskey, an'

don't let the gra.s.s grow under your feet."

The children, whenever he came home, were awed into silence, but although they durst not speak, there was an impatient voracity visible in their poor features, and now wolfish little eyes, that was a terrible thing to witness. Art took the money, and went away to bring his father the whiskey.

"What's the reason," said he, kindling into sudden fury, "that you didn't provide something for me to eat? Eh? What's the reason?" and he approached her in a menacing att.i.tude. "You're a lazy, worthless vagabone. Why didn't you get me something to ait, I say? I can't stand this--I'm famished."

"I sent to my sister's," she replied, laying-down the child; for she feared that if he struck her and knocked her down, with the child in her arms, it might be injured, probably killed, by the fall; "when the messenger comes back from my sister's----"

"D--n yourself and your sister," he replied, striking her a blow at the same time upon the temple. She fell, and in an instant her face was deluged with blood.

"Ay, lie there," he continued, "the loss of the blood will cool you.

Hould your tongues, you devils, or I'll throw yez out of the house," he exclaimed to the children, who burst into an uproar of grief on seeing their "mammy," as they called her, lying bleeding and insensible.

"That's to taich her not to have something for me to ait. Ay," he proceeded, with a hideous laugh--"ha, ha, ha! I'm a fine fellow--amn't I? There she lies now, and yet she was wanst Margaret Murray!--my own Margaret--that left them all for myself; but sure if she did, wasn't I one of the great Maguires of Fermanagh?--Get up, Margaret; here, I'll help you up, if the divil was in you!"

He raised her as he spoke, and perceived that consciousness was returning. The first thing she did was to put up her hand to her temple, where she felt the warm blood. She gave him one look of profound sorrow.

"Oh, Art dear," she exclaimed, "Art dear--" her voice failed her, but the tears flowed in torrents down her cheeks.

"Margaret," said he, "you needn't spake to me that way. You know any how I'm d.a.m.ned--d.a.m.ned--lol de rol lol--tol de rol lol! ha, ha, ha! I have no hope either here or hereafther--divil a morsel of hope. Isn't that comfortable? eh?--ha, ha, ha"--another hideous laugh. "Well, no matter; we'll dhrink it out, at all events. Where's Atty, wid the whiskey? Oh, here he is! That's a good boy, Atty."

"Oh, mammy darlin'," exclaimed the child, on seeing the blood streaming from her temple--"mammy darlin', what happened you?"

"I fell, Atty dear," she replied, "and was cut."

"That's a lie, Atty; it was I, your fine chip of a father, that struck her. Here's her health, at all events! I'll make one dhrink of it; hoch!

they may talk as they like, but I'll stick to Captain Whiskey."

"Father," said the child, "will you come over and lie down upon the straw, for your own me, for your own Atty; and then you'll fall into a sound sleep?"

"I will, Atty, for you--for you--I will, Atty; but mind, I wouldn't do it for e'er another livin'."

One day wid Captain Whiskey I wrastled a fall, But, t'aix, I was no match for the Captain at all, Though the landlady's measures they wor d.a.m.nably small--But I'll thry him to morrow when I'm sober.

"Come," said the child, "lie down here on the straw; my poor mammy says we'll get clane straw to-morrow; and we'll be grand then."