He was, however, rather perplexed to know what to say to her, and therefore preferred waiting to see what turn she herself would give to the conversation. At length Feemy said,
"And when do you leave this?"
"Oh! they've given me a month's leave of absence. I'm to be in Cashel in a month."
Even this seemed a reprieve to Feemy, who at first thought that he would have to start immediately,—perhaps that evening, a good deal might be done in a month; now, however, she regretted that she had promised to go to Mrs. M'Keon's.
"Then, Myles, you'll not leave this for a month?"
"I don't know about that; that depends on circumstances. I've to run up to Dublin, and a deal to do."
"But when do you mean to be out of this?"
"Why, I tell you, I haven't settled yet—perhaps immediately after the races."
Again they were silent for some time; Feemy longed for Ussher to say something that might sound at any rate kind; he had never met her before without an affectionate word—and now, on the eve of his departure, he stood at the fire and merely answered her questions coldly and harshly. At length she felt that this must be the time, if ever, for saying to him what she had made up her mind to say on the previous evening, when her courage failed her. So, plucking up all the heart she could, and blushing at the time to the top of her forehead, she said,
"An't I to go with you, Myles, when you go?"
Ussher still remained silent; he did not know how to answer to this question. "Come, Myles, speak to me. I know you came down to tell me your plans. What am I to do? You know you must settle now, if you're going so soon. What are your plans?"
"Why, Feemy, it's not two hours or more since I've received the letter; of course I couldn't think of everything at once. Tell me; what do you think best yourself?"
"Me! what do I think?—you know I'd do anything you bid me. Won't you step in and tell father about it?"
"Oh, you can tell him. I couldn't make him understand it at all, he's so foolish."
Feemy bore the slur on her father without indignation.
"But, Myles, if you go so soon, am I to go with you?" and when after a few minutes he did not answer,—"Speak, Myles, an't we to be married before you go?" When she said this, she sat down on the old sofa, looking up into his face, as if she would read there what was passing in his mind. That which was passing in his mind must be the arbitrament of her fate.
"Why, Feemy, how can you be so foolish?—How can we be married in eight days' time? I must go, I tell you, in eight days from this."
"But you won't go to this new place then. You'll be back here, won't you, before you go to Cashel?"
"How can I be back again?—No, I could not be back again then; besides, Feemy, I wouldn't be married in this place after what your brother and Father John said to me last night. If we are to be married at all, it can't be here."
"If we are to be married!" exclaimed Feemy, rising up—"if we are! Why, Myles, what do you mean?" and rushing to him she threw her arms round his neck, and hiding her face on his bosom, she continued, "Oh, Myles! you don't mean to desert me! Myles—dear Myles—my own Myles—don't you love me?—you won't leave me now—say you won't leave me!" and she sobbed and cried as though her heart was breaking.
Ussher put his arm round her waist and kissed her; he seated her on the sofa—sat down by her—and tried to comfort her by caresses: but he still said nothing.
"Why don't you speak, Myles? I shall die if you don't speak! Only tell me what you mean to do; I'll do anything you bid me, if you'll only say you don't mean to desert me."
"Desert you, Feemy! who spoke of deserting you, dearest?"
"Then you won't leave me, my own Myles? You won't leave me here with those I hate! I love no one—I care for no one but you; only say you won't leave me here when you're gone!" and again she clung to him as though she could have detained him there for ever by holding him.
"But, Feemy, what can I do?—you see I've told you after what passed I couldn't be married here."
"Why not, Miles? why not?—never mind what Thady said—or Father John. What does it signify?—you'll be soon away from them. I'll never treat you that way, my own Myles—I'd put up with more than that for you—I wouldn't mind what the world might say to me—I'd bear anything for you!"
"I tell you, Feemy, there are reasons why I couldn't be married before I get to Cashel. There,—to tell you the whole, they wouldn't let a man take his rise from one rank to another if he's married. They can't prevent the officers in the force marrying, but they don't like it; and it's a rule that they won't promote a married man. You see I couldn't marry till after I was settled at Cashel."
Feemy received the lie with which Ussher's brain had at the moment furnished him, without a doubt; she believed it all, and then went on.
"But when you've got your rank, you'll come back, Myles, won't you?"
"Why that's the difficulty—I couldn't well again get leave of absence."
"Then, Myles, what will you do?"
And by degrees he proposed to her to leave her home and her friends, and trust herself to him, and go off with him unmarried, without her father's blessing, or the priest's—to go with him in a manner which she knew would disgrace herself, her name, and her family, and to trust to him afterwards to give her what reparation a tardy marriage could afford. She, poor girl, at first received the offer with sobs and tears. She proposed a clandestine marriage, but he swore that when afterwards detected, it would cause his dismissal;—then that she would come to him at Cashel, when he was settled; but no,—he told her other lies equally false, to prove that this could not be done. She prayed and begged, and lay upon his bosom imploring him to spare her this utter degradation; but now that the proposal had been fairly made, that he had got her to discuss the plan, his usual sternness returned; and at last he told her, somewhat roughly, that if she would not come with him in the manner he proposed, he would leave her now and for ever.
Poor Feemy fell with her knees on the ground and her face on the sofa, and there she lay sobbing for many minutes, while he again stood silent with his back against the fireplace. During this time, old feelings, principles, religious scruples, the love of honour and fair fame, and the fear of the world's harsh word, were sorely fighting in her bosom; they were striving to enable her to conquer the strong love she felt for Ussher, and make her reject the disgrace to which he was alluring her. Then he stooped to lift her up, and as he kissed the tears from her face, passion prevailed, and she whispered in his ear that she would go.
He stayed there for a considerable time after that; at first Feemy was so agitated and so miserable, that she was unable to converse with him, or listen to his plans for her removal. She sat there sobbing and crying, and all he could say—all his protestations of love—all his declarations that it was his firm intention to marry her at Cashel—all his promises of kind and good treatment, were unable to console her. He tried to animate her by describing to her the pleasure she would have in seeing Dublin—the delight it would be to her to leave so dull a place as Ballycloran, and see something of the world, from which she had hitherto been excluded. But for a long time it was in vain; she was thinking—though she rarely thought of them—of her father and her brother; of what the old man would feel, when she, his only joy, had gone from him in such a manner; of what Thady would do and say, when he found that the suspicions, which she knew he already entertained, were too true. She could not bring her heart to give up Ussher; but the struggles within her breast at length made her hysterical, and Ussher was greatly frightened lest he should have to call in assistance to bring her to herself. She did not, however, lose her senses, and after a time she became more tranquil, and was able to listen to his plans. She first of all told him that she had promised Mrs. McKeon to go to her house for a short time, during the races, and suggested that she should now send some excuse for declining the visit; but this he negatived. He desired her to go there—to go to the races and the ball—and, above all, to keep up her spirits, and at any rate seem to enjoy herself there as if nothing particular had happened. This she promised to do, but with a voice and face which gave but little sign of her being able to keep her promise.
He told her that he would occasionally call at Mrs. McKeon's, so that no remark might be made about his not coming to see her; he desired her to tell no one that he was going permanently to leave the country, and that he should not himself let it be known at Mohill till the day or so before he went; and he added that even when it was known that he was going, there would be less suspicion arising respecting her, if she was at Drumsna, than if she remained at Ballycloran.
