The affair was to come off in the County Roscommon, about a mile and a half from Carrick, at the edge of a small copse, about a mile on the left-hand side of the Boyle road. A message had been conveyed to Doctor Blake to be near the spot with the different instruments that had been so freely named on the previous evening. At the hour appointed, the military Major and his friend arrived in the Brown Hall chariot, and a few minutes afterwards the ex-military Major and his man appeared on the Counsellor's car. Had any one walked about the ground with very scrutinising eyes, he might have espied Doctor Blake snugly ensconced under a bank with a cigar in his mouth, and a small mahogany box lying at his feet.
The carriages had been left a few hundred yards distant, and the two servants, well knowing what was going to happen, discussed cosily and leisurely the chance they either of them had of carrying home a dead master.
"Faix, Barney," said the Brown Hall whip, "I believe we stand a baddish chance; they do be saying the Counsellor's mighty handy with the powdher; would you plaze to try a blast this cowld morning?" and he handed him his pipe.
"And thank ye kindly too, Dan; it's a mighty cowld place. Why thin it's thrue for you,—the masther is handy with the powdher; more power to his elbow this morning."
"But whisper now, Barney, did he iver shoot many now to your knowing? did he shoot 'em dead? I wonder whether Mr. Fred will be keeping on the chariot; he's more taste in the gig way, I'm fearing."
"Why thin, the Counsellor mayn't shoot him dead; that is, av he behaves himself, and don't have no blusthering. Was old Jonas much afeard, now, Dan?"
"Afeard, is it! the divil wouldn't fright him. Maybe, after all, it's the Counsellor 'll be shot first."
"Oh, in course he may," said Barney; "oh musha, musha, wirrasthrue, how'd I ever be looking the misthress and the young ladies in the face, av I was taking him home dead and buried as he's likely to be, av he don't hit that owld masther of yours in the very first go off;" and then the man's air of triumph at the idea of his master's shooting Jonas Brown, turned to despondency as the thought struck him that the Counsellor might be shot himself. But he soon cheered up again at a brighter reflection.
"But that'd be the wake, Dan! My; there'd have been nothing like that in the counthry, since old Peyton was waked up at Castleboy; not a man in the county but would be there, nor a woman neither; and signs on, there's not another in the counthry at all like the masther for a poor man."
At this moment two shots were heard.
"Virgin Mary!—there they are at it," said Dan; "now they're oncet began in arnest, they'll not lave it till they're both dead, or there's not a grain of powdher left. Bad cess to them Majors for bringing thim together; couldn't they be fighting theyselles av they plazed, and not be setting the real gentry of the counthry at each other like game cocks?"
"Had they much powdher I wonder, Dan? Was there a dail of ammunition in the carriage?"
"Faix their war so; that Major, bad luck to him, had his own and Master George's horns crammed with powdher, and as many bullets in a bag under his coat-tail as he could well-nigh carry."
"Then they're one or both as good as dead; they're loading again now, I'll go bail. Och! that I'd thrown the owld horse down coming over the bridge, and pitched the masther into the wather. I'd be a dail readier getting him out of that, than putting the life into him when he's had three or four of them bullets through his skin."
"It's thrue for you, Barney," said the good-natured Dan; "and as Mr. Fred couldn't well be turning an owld servant like me off the place av he didn't keep up the chariot, I wish it mayn't be the Counsellor's luck to be first kilt, for he's as good a man as iver trod."
In the meantime the two Majors had paced the ground with a good deal of official propriety, loaded the pistols, and exchanged a quantity of courtesies.
"Not so agreeable an occasion as when we last acted together in the field, Major Macdonnel; I'd sooner be clearing the course for my friend's horse, than measuring the ground for his fire."
"True, indeed, Major Longsword; true, indeed. Don't you think you're putting your friend a leetle too much under the shade? I don't know—perhaps not—but a foot or two off the trees gives a more equal light; that's it."
"I believe we're ready now—eh, Major?"
"Quite ready, Major. We'll have it over in two minutes."