To all this she quietly submitted. He was to meet her at the ball at Carrick-on-Shannon, and then tell her what his definite plan of carrying her off would be; but he added that the ball night would be the last she would spend in the country, for that they would leave the next evening.
About five o'clock Ussher took his leave; she begged of him to come and see her the next day—every day till they went; but this he refused; she said that unless she saw him every day to comfort her, she would not be able to keep up her strength—that she was sure she would fall ill. It was now Friday, and she was to go to Mrs. McKeon's on Monday; on Tuesday he said he would call on her there; the races and ball were to be on the Tuesday week. In vain she asked him how she was to bear the long days till she saw him again; Ussher had no true sympathy for such feelings as were racking Feemy's heart and brain; he merely bid her keep up her spirits, and not be foolish;—that he would see her on Tuesday, and that after Tuesday week she would have nothing more to make her unhappy. And then, kissing her, he went away,—and as we have seen, Thady met him in the avenue, so satisfied in appearance, so contented, so triumphant, that he was able to forget the words which had been applied to him on the previous evening, and to nod to Feemy's brother with as pleasant an air as though there were no grounds for ill-feeling between them.
Poor Feemy! those vain words that "after Tuesday week she would have nothing more to make her unhappy," sounded strangely in her ears. Nothing more to make her unhappy! Could she have anything more, then or ever, to make her happy? Could she ever be happy again? All that had happened during the last few days passed through her mind, and added to her torment. How indignant had she been when her brother had hinted to her that Ussher did not intend honestly by her; into what a passion had she flown with Father John, when he had cautioned her that she should be circumspect in her conduct with her lover; what an insult she had felt it when Mary Brady alluded to the chance of Ussher's deserting her! And now so soon after all this—but a few hours after this strong feeling—after the indignation she had then shown, she had herself submitted to worse than they had even dared to suspect; she had herself agreed to leave her father's house as the mistress of the man, of whom she had then confidently boasted as her future husband! And it was not only for her own degradation, dreadful as that was, that she grieved, but Ussher himself—he of whom she had felt so fond—whom she had so loved—was this his truth, his love?—was this the protection he had sworn to give her against her father's folly, and her brother's violence?—and, as he had basely added, against Father John's bigotry? Was this the protection—roughly to swear he'd leave her, desert her for ever, unless she agreed to give up her family, her home, her principles, and follow him, a base low creature, without a name? And was it likely that after she had agreed to this—after she had so debased herself, that he who had already deceived her so grossly would at last keep his word by marrying her?
She was lying down with her face buried in her hands, tormenting herself with such thoughts, when Biddy came to tell her that dinner was on the table. Feemy did not dare to refuse to go in lest something should be suspected; so she rubbed her red eyes till they were still redder, and went into the parlour, where she alleged that she had a racking headache, which would give her no peace; and having sat there for a miserable half hour till her father and Thady had finished their dinner, she went up stairs to her bed-room, and after laying awake half the night, at last succeeded in crying herself to sleep.
When Thady came from the kitchen, on being told that Father John was waiting for him at the hall-door, he left his pipe behind him, swallowed a draught of water to take off the smell of the spirits, and prepared to listen to the priest's lecture, as he expected, with sullenness and patience; but he was surprised out of his determined demeanour by the kindness of the priest's address. He came forward, and taking his hand, said,
"What, Thady, are you ill? What ails you?"
"Not much, then, Father John; only a headache."
"Are you too bad, my boy, to take a turn with me? I've a word or two I want to say; but if you're really sick, Thady, and are going to bed, I'll come down early to-morrow morning. Would you sooner I did so?"
Father John said this because he thought that Thady really looked ill. And so he did; his face was yellow, his hair unbrushed, his eyes sunken, and the expression of his countenance sad and painful; but he was overcome by the kindness of the priest's manner, and replied,
"Oh no! I'm not going to bed. I believe, Father John, I did not come up to you because I was ashamed to see you afther last night."
"So I thought, my boy; and that's why I came down. I'm not sorry for your shame, though there was not much cause for it. If it was a usual thing with you to be drinking too much, you wouldn't be thinking so much of it yourself the next day."
"But I believe I said something to yourself, Father John."
"Something to me! Egad, I forget what you said to me, or whether you said anything. Oh no! you weren't so bad as that; but you were going to eat Ussher about something. But never mind that now; don't get tipsy again, if you can help it, and that's all about it. It's not the drinking I'm come to talk to you about; for you're no drunkard, Thady; and indeed it's not as your priest I want to talk to you at all, but as one friend to another. And now, my dear boy, will you take what I've to say in good part?"
These gentle words were the first comfort that had reached Thady's heart that day, and tears were in his eyes as he answered,
"Indeed I will, Father John, for you're the only friend I have now."
It was a fine moonlight evening, and they were on the road leading to the Cottage.
"Walk up this way, Thady; we'll be less likely to be interrupted in the little parlour than here;" and they walked on to the priest's house, Father John discoursing the while on the brightness of the moon and the beauty of the night, and Thady alternately thinking with pleasure of his kindness, and with dread of the questions he was about to be called upon to answer.
When they were in the parlour, and Thady had refused his host's offers of punch, tea, or supper, and the door was close shut, Father John at once struck into the subject at his heart.
"I told you, Thady, that I thought but little of your having been drinking yesterday evening; not but that I think it very foolish for a man to make himself a beast; but what I did think of was the company you were drinking in. Now I heard—and I know you won't contradict me unless it's untrue—that the party consisted of you, and Brady, and Joe Reynolds, and Byrne, and Corney Dolan, and one or two others from Drumleesh, your own or your father's tenants, and the very lowest of them—all of them infamous characters—men never, or seldom, seen at mass—makers of potheen—fellows who are known to be meeting nightly at that house of Mrs. Mulready, at Mohill, and who are strongly suspected to be Ribbonmen, or Terryalts, or to call themselves by some infernal name and sect, by belonging to which they have all become liable to death or transportation."
The priest paused; but Thady sat quite still, listening, with his eyes fixed on the fender.
"Now, Thady, if this is so, what could you gain by mixing with them? You weren't drunk when you went among them, or I should think nothing about it—for a drunken man doesn't know what he does; and it wasn't from chance—for a man never seeks society so much beneath himself from chance; and it wasn't from habit—for I know your habits well enough, and that's not one of them; but I fear you were there by agreement. If so, what could you get by a secret meeting with such men as those? You know their characters and vices; are you fool enough to think that you will find comfort in their society, or assistance in their advice?"
"I didn't think so, Father John."
"Then why were you with them? I know the most of your sorrows, Thady, and the most of your cares; and I also know and appreciate the courage with which you have tried to bear them; and if you would make me your friend, your assistant, and your counsellor, though I mightn't do much for you, I think I could do more, or show you how to do more, than you are likely to learn from the men you were with yesterday; and at any rate, I shall not lead you into the danger which will beset you if you listen to them, and which, you may be sure, would soon end in your disgrace and destruction. Can you tell me, Thady, why you were with them, or they were with you?"
"I was only just talking to themabout—"Thady began; but he felt that he was going to tell his friend a falsehood, and again held his tongue.
"If you'll not tell me why you were there, I'll tell you; at least, I'll tell you what my fears are. You went to them to talk over your father's affairs respecting Keegan and Flannelly; you went to induce those poor misguided men not to pay their rent to him; and oh! Thady, if what I've heard is true, you went there to consult with them respecting a greater crime than I'll now name, and to instigate them to do that which would lead to their and your eternal shame and punishment."
Thady now shook in his chair, as though he could hardly keep his seat; he felt the perspiration stand upon his brow, and he wiped it off with his sleeve; he did not dare to deny that he had done this, of which Father John was accusing him, though he felt that he had been far from instigating them to any crime like murder. Father John continued:
"If you have joined these men,—if you have bound yourself to these men by any oath,—if there is any league between you and them, let me implore you to disregard it; nothing can be binding, that is only to bind you to greater wickedness. I do not ask you to tell me any of their secrets or plans, though, God knows, what you tell me now would be as sacred as if I heard it in the confessional; but if you have such secrets, if you know their signs, whatever may be the consequence, at once renounce them."
"I know no secrets or signs, Father John, and I don't belong to any society."
"Then, if you don't, you can have nothing to bind you. Is it true that you were rash enough, mad enough, to speak to these men about murdering Keegan? Tell me; have you a plan made to murder Keegan? Have you had such a crime in your thoughts?"
It had been in his thoughts all day: what answer should he make? should he lie, and deny it all? or should he confess it all, just as it was?
"If you'll not tell me, I must, for Mr. Keegan's sake, take some step to secure his safety. Come, Thady, come; you know it's not by threats I wish to guide you; you know I love you. I know well enough your patient industry—your want of selfishness. I know, if you have for a moment thought of this crime, you have now repented it: tell me how far you have gone, and if you are in danger;—if you have done that which was very, very wicked. I will still try and screen you from the effects of a sin, which I am sure was not premeditated. Is there any plot to murder Keegan?"
"There is not."
"As you are a living man, there's none?"
"There is not."
"What were you saying about Keegan, then, to those men yesterday?"
"I don't know what I said—I don't know I said anything; they were threatening him, if he came on Drumleesh for rent; if they have a plot, I don't know it."
"But, Thady, are you to join them again? do you mean again to renew your revellings of last night? have you agreed to see them again?"
"I have."
"And where?"
"At Mulready's in Mohill."
"And when?"
"They sent to-day to say it was to-morrow night, but I have refused to go."
"You have refused?"
"Yes, Father John. I got the message from them just before dinner, and I said I'd not go to-morrow."
"But have you said you'd never join them again? have you sent to them to say you'd never put your foot in that hole of sin? did you say you were mad when you promised it, and that you would never keep that promise? did you say, Thady, that you would not come? or are you still, in their opinion, one of their accursed set?"
"I'll niver go there, Father John. I've not had one moment's ase since I said I would; it's been on my heart like lead all the morning; indeed, indeed, Father John, I'll niver go there."
"I will not doubt you, Thady; but still, that you may feel how solemnly you are bound not to peril your life and soul by joining them who can only wish to lead you into crime, give me your honour, on the sacred word of God, that you will never go to that place;—or join those men in any lawless plans or secret meetings."
And Thady swore most solemnly, on the sacred volume, that he would do as the priest directed him respecting these men.
Father John then gradually drew from him in conversation what had really taken place. He told him what he had heard from McGovery—how he had quieted that man and Cullen—and advised him by his own demeanour to his tenants, to pass over what had been said, as though it had been a drunken frolic. He asked him, however, whether he considered that Mr. Keegan or Ussher were in any real danger; and Thady assured him that he did not think they were—that there was no plot laid—that the men were angry and violent, but that, unless further instigated, he did not think they would commit any act of absolute violence. These opinions were not given spontaneously, but in answer to various questions from the priest, who at last satisfied himself that in confirming the horror with which Thady evidently regarded what he had already done, and in preventing him from following any further the course he was about to pursue, he had done all that was possible in the case to prevent crime.
Whether he thought that either of those who had been named as the object of hatred to these unruly men might ultimately fall a victim to the feeling to which their actions had given rise in the country, is another question. If he did, he could not prevent it—nor was it his especial business to attend to it; but he felt tolerably sure that to whatever bad feelings hardships and cruelty might have given rise in Thady's breast, he would not now gratify them by such atrocious means as those which McGovery's statement had induced him to apprehend.
Under this impression he bade him good night, with another kind shake of the hand; telling him that though, at present, there might be much to sadden and distress him, if he confronted his difficulties with manly courage and honest purposes, he would be sure sooner or later to overcome them.
Thady returned home more comfortable than he had been in the morning, but he could not bring himself to that state of mind in which Father John had hoped to dismiss him. He felt, that though he was determined not to go to Mrs. Mulready's, the affair could not rest there. He felt himself to be, in some horrible manner, in the power of Brady and Joe Reynolds—as though he could not escape from them. A general despondency respecting all his prospects weighed him down, and when he reached Ballycloran, he was nearly as unhappy as he had been in leaving it.
Carrick-on-Shannon, the assize town of County Leitrim, though an assize town, is a very poor place. It consists of one long narrow, irregular street, lying along the Shannon, in which slated houses and thatched cabins delightfully relieve each other, and prevent the eye from being annoyed with sameness or monotony. The houses are mostly all shops, and even the cabins profess to afford "lodging and entherthainment;" so that it is to be presumed that the poverty of the place is attributable to circumstances and misfortune, and not to the idleness of the inhabitants. The prevailing feeling, however, arising in any human mind, on entering the place, would be that of compassion for the judges, barristers, attorneys, crown clerks, grand jury, long panel, witnesses, &c., who have to be crammed into this little place, and lodged and fed for five or six days, twice a year during the assizes.
There is, however, a tolerably good hotel in the place, and we at present beg to take our reader with us into the largest room therein, which was usually dignified by the name of the Ball Room. It was not, however, by any means dedicated solely to the worship of Terpsichore: all the public dinners eaten in Carrick were eaten here; all the public meetings held in Carrick were held here; all the public speeches were spoken here. Here committees harangued; Gallagher ventriloquised; itinerant actors acted; itinerant concert-givers held their concerts; itinerant Lancashire bell-ringers rang their bells. Here also were carried on the mysteries of the Carrick-on-Shannon masonic lodge, with all due zeal and secrecy.
On the present occasion the room was, or rather had been, devoted to the purpose of feeding; an ordinary had been held here previous to the races; and most of those who were in any way interested in the coming event were there. The cloth had been just taken away, decanters of whiskey and jugs of boiling water alternated each other down the table, and large basins of white sugar were scattered about unsparingly. The party were evidently about to enjoy themselves. There were about thirty of them there, some of them owners of horses, some of them riders, some of them backers; the rest were eaters, drinkers, and spectators.
The chair was filled by Major McDonnell, one of the stewards—a little man, who had probably never crossed a horse himself, and had nothing of the sportsman about him. He had, however, lately inherited an estate in the neighbourhood, and having some idea of standing for the county on the Tory interest at the next election, was desirous of obtaining popularity, and had consequently given forty pounds to be run for—had agreed to wear a red coat at the races, and call himself a steward—sit at the top of the table and carve for thirty hungry sportsmen to-day, with each of whom he had to drink wine—and get partners for all the ugly girls, if there be any in County Leitrim, on the morrow. This was certainly hard work; in reward for which he was probably destined to have his head broken at the next election, if he should have sufficient courage to show himself as a Tory candidate for the county.
There, however, he sat on this day, very unfit to take the chief part among the spirits by whom he was surrounded.