"I say, Major," and the other Major whispered; "Blake's just under the small bush there, I hope you won't want him."
"Thank ye, Major, thank ye—I hope not."
"And, Major, there can be no necessity for a second shot, I think—eh? Brown won't want a second shot, will he?"
"Not at all, Major, not at all; a trifling thing like this—we'll have it over now in a double crack, eh?"
"True, Major, true; put your man up, and I'll give the word."
And the Majors put up their men with great dexterity, and the word was given. They both fired, each at his adversary, but each without attempting to cover the other. Brown's ball whistled harmlessly away without approaching within any dangerous proximity of the Counsellor's body; but not so Webb's; it was very evident Jonas was hit, for his body gave a spasmodic jerk forwards, his knees bent under him, and his head became thrown back somewhat over his shoulders. He did not fall himself, but his hat did; he dropped his pistol to the ground, and inserted both his right and his left hand under the tails of his coat.
Mr. Brown indulged a notion, whether correctly or not I am unable to say, but one which I believe to be not uncommon, that by presenting his side instead of his front to his adversary's fire, he exposed fewer vital parts to danger; and if destiny intended him to be wounded, he certainly, in the present instance, was benefited by the above arrangement, for he received the bullet in perhaps the least dangerous part of his body.
Mr. Brown was a stout, compact man, well developed and rounded in the fuller parts of his body; he piqued himself somewhat on the fair proportions of his nether man; he was also somewhat of a dandy; and had come out this morning, as, I believe, was the custom on such occasions, nearly full dressed; he had on a black dress coat, black waistcoat, and black well fitting trousers; and as he turned his side to the Counsellor, he displayed to advantage the whole of his comely figure.
But, alas! its comeliness was destined for a time to be destroyed. Mr. Webb's fire passed directly under the tails of his coat; the ball just traversed along his trousers about a foot beneath the waistband, cutting them and his drawers and shirt, as it were, with a knife, and wounding the flesh in its course to the depth of perhaps the eighth part of an inch. Directly Major Longsword perceived that his man was hit, he vociferously called for Blake.
From the position which Mr. Brown assumed on receiving the fire, it was the general opinion of all the party that he was not mortally wounded. Blake was immediately on the spot, and lost no time in supporting him.
"Where is it, Mr. Brown, where is it? Can you stand? Can you walk? Allow me to support you to the bank. You can get a seat there; we must sit down at once. My dear sir, the first thing is to get you to a comfortable seat."
"Comfortable seat, and be d——d to you!" was the patient's uncivil reply. "Go to hell, I tell, you!" as Blake continued to lift him. "I'm well enough; I can walk to the carriage!"
"My dear sir," continued the doctor, "the ball must be in your side; at any rate allow me to discover where it is."
"Ball be d——d, I tell you!" and he hobbled a little way off from his tormentor; the portion of his trousers on the part affected annoyed him sorely when he attempted to walk.
"Permit me to hope," said the Counsellor, coming up—"permit me to hope, now that this affair seems to be over, that you are not seriously hurt. Had you not better allow Doctor Blake to ascertain whether the bullet still remains in you? had you not better sit down?"
"Bother Doctor Blake, sir," said Mr. Brown, with his hands still under his coat tails.
"Ah! I see now," said the Doctor, stooping down; "I see the wound, I think. It's bleeding now—and I think I may guarantee that there's no danger; allow me one minute, for the ball may be lodged," and he proceeded to lift up the tails of the coat.
"Doctor Blake, if you touch me again, by heavens I'll kick you! when I want you, I'll send for you. Major Longsword, will you do me the honour to accompany me to my carriage—ugh,d——n it!"
This last exclamation was occasioned by his renewed attempt to walk. He managed, however, at last, to get to his carriage, and in that to Brown Hall. Major Longsword, who accompanied him, declared afterwards to his brother officers at Boyle, that Mr. Brown's efforts to support himself by the arm-straps in the carriage were really disagreeable to witness. He got home safely, however; and though he was not competent to attend to his public duties for some considerable time, it is believed he was not a great sufferer. The Brown Hall livery servant was seen in the chemist's shop the same morning, asking for a yard and a half of diaculum, which was supplied to him; and a new pair of dress trousers, somewhat fuller than the last, was ordered from the tailor. Doctor Blake was not called in, for Mr. Brown found himself, with his son's assistance, equal to the cure of the wound he had received.