Opposite to him, at the other end of the room, sat our big and burly friend, McKeon, a very different character. Whenever six or eight were talking aloud together, his voice might always be heard the loudest. Whenever a shout of laughter arose—and that was incessantly—his shout was always the longest. It seemed that every bet that was offered was taken by him, and that every bet taken by any one else had been offered by him. He was always scribbling something in that well-worn book of his, and yet he never had his hand away from his tumbler—except when it was on the decanter. All the waiters came to him for orders, and he seemed perfectly competent to attend to them. If any man finished his punch and did not fill again, McKeon reminded him of his duty—and that not only by preaching, but by continual practice. In fact, he was just in his element, and enjoying himself.
There was an empty chair next Mr. McKeon, where his friend Mr. Gayner had been sitting—I won't say during his dinner, for he had not swallowed a mouthful. He was now standing up against the fireplace, sucking a lemon. He had a large great coat on, buttoned up to the neck, and a huge choker round his throat. He was McKeon's jockey, and was to ride Playful for the forty pounds on the morrow.
Bob Gayner, as he was usually called, was one of the best gentlemen riders in the country. He came from County Roscommon,—the county, by the by, which can probably boast the best riders in Ireland,—where he had a small property of his own, near Athlone; but the chief part of his time was spent in riding races and training for them. He had been at it all his life—and certainly, if there be any merit in the perfection of such an art, Bob was entitled to it, for he rode beautifully. It was not only that he could put his horse at a fence without fear, and sit him whilst he was going over it—any man with practice could do that; but Bob had a sympathy with the animal he was riding, which enabled him not only to know what he could do himself, but also what the horse could do. He knew exactly where a horse wanted assistance from his rider. And he had another knack too, not unfrequently made use of in steeple-chases—Bob seldom let his own horse baulk, but he very generally made those that others were riding do so. And then, at a finish, how admirable was Bob! In leap races the finish is seldom so near a thing as in flat races; but when it did come to be neck and neck at the post, there was no man in Ireland could give a horse a stretch and land him in a winner like Bob. He had also an exquisite genius for tumbling. Horses will occasionally fall, and when they do, riders must follow them; but no one fell so safely, recovered so actively, and was again so instantly in the saddle as our friend; and, consequently, wherever there was a steeple-chase to be run, where pluck, science, and practice were wanting, there Bob was in requisition, and there he usually was found. It was a great thing to secure his services; and knowing this, Tony McKeon had, in his own way, long since, made Gayner his fast friend; how, I cannot say, for Bob was much above being bought, and though, no doubt, he made money by his races, he would have thought little of shooting any one who was bold enough to offer to pay him for riding. When in his cap, jacket, boots, and breeches, he would, if he thought occasion required or his interests demanded it, wrangle like a devil. Though its back were turned to him, he could see a horse go on the wrong side of a post; and woe betide the man who came to the scales as a winner an ounce below the weight. Bob, from long practice, knew all these dodges, and he made the most of them. But when once his cap was off, and his coat was on, he was a quiet, easy, unassuming fellow—liked and petted by all he knew; for he never spoke little of others nor bragged of himself.
He was now talking to another member of the same confraternity, but of a very different character. He also had been sitting dinnerless,—for both these gentlemen, in the pursuit of their amusement, were obliged to starve and sweat themselves down to a certain standard, about twenty pounds below their ordinary weight,—and he was now also sucking a lemon. George Brown was the second son of Jonas Brown, of Brown Hall, the magistrate by whom Tim Reynolds and the others had been committed to Ballinamore, and, like his father, was most unpopular in his own country. He was arrogant, overbearing, conceited, and passionate—without any rank which could excuse pride, or any acquirement that could justify conceit. It is, however, as a gentleman jockey that we are at present to make his acquaintance, and in that capacity he was about as much inferior to the grooms by whom the horses were trained as Bob was superior to them. He had courage enough, however, and would ride at anything; and as his own relations and friends, for whom he rode, were tolerably wealthy, and he was therefore generally well mounted, he sometimes won; but he had killed more horses under him than any man in Ireland—and no wonder, for he had a coarse hand and a loose seat; and it was no uncommon thing to see George coming the first of the two over a fence headlong into the next field as if he had been flung there by a petard, leaving the unfortunate brute he had been riding panting behind him, with his breast cut open, or his knees destroyed by the fence, over which his rider had had neither skill nor patience to land him. He was now going to ride his own horse, Conqueror, and had talked himself, and had been talked, into the belief that it was impossible that anything could beat him.
These two were standing talking at the fireplace, and as they also had their little books in their hands, it is to be presumed that they were mixing business with amusement.
There were others there, sitting at the table, who were to ride to-morrow, but whose usual weight allowed them to do so, without the annoyance to which Gayner and Brown had to subject themselves. There was little Larry Kelly, from Roscommon, who could ride something under eight stone; Nicholas Blake, from the land of the Blakes, Burkes, and Bodkins; Pat Conner, with one eye, from Strokestown, who had brought his garron over under the speculation that if the weather should come wet, and the horses should fall at the heavy banks, she would be sure to crawl over,—knowing, too, that as the priest was his second cousin, he could not refuse him the loan of a stable gratis.
There was Ussher there also, sitting next to George Brown, who was a friend of his—much more intent, however, on his own business than that which had brought the others here; and Greenough, the sub-inspector of police, from Ballinamore; and young Fitzpatrick, of Streamstown, who kept the subscription pack of harriers; and a couple of officers from Boyle, one of whom owned a horse, for which he was endeavouring to get a rider, but which none of those present seemed to fancy; and there was Peter Dillon, from beyond Castlebar, who had brought up a strong-looking, long-legged colt, which he had bred in County Mayo, with the hope that he might part with it advantageously in a handicap, to some of those Roscommon lads, who were said to have money in their pockets; and there were many others apparently happy, joyous fellows, who seemed not to have a care in the world; and last, but not least, there was Hyacinth Keegan, attorney at law, and gent.
There he was, smiling and chatting, oily and amiable; getting a word in with any one he could; creeping into intimacy with those who were not sharp enough to see what he was after; jabbering of horses,—of which he considered himself a complete judge,—and of shooting, hunting, and racing, as if the sports of a gentleman had been his occupation from his youth upwards.
"Well, boys!" said McKeon; "I suppose we're to have an auction. What's it to be? the owld thing—half-a-crown each, I suppose?"
"An auction, Mr. McKeon!" said the chairman. "What's an auction?"
"We'll show you, Major. All you've to do is to give me half-a-crown."
Now, as many may be as ignorant as Major McDonnell respecting an auction in sporting phraseology, I will, if I can, explain what it is.
It has but little reference or similitude to those auctions from which Sir Robert Peel has removed the duty.
Supposing there may be twenty members, each having half-a-crown; and six horses to run. Twenty bits of paper are placed in a hat, on six of which are written the names of the running horses—the others are blanks—and they are then drawn, as lots, out of the hat. The tickets bearing the horses' names are sold by the auctioneer; the last bidder has to pay twice the sum he bids—one moiety to the man who drew the horse, the other is added to the fund composed of the twenty half-crowns. After the race, the happy man holding the ticket bearing the name of the winning horse receives the whole. There are, therefore, different winners in this transaction; the man drawing the name of the favourite horse of course wins what is bid for the ticket; any one drawing the name of any horse would probably win something, as his chance, if the beast have more than three legs, must be worth at least five shillings. Such, however, is an auction, and on the present occasion it was a very animated one.
The thirty half-crowns were now collected and handed over to McKeon; the names of the eight horses expected to start scrawled in pencil on the backs of fragments of race-bills; and those, together with the blanks, deposited in the hat, which was carried round by one of the party.
"Ah! now, Pat, come to me last," said Gayner; "I've never any luck with the first haul; never mind, I'll take it," and he drew a lot, "and, by the Virgin, Tony, I've got my own mare!"
"Have you got Playful, Gayner?" said a dozen at once. This made their chance less, for Playful was second favourite.
Brown was next, and he got a blank; and the next, and the next.
"I've drawn Brickbat," said Fitzpatrick, "a d——d good horse; he won the hunters' plate at Tuam last year."
"Oh! I wish you joy," said Gayner, "for he won't start to-morrow, my boy: he's at Tuam now."
"Begad! he'll start as soon as yourself, Bob," said little Larry; "he came to Castleknock last night, and he's at Frenchpark now: Murphy from Frenchpark is to ride him."
These details brought Brickbat up in the market.
"They might have left him at Tuam then, and saved themselves money," said Gayner. "Why, he hadn't had a gallop last Tuesday week; I was in his stable myself. If Burke's cattle had been as fat at Ballinasloe, he'd have got better prices."
"I say, McKeon," said Fitzpatrick, "what odds will you bet Bob doesn't buy Brickbat himself?"
The hat went round, and others got blanks. Ussher got Miss Fidget, Larry Kelly's mare, and was advised in a whisper by that cunning little gentleman—who meant to buy Conqueror by way of a hedge, and who therefore wanted to swell the stakes—to be sure and buy the mare himself, for she didn't know how to fall; "and," he added, "you know she's no weight on her;" and when Ussher looked at Larry Kelly, who was to ride her himself, he couldn't but think the latter part was true.
Then Nicholas Blake drew Kickie-wickie, the officer's mare, whereupon the gallant Captain, who knew Blake was a sporting fellow, thought this was a good opportunity to sound that gentleman about getting him a rider, and began whispering to him all the qualities of the mare; how she could do everything a mare should do; how high she was bred and how well she was trained, and how she was like the poacher, and could "leap on anywhere;" for all which, and Kickie-wickie herself, with her owner into the bargain, Blake did not care a straw;—for he was confident of winning himself with the Galway horse, Thunderer.
Then some one else drew Thunderer; and Peter Dillon got Conqueror, greatly to his joy, for he reckoned that his expenses from Castlebar would thus be mostly paid, even if he couldn't sell the long-legged colt. The Major drew Crom-a-boo, a Carrick horse, who had once been a decent hunter, and whose owner had entered it at the instigation of his fellow townsmen, and by the assurance that these sort of races were often won by your steady old horses; and Mr. Stark, the owner, since he had first made up his mind to pay the £5 stake, had gradually deceived himself into the idea that he should probably win; and having never before even owned a horse—for this was a late purchase, or rather the beast had been taken in lieu of a debt—had now, for the last three weeks, talked of nothing but sweats, gallops, physics, training, running, and leaping: and having secured the services of a groom for the day, who was capable of riding his horse, had entirely given himself up to the delights of horse-racing. Lucky was it for Mr. Stark that Crom-a-boo was sure to lose; for had he won, Stark would have been a ruined man; nothing would have kept him from the Curragh and a conviction that the turf was his proper vocation.
The Major was delighted at his prize; he had not drawn a blank, and that was sufficient for him.
Then, at last, Keegan got Pat Conner's mare from Strokestown. She was called Diana, and his was the last paper drawn.
"Faith, Keegan, you're in luck," said McKeon, "for the mare can't but run well. Pat's been training her since May last. I was over there going to Castlereagh, and I saw Pat at her then."
"'Deed, then, Mr. McKeon," said Conner, "maybe she'll beat your own mare, much as you think of her."
"Oh! I'm sure she will; there's so much running about her. Was she at plough after last winter, Pat?"
"She had other work to do, then, for she had to carry me twice a week through the season; and that she did—and that's not light work, I think."
"Carry you, Pat!" said Gayner; "why, you don't mean to say you hunt that old garron you call Diana? Faith, man, you're too bold; your friends ought to look to you; what would the country do if you broke your neck?"
"It's your own is in most danger, I'm thinking," replied Pat; "faith, I wouldn't take all the pick up to-morrow, to ride that devil you're to ride over the course."
"And I'll take devilish good care you're not asked," said McKeon: "but now, boys, as I fear the Major's hardly up to it, I'll dispose of the prizes. Come, which shall I put up first? which was drawn first?"
"Your own mare, Tony; Gayner got Playful at the first start."
"Well, gentlemen, here's the mare Playful. I believe I'm to say all the good I can about her, and upon my word she doesn't want spirit." Here he whispered Gayner, whom he told to bid for themselves conjointly. "Come, gentlemen, what do you offer? people say she's wicked, but she'll not kick you if you don't come in her reach. She can go if she likes, and she can, I suppose, if she likes, stand still; but upon my soul, I never saw her to do so in the field."
"I'll say thirty shillings, Tony," said Bob.
"Five and thirty," said young Brown.
"Two pounds," said Bob.
"I'll not go beyond that," said Brown.
"Two pounds—who'll give more than two pounds for Playful? Gentlemen, the horses are all favourites, and the pool will consequently be a large one. Who'll give more than two pounds? Bob, you've got the mare; hand me two pound, and hand yourself two more."
Then Brickbat and Miss Fidget were sold, both at good prices; for the horse had won the last race at Tuam, and that put him up in the market, in spite of Bob's vile comparison between him and his owner's bullocks; and the mare was a favourite among the Roscommon gentry, who knew little Larry could ride when he meant it.
Kickie-wickie was the next put up, but in spite of all that had been said about her by her gallant owner, she was in very little request, and was purchased cheap.
Thunderer fetched a good price; Galway horses always do; and it was easy to see that Nicholas Blake was in earnest, and Nick was a man that wouldn't come from Loughrea to Carrick-on-Shannon, and lose a day with the Galway dogs for nothing; George Brown made the purchase, for if anything could beat Conqueror it was Thunderer.
Then came Conqueror, and bidding began in earnest. George offered two pound to frighten the field; but both Larry Kelly and McKeon wanted to hedge, and they raised the price against each other by half crowns, till at last little Larry Kelly got the winner, that was to be, for three pound ten, much to Gayner's satisfaction, who felt no such confidence in George Brown's invincibility, and was very glad to see the pool increased by those who did.
When Crom-a-boo was put up—his owner rashly offered five shillings—for which sum he was allowed to retain him. He could not, however, comprehend that, because he had bid five, he was to pay ten—however, he had to do it, and began to find that the pleasures of the turf were not entirely unalloyed.
The Strokestown garron did not create much emulation, but Peter Dillon, knowing that though Pat had only one eye, that one was a good one, and that he wouldn't lose the race for want of hard work and patience, and having little Larry's three pound ten in his pocket to back him, at length doubled Keegan's offer of half-a-crown which he made to keep his own ticket, and Diana was knocked down to him at the same price that Crom-a-boo had fetched.
Then the fun grew fast and furious, and calls for hot water and spirits were loud and incessant.