It will be remembered that Father John had promised to take upon himself all the trouble attendant upon the preparation for Thady's trial; and with the view of redeeming this promise he went up to Dublin and spent a week among the lawyers who were to be engaged for the young man's defence. The chief among these was one Mr. O'Malley, and the priest strove hard to imbue that gentleman with his own views of the whole matter. The day after that on which Father John returned, he saw both Mr. McKeon and the Counsellor, and explained to them as nearly as he could all that had passed between himself and O'Malley. Though they were both greatly interested on Thady's account, they did not feel the same intense, constant anxiety, which now quite oppressed the priest; and, moreover, trusting more to their own judgment than he did, they were not so inclined to alter their pre-conceived opinion. They both, therefore, assured Father John that they were still quite sanguine as to Thady's acquittal. This raised his hopes again a little, but nevertheless, from that time till the trial, he was so absorbed by his strong feeling on the subject, that he was almost totally unable to attend to the usual duties and employment of his life. It was decided that Mr. Webb should use all his endeavours to obtain tidings of Corney Dolan, and ascertain whether, in the event of his being summoned, he would be able to give any evidence respecting the meeting at Mrs. Mehan's, which would be of use to Thady at the trial. In this he was successful, and he learnt from that respectable individual that he could swear that Ussher's name was not mentioned at all.
It must be owned that Mr. Dolan's manner was not such as to inspire the Counsellor with any great admiration for his veracity, and his opinion in this respect was strengthened when the witness added "that by Garra, av his honor thought it'd be any use in life to Mr. Thady, he'd swear as how he was asleep all the time; or for the matther of that, that he was out along wid de gals dancing the livelong night." It was with difficulty that Mr. Webb made him understand that he was only to swear to what he believed to be the truth, and that if he told a single lie in answer to the numerous questions which would be asked him, he would only be endangering Mr. Macdermot's life.
Father John undertook the more difficult task of explaining to Feemy what it was she was expected to do at the trial, and of making her understand that her brother's life depended on her making an effort to give her evidence in the court clearly and firmly. On reaching Drumsna he was much distressed to find that she was no longer at Mrs. McKeon's. For two days after the conversation which had passed between that lady and her charge, in which she declared her suspicions that Feemy wasenceinte, the latter had made a great effort to recover her health, or at any rate the appearance of health. She left her bed earlier in the morning than she had ever done for the last five months; she dressed herself with great care, and—for alas, Mrs. McKeon's suspicion was but too true—fastened her dress with a most dangerous determination to prove that the charge was unfounded. Patiently she endured all the agonies which this occasioned her during the first day and during the whole evening, till the house was at rest and she was secure from being again visited. On the next morning she went so far as to come down to breakfast, and to undergo Tony's somewhat rough congratulation as to her convalescence, without betraying her sufferings. After breakfast, when he was gone out, she again opened the subject of her return home, and begged Mrs. McKeon to allow her to have the car to return to Ballycloran. Mrs. McKeon again put her off, telling her that it would be necessary first to consult the doctor, and that he would not be likely to call till the following day. In the afternoon Mrs. McKeon, with Lyddy and Louey, went out for a drive, and as Feemy was apparently so much better, they asked her to accompany them, but this she declined.
"It's as well for her not to go out before the trial," whispered Mrs. McKeon to her daughters. "Poor girl; she has a great deal, a great deal, indeed, to go through yet." Indeed she had a very great deal to go through; a very heavy atonement to pay for her folly and her crime.