"By the holy poker, boys, I'm thirsty after that," said McKeon; "you should stand me a bottle of champagne among ye, no less—just to take the dryness out of my throat, before I begin drinking."
"Champagne, indeed, Tony; wouldn't a bucket of brandy and water serve you?"
"Indeed, Fitz, if you're to pay for it yourself, a mouthful of brandy and water wouldn't be a bad thing—for I want something more than ordinary afther that work. Ah! Conner, it was the bidding afther that mare of your's that broke my heart entirely—why, man, you see, every one wanted her."
"Niver mind, Mr. McKeon, niver mind!" said Pat, with his one eye fixed on his punch. "She's a nice, good, easy creature, anyway. I don't have to be sending a boy down through the rack to be cleaning her, as they say you do with the one you're going to start to-morrow—pray God she don't kill any of us, that's all."
"Pray God she don't, Pat, and especially you. Well, Fitz, where's this brandy and water you're talking about?"
"To hear Tony talking," said little Larry, "one would think he didn't drink this week; when he got a sup at every bid that was made, and finished a tumbler as every horse was knocked down; why that was eight tumblers of punch!"
"Water, Larry, all water to clear my throat—ask the waiter else."
"It's little of that cure you take, I'm thinking—waiter, bring some tobacco here."
And now the party began smoking as well as drinking; and an atmosphere was formed, which soon drove the Major out of the room—not, however, before McKeon implored him to stay just for one handicap, as he wanted to challenge the bay gelding he drove under his gig; and as the Major was waiting for his hat, Tony threw a shilling on the table.
"Come, Major, cover that, just for luck; I must have a shy at that gig horse; I want him for Mrs. McKeon's car. Come, I'll tell you every beast I've got, and you may choose from them all, from the mare that's to win to-morrow, down to the flock of turkeys that's in the yard at Drumsna."
But the Major was inexorable; he thought the £40 and the red coat which he had had to buy for to-morrow's use, together with the hard work he had to do, was enough for popularity; and may be he had heard of Tony's celebrity in a knock, and he did not wish to sacrifice his own nag, for a chance selection out of those in McKeon's yard, nor yet for a flock of turkeys.
However, though the Major wouldn't join in a handicap, others would—and McKeon wasn't baulked of his amusement. Men soon had their hands in their pockets, waiting the awards of the arbiter, which were speedily pronounced; and various and detailed were the descriptions given of the brutes which were intended to change hands; but not in general such as made those who got them satisfied with their bargains, when they afterwards became acquainted with their real merits.
Peter Dillon threw away sundry shillings in endeavouring to part with the Mayo colt, but either he had been there before with the same kind of cattle, or he priced him too high; he couldn't get his money for him, either from little Larry Kelly, or his elder brother who was there.
Tony, before the evening was over, gave the Boyle officers two or three most desperate bargains. First, he got the celebrated mare Kickie-wickie for a pair of broken down gig horses, to run tandem: engaged to go quiet and not kick in harness. They couldn't be warranted sound: but then, as Tony said, what horse could? and he was so particular—he would never say a horse was sound, unless he knew it; in fact, he never warranted a horse sound; which was true enough, for Tony knew no one would take his warrant; and then when the Captain was in the first fit of grief for Kickie-wickie, some good-natured friend having told him that the two gig horses weren't worth a feed of oats, Tony gave her back again for a good hack hunter, and a sum of money to boot, about the real value of the mare. Again, late in the evening—when the punch had made further inroads upon the poor warrior's brain—he gave him back his own hunter for the two gig horses and a further sum of money: from all which it will be seen by those who understand the art, that the officer from Boyle could not have made a great deal, and that Tony McKeon could not be much out of pocket.
This fun continued till about two, when half the party were too drunk to care about winning and losing—and the other half, mostly consisting of the married men, too wary to attempt business with those as knowing as themselves. Gayner and Brown had gone home to bed, as they had to be up and walk ten miles before breakfast, with their great coats on; after which, as Gayner had told Mrs. McKeon, he would trouble her for the loan of two feather beds, and three or four buckets of turf; as he thought that after laying between them for an hour or so before a roaring fire, and then being rubbed down with flannels by Tony and his two men, there was little doubt but he'd be able to ride 11 stone 4; and he was to be up at that weight on the next day.
Keegan had become very drunk and talkative, had offered to sing two or three songs, to make two or three speeches, and had ultimately fallen backwards, on his chair being drawn away, from which position he was unable to get up, and little Larry's brother was now amiably engaged painting his face with lampblack. Mrs. Keegan the while was sitting in her cold, dark, little back parlour, meditating the awful punishment to be visited on the delinquent when he did return home.
Vain woman, there she sat till four, while Hyacinth lay happy beneath the table; nor did he return home, till brought on the waiter's back, at eight the next morning.
Pat was winking with his one eye, and nodding on his chair, with his pipe still stuck in his mouth. Little Larry was laughing till he cried at his brother's performance. Peter Dillon and young Fitzpatrick, each with a whiskey bottle in his hand, were guarding the door, at which Stark, the unfortunate owner of Crom-a-boo, was vainly endeavouring to make his exit, which he was assured he should not be allowed to do till he had sung a song standing on the sideboard. And the younger son of Mars, conquered by tobacco and whiskey, was leaning his unfortunate head on the table, and deluging Keegan's feet with the shower which he was unable to restrain.
Ussher was detailing in half drunken glee to his friend Fred Brown, George's brother, his plan for carrying off poor Feemy; and Brown, always as he said, ready to help a friend in necessity, was offering him the loan of his gig to take her as far as Longford, at which place he could arrive in time to catch the mail, if he could manage to take Feemy away from Ballycloran immediately after sunset. "And I'll send a boy to bring the gig back from Longford," added Fred, "so you'll have no trouble at all; and I'll tell you what it is, you're taking the prettiest girl out of County Leitrim with you—so here's her health."
Tony, Nicholas Blake, and Greenough were the only three left who were still able to drink steadily, and they kept at it till about four, when they all agreed, that if they meant to do any good at all to-morrow, they'd better be getting to bed; they consequently took one tumbler more, because it was to be the last, and made towards the door, out of which Stark had at length escaped, after having a bottle of whiskey poured over his head. As they passed the Captain, who was snoring against the wall, McKeon slightly touched his foot with his toe, and said to Blake, "Well; if I was as soft as that fellow, I'd have my head boiled in a pudding-bag. By gad, the Colonel oughtn't to let him out without his nurse."
"You oughtn't to talk then, Tony, for you didn't make a bad thing of him to-night."
"Oh, d——n his money," said McKeon; "I'd much sooner be without such a fellow. I'd sooner by half have a bargain with a man that knew how to take care of himself, than a greenhorn, who'd let you rob him of his eyes without seeing you."
By this time they'd got to the front door, at which was now standing Tony's buggy and servant; Greenough was going to walk to his lodgings, and Blake had come to the door to see his friend off; when they heard a loud shrieking down the street, and they saw the unfortunate Stark running towards the hotel, still followed by Fitzpatrick and Dillon, each with an empty bottle in his hand.
When he had escaped from the inn, his persecutors had followed him, still swearing that he should sing. Stark had run towards his home, but before he got there his pursuers headed him in the street and turned him back, and now as he rushed along, half blinded by the spirits in his eyes, they followed him, whooping and yelling like two insane devils, and were just catching him near the door of the hotel, when poor Stark, striking his foot against the curb stone, fell violently on his face, and Dillon, who was just behind him, stumbled and fell upon him.
"Halloo, Fitzpatrick, is that you?" said Tony, "what inG——d'sname are you doing with that poor devil? I believe you and Dillon have killed him."
By this time Dillon had got up; and McKeon and Blake together helped the other man to his feet; his wrath was by this time thoroughly kindled, and he was swearing all manner of vengeance against Fitzpatrick—the other man's name he did not know. They, contented with their sport, carried the decanters, wonderful to relate, unbroken in triumph into the hotel,—and McKeon, bidding the boy to bring the gig after him, helped Stark, whose face was dreadfully bleeding, to his home, trying to console him, and assuring him that the mischief was all owing to Dillon, and that Fitzpatrick, who was a neighbour and friend of Tony's, had had little or nothing to do with it; and having left him at his hall-door, he drove quietly home to his own house, and went soberly to bed.
The day after Ussher had obtained Feemy's consent to go off with him, she passed in the same manner as she had that afternoon—sometimes sitting quiet with her eyes fixed on vacancy—sometimes sobbing and crying, as though she must have fallen into an hysterical fit. Once or twice she attempted to make some slight preparation for her visit to Mrs. McKeon's, such as looking through her clothes, mending them, &c., but in fact she did nothing. The next day, Sunday, she spent in the same manner; she omitted going to mass, a thing she had not done for years, unless kept at home by very bad weather, or real illness; she never took up a book, nor spoke a word, except such as she could not possibly avoid, to the servant or her father. Of Thady she saw nothing, except at her meals, and then they took no notice of each other. They had not spoken since the night when Thady had upbraided her whilst walking in the lane with Ussher.
On the Monday morning she was obliged to exert herself, for she had to pack the little trunk that was to carry her ball-room finery to Mrs. McKeon's, and prepare everything that was necessary for her visit.
Biddy, the favourite of the two girls, had once or twice asked her mistress what ailed her, and whether she was ill; but Feemy only answered her crossly that she was bothered with that horrid headache, and the girl could only believe that either this was actually the case, or else that she had quarrelled with her lover; and as it was now three days since he had been at Ballycloran, she at last determined that this was the case.
During these three days, Feemy had frequently made up her mind, or rather she fancied she had made up her mind to give Ussher up,—to go and confess it all to Father John, or to tell it to Mrs. McKeon; and if it had not been for the false pride within her, which would not allow her to own that she had been deceived, and that her lover was unworthy, she would have done so. His present coolness, and his cruelty in not coming to see her, though they did not destroy her love, greatly shook it; and had she had one kind word to assist her in the struggle within herself, she might still have prevented much of the misery which her folly was fated to produce.
When Mrs. McKeon and her daughters came for her about one o'clock on Monday, the small exertion necessary for putting up her clothes, had made her somewhat better—something more able to talk than she had been before, and they did not then observe anything particular about her; but she had been but a very short time at Drumsna, before it was evident to Mrs. McKeon, that something was the matter with her. When she questioned her, Feemy gave the same answer—that she had a racking headache; and though this did very well for a time, before the evening was over, the good lady was certain that something more than a headache afflicted her guest.
The next day, according to his promise, Ussher called, but of course at Mrs. McKeon's house he could not see her alone; that lady and her daughters were present all the time. When he came in, Ussher shook hands with Feemy as he would with anybody else, and began talking gaily to the two other girls. He had regained his presence of mind completely, and however deficient Feemy might be in that respect, he now proved himself a perfect master of hypocrisy. He did not stay long, and as he got up to go away, he merely remarked that he hoped he should meet the ladies that day week on the race-course, and at the ball; and the only thing he said especially to Feemy was, that he should call at Ballycloran on his way to the races, and that when he saw her on the course, he would tell her how her father and brother were; and he remarked that he should not go home that night, as he had been asked to dine and sleep at Brown Hall.
The week passed on, and Feemy remained in the same melancholy desponding way; saying nothing to Mrs. McKeon, and little to the two girls, who, in spite of Feemy's sin in having a lover, did everything in their power to cheer and enliven her.
Father John usually dined at Mrs. McKeon's on Sunday, and she came to the determination of having another talk with him about Feemy. So before dinner on that day, she opened her mind to him, telling him the state in which Feemy had been the whole of the week, and that she thought the sooner she could be made to understand that she must give up all thoughts of Ussher, the better.
Feemy had been at mass with the family, and when she met Father John afterwards, she exerted herself to appear before him as she usually did, and to a certain extent she succeeded. Father John was himself usually cheerful, and he spoke to her good humouredly, and she made an effort to answer him in the same strain; this deceived the priest, and when Mrs. McKeon spoke to him about Feemy's deep melancholy, and suggested the propriety of speaking to her on the subject which they supposed was nearest her heart, he said,
"Better let her alone, Mrs. McKeon; I think you'd better let her alone, and time will cure her. You see Feemy is proud, and perhaps a little too headstrong, and I don't think she'd bear just as quietly as she ought, any one speaking to her about the man now. It isn't only the losing him that vexes her; it isn't only that she has been deceived: but that everyone knows that she has lost him, and has been deceived. It's this that hurts her pride, and talking to her about it will only make her more fretful. If you'll take my advice, you'll just leave her to herself, take no especial notice of her, and let her go to this ball; and when she sees the man paying attention to others,—dancing and philandering with them, and neglecting her—her pride will make her feel that she must at any rate appear to be indifferent; and when she has once enabled herself to appear so, she will soon become really so. Just let her go to the races, and the ball; and your kindness and the girls' society will soon bring her round."
All Monday Feemy spent in bed, but Mrs. McKeon and her girls took no notice of it, except carefully tending her—offering to read to her, and bring her what she wanted. They soon, however, found that she preferred being left alone; and they consequently allowed her to think over her own gloomy prospects in solitude and silence.
Feemy had, however, declared her intention of going both to the races and to the ball. Ussher had desired her to do so, and she feared to disobey him; besides, at one of these places he had to give her final instructions as to their departure. She was, therefore, dressed for starting on the Tuesday morning, when the other girls were ready; and though her eyes and nose were somewhat red, and her cheeks somewhat pale, and though she did not now deserve the compliment that Fred Brown had paid her, when he told Ussher that he was going to carry off the prettiest girl in County Leitrim, still she did not look unwell, and Mrs. McKeon kindly comforted herself by the reflection, that as she was both able and willing to dress herself for amusement, there could not be much really the matter with her.
In the meantime Thady had been honestly firm to the promise he had made to Father John, not to join the Mulreadyites. His sister's absence from Ballycloran at the present time had been a relief to him; and on the morning after his visit to the priest he had returned to his work, not certainly with much happiness or satisfaction, but still with his mind made up to struggle on in the best way he could—to do nothing which he knew to be wrong, and come what come might, to leave Reynolds and his associates to their own schemes and villanies. He felt determined, if he could not protect himself and his family from his enemies by honest means, to leave it to circumstances to protect him; and though he could not shake off a deep desponding as to the future, still there was a kind of contentment in the feeling that he knew he had to suffer, and that he had made up his mind to do so firmly and bravely.