As soon as the car was gone from the door, she hurried up stairs, put on her bonnet and cloak, took a letter which she had already prepared, and opening the door of Mrs. McKeon's own room, put it on the table. She then crept noiselessly down stairs, opened the front door, and passed into the street, without having been seen or heard by either of the servants, who were alone left with her in the house. The following is the letter, which, to her great grief and surprise, Mrs. McKeon found on her table when shereturned:—
Dear Mrs. McKeon,It is because I know you'd never let me go back to Ballycloran, that I've now gone away without telling you what I was going to do. Pray don't be angry with me. Indeed I'm very unhappy; but I should be worse if you were to be angry with me. I'm only a bother and a throuble to you here, and I hav'n't spirits left even to let you see how very much obliged I am to you for all your throuble; but indeed I am in my heart, my dear Mrs. McKeon, both to you and to dear Lyddy and Louey, who have been so very kind to me. It is a deal better for me to be at home with my father; my heart's nearly broken with all I've gone through; but he'll bear with me, for he's used to me. Give my compliments to Doctor Blake. Pray beg him not to come to Ballycloran. I am in his debt a great deal already, and how will I ever pay him? Besides, I'm a deal better now, as you see, in health; it's only the heart now that ails me. Give my kind love to Lyddy and Louey. I felt their kindness when the sorrow within me wouldn't let me tell them so. Now good bye, dear Mrs. McKeon; don't be throubling yourself to come to Ballycloran; it'll be a poor place now. I'll send Katty for the things.I remain, dear Mrs. McKeon,Very, very faithfully yours,Feemy.P.S.—Indeed—indeed—it isn't the case, what you were saying.
Dear Mrs. McKeon,
It is because I know you'd never let me go back to Ballycloran, that I've now gone away without telling you what I was going to do. Pray don't be angry with me. Indeed I'm very unhappy; but I should be worse if you were to be angry with me. I'm only a bother and a throuble to you here, and I hav'n't spirits left even to let you see how very much obliged I am to you for all your throuble; but indeed I am in my heart, my dear Mrs. McKeon, both to you and to dear Lyddy and Louey, who have been so very kind to me. It is a deal better for me to be at home with my father; my heart's nearly broken with all I've gone through; but he'll bear with me, for he's used to me. Give my compliments to Doctor Blake. Pray beg him not to come to Ballycloran. I am in his debt a great deal already, and how will I ever pay him? Besides, I'm a deal better now, as you see, in health; it's only the heart now that ails me. Give my kind love to Lyddy and Louey. I felt their kindness when the sorrow within me wouldn't let me tell them so. Now good bye, dear Mrs. McKeon; don't be throubling yourself to come to Ballycloran; it'll be a poor place now. I'll send Katty for the things.
I remain, dear Mrs. McKeon,Very, very faithfully yours,
Feemy.
P.S.—Indeed—indeed—it isn't the case, what you were saying.
When Mrs. McKeon found the letter on her return, she was greatly vexed; but she could do nothing; she couldn't go to Ballycloran and fetch Feemy by force. The falsehood with which the letter concluded was not altogether disbelieved; but still she felt by no means certain that her former suspicions were not true, and if so, perhaps it was better for all parties that Feemy should be at home. She determined to call at Ballycloran when Feemy might be supposed to have settled herself, and content herself for the present with hearing from the girl who came for the clothes that she had got home safe.
When Father John called on the Saturday, she talked over the subject as fully with him as she could without alluding to the matter respecting which she was so much in doubt. He declared his intention of seeing Feemy on the following Monday, and of speaking to her strongly on the subject of the trial which was so soon coming on; and he begged Mrs. McKeon to do the same afterwards—as perhaps having become latterly used to her interference, Feemy might bear from her what she had to be told, with more patience than she would from himself.
"Indeed I will, Father John, but do you be gentle with her. She's broken-hearted now; you'll find her very different from the hot-headed creature she was before her sorrows began."
"I fear she is—I fear she is; but, Mrs. McKeon, has she ever shown a feeling of regard—a spark of interest, for her noble brother?—it's that so annoys me in Feemy; I could feel for her—weep for her—and forgive her with all my heart—all but that."
"Ah, Father John," answered the lady; "it's not for me to preach to you; but where would we all be at the last, if our Judge should say to us, 'I can forgive you all but that?'"
"God forbid I should judge her; God forbid I should limit that to her, which I so much need myself. But isn't her heart hardened against her brother? Oh, if you could have seen him as I have done this morning—if you could believe how softened is his heart! He had never much false pride in it—it is nearly all gone now! If you could have heard how warmly, how affectionately he asks after the sister that won't mention his name; if you could know how much more anxious he is on her account and his father's, than on his own, Feemy's coldness and repugnance would strike you as it does me. I'm afraid her chief sorrow is still for the robber that would have destroyed her, and has destroyed her brother."
"Of course it is, Father John—and so it should be. I'm a woman and a mother, and you may take my word respecting a woman's heart. No wife could love her husband more truly than Feemy loved that man: unworthy as he was, he was all in all to her. Would it not, therefore, show more heartlessness in her to forget him that is now dead, than the brother who killed him? Of course she loved him better than her brother, as every woman loves the man she does love better than all the world. How can she forget him? Be gentle to her, Father John, and I think she will do what you desire."
Father John promised that he would comply with Mrs. McKeon's advice, and he was as good as his word.
On reaching the hall-door of Mrs. McKeon's house Feemy looked cautiously about her, but seeing that no one belonging to the house was in sight, she passed on through the little garden into the street. She pulled her old veil down over her face, and walked on through the village as quickly as she could. She felt that every one's eye was on her; that all the country was looking at her; but she had made up her mind to go through it all, and she persevered. The last time she had been out of the house was the day she had been taken from Ballycloran to the inquest. That was a horrid day, but the present seemed worse; she had now a greater sorrow than any of which she was then conscious, and she had to bear it alone, unpitied and uncomforted. Indeed, her only rest, her only respite from absolute torture was now to consist in being alone; and yet bad as the present was, there was a worse,—she felt that there was a worse in store for her. She already anticipated the tortures of that day, when she would again be dragged out from her resting-place before the eyes of all mankind, and placed in the very middle of the crowd, conspicuous above the rest, to be stared at, bullied, and questioned horridly about that dread subject, which it even racked her mind to remember. Would she be able on that long, long day—days, for what she knew—to conceal her shame from all who would be looking at her, and to bear in patience the agonies which it would be necessary for her to endure? She walked on quickly, and was soon out of Drumsna, and in the lane leading by the cottage to Ballycloran. By the time she had walked half a mile she was in a dreadful heat, although it was still in March, for she was so weak and ill that her exertion, in proportion to her strength, had been immense. She sat down by the side of the road for a time, and then continued; and then again sat down. Her sufferings were soon so great that she was unable to walk above two hundred yards at a time, and she began to fear that she would be utterly unable to get to the house. Once when she was sitting, panting on the bank by the road-side, one of the labouring peasants recognised her—saw she was ill—and offered to get her a country car. Oh, what an agonising struggle she made to answer the man cheerfully, when she assured him that she was quite well—that she was only sitting there for her pleasure—that she required no assistance, and that she should walk home directly. The man well knew that she was not there for her pleasure—that her brother was in gaol, her father on the point of losing his property, and that she was weak and in need of rest; but he saw that she would sooner be alone, and he had the good tact to leave her, without pressing his offer for her accommodation.
At length she reached the avenue, and had to pass the spot where she had sat so long on that fatal night listening for the sound of her lover's horse, and watching her brother as he stood swinging his stick before the house. She shuddered as she did so, but she did walk by the tree where she had then sat shivering, and at last once more stood on the steps of her father's house.
The door was fastened inside, and she had to knock for admittance. This she did three times, till she thought she should have fainted on the flags, and at last the window of her own sitting-room was raised, and Mary McGovery's head was slowly protruded. Feemy was sitting on the low stone wall, which guarded the side of the flags, as she heard Mary say in a sharpvoice—
"Who's that?—and what are ye wanting here? Oh! by the mortials, but av it aint Miss Feemy herself come back I declare