On the Saturday morning, Pat Brady had again come to his master, informing him that all the boys were to be on that evening at the whiskey shop, and using all his powers of oratory to induce him to come down; but Thady was firm, and he not only refused to come then, but plainly told Pat that he had entirely altered his mind, and that he did not intend to go down to them at all. He advised Pat also to give them up, hinting that if he did not, they two, viz., Pat Brady and Thady Macdermot, would probably soon have to part company.
This was a threat, however, for which Pat did not much care; for he knew that there was little more to be made by his old master; and, like a wise man, he had already provided himself with a new one, and a more prosperous and wealthy one than him he was going to leave. Rats always leave a falling house, and Brady was a real rat.
Still, however, though he did not expect to get much more from his service with Thady, he was, for his own reasons, anxious that his present master should not be quit of the companions with whom he had been so anxious to join him: and therefore when he found that he could no longer work on his master's mind by the arguments he had hitherto used, he began to threaten him—telling him of the different perils from the law which he would have to encounter by having joined the party, and various dangers to which he would subject himself by deserting it. But in vain—Thady was firm; and when Pat got violent and inclined to be impertinent on the subject, he told him that he would knock him down with the alpine in his hand if he said another word about it.
On Sunday, Thady went to mass, and afterwards took a walk with his friend the priest, who said everything he could to raise his spirits, and to a certain degree he did so. On the next morning, as he was going to his work, a messenger brought a letter from Keegan to his father. This was a legal notice on Flannelly's part, that on some day in November, which was named, he—Flannelly—would require not only the payment of the interest money which would then be due, but also the principal; and in this notice was set forth the exact sum to be paid for principal, for interest, for costs; and it further stated that if the sum was not paid on or before that day, writs would be issued for his body—that is the body of poor Larry Macdermot—and latitats, and sheriff's warrants, and Heaven knows what besides, for selling the property at Ballycloran; and that the mortgage would be immediately foreclosed, and the property itself disposed of for the final settlement of the debt.
This agreeable document was very legibly addressed to Lawrence Macdermot, Esq., &c. &c. &c., Ballycloran; and its unusual dimensions and appearance made Thady at once feel that it was some infernal missile come still further to harass him, and leave him, if possible, more miserable than it found him. However, such as it was, it was necessary that it should be read; so he took it to his father, and having broken the seal,said,—
"Here's a letter from Keegan, Larry; shall I read it you?"
"D——n Keegan," was the father's consolatory reply, "I don't want his letters. I tell you he can't call for his money before November, and this is October yet."
"That's thrue," said Thady, when he had spelt through the epistle; "that's thrue, father; but this is to say that he manes to come in 'arnest, when that time comes."
"And don't he always come in 'arnest? is it in joke he comes, when he axes for a hundred pound every half year? come in 'arnest! why,d——n him,he's always in 'arnest!"
"But, father, it's not only the hundred pound now, but the whole debt he demands;" and, at last, Thady succeeded in reading the letter to his father.
Larry at first got into a violent passion, swearing fearfully at Keegan, and hinting that he, Larry, knew well enough how to take care of his own body; and that he, Keegan, might get more than he bargained for, if he came to meddle with it. After that he began to whimper piteously and cry, complaining that it was a most grievous thing that his own son should bring such a letter to him; and he ended by accusing Thady of leaguing with the attorney to turn him out of his own house, and even asked him whether, when they had effected their purpose, he and Keegan intended to live at Ballycloran together.
All this was not comfortable. Thady, however, quietly folded up the letter, put it in the old bureau, left his father to his pipe and his fireside, and went out again to his occupations.
Nothing new occurred at Ballycloran for a few days, and he began to flatter himself that Mrs. Mulready's boys and their threats would annoy him no more, and he was even thinking of sending Pat down to Drumleesh to notice the tenants again to come up with the rents, if it were only to see what steps they would then take. As he was returning home, however, on Friday evening, across the fields, a little after dusk, he saw the figure of a man standing in a gap through which he had to pass, and when he came close to him, he perceived it was Joe Reynolds.
Thady had been rather surprised that he had not seen Joe before, and had been inclined to think that that worthy gentleman had been intimidated, when he heard of his own defection; but Joe was not a character so easily frightened. The truth was that he had for the last few days left his own cabin at Drumleesh, and had been engaged with others in the mountains which lay between Loch Sheen and Ballinamore, in making potheen in large quantities, and drinking no small portion of what they made. The morning after the wedding, he had been boasting to his comrades there of the success he had had in bringing over his landlord to their ranks; and he had brought down a large party of them from that quarter, all sworn friends, to be present at his proposed initiation—and great was their wrath and loud were their threatenings when they found that Thady would not come. Joe had, however, been obliged to join them again at their business, and though he had heard the ill success of Brady's second attempt, he had not been able till now to try the effects of his own eloquence.
He had now come down for that purpose, and had been for the greater portion of the evening watching Thady, till he could get a good opportunity of talking to him undisturbed; and he was now determined not to leave him, till he had used every means in his power of inducing him to change the resolution to which he had so suddenly come.
When Thady came close to him he respectfully raised his old battered hat, andsaid—
"Long life to ye, Mr. Thady; I hope yer honer is finding yerself well this evening."
"Quite well thank you, Joe," and Joe walked on with him a few steps.
"Have you the rint ready for me yet?" continued Thady.
"Rint is it? faix then I have not—not a penny; but it wasn't rint I was wanting to talk to your honer about just now; not but what the rint 'll be coming, and that right soon, Mr. Thady, and plenty too—if you'll only listen to me."
"Those 'd be glorious times, Joe, when the rint came that way," and Thady walked on faster, for he didn't want to prolong the conversation beyond what he could help.
"Stop, Mr. Thady; what are ye in sich a hurry for? I've come a long way to spake to you—and we'll both talk pleasanter av' you'd go a little aisier."
"Well, Joe, what is it then? I'm in a hurry."
"In a hurry is it? but why wor ye in sich a hurry to break the promise you made us all, at Mrs. Mehan's, Thursday night week past. Ah! Mr. Thady, you worn't in a hurry when you said you'd come down and be one of us at Mohill—ay! and swore it too on the blessed cross; you worn't in sich a hurry then, and what hurries you now so fast?"
"Now, Reynolds, it's no use you're saying more of that. I sent you word by Pat that I wouldn't come, and I won't—so there's an end of it."
"But that an't an end of it; no, nor nigh the end of it; I suppose, Mr. Thady,"—and he paused, and, resuming his respectful tone, said, "and didn't you say you niver had deserted us and niver would, and that you'd always stick to us that you've known so long? Shure, Mr. Thady, you'll not change your mind now." And Reynolds paused in the little path they were walking in, and Thady was obliged to stand too, for Reynolds had got before him, and he couldn't pass unless he pushed the man aside. "And shure—do you mane to let Keegan off, and Ussher, the black ruffians, that way; do you intend to put up with everything from the likes of them? Come, Mr. Thady, say the word—only say the word you swore before, and by the holy cross you swore on, before next week is over Keegan shall be put where he'll never spake another bad word, or do another bad deed."
"Come, Reynolds, out of this, and let me pass," said Thady, perceiving that he must now absolutely make the man understand that he was not to be talked over, "out of that, and let me pass. And I'll tell you what, I'll not have my neck in danger; and if I hear you threatening murdher, I'll have you before the magisthrates," and he pushed by the man, who, however, still walked close behind him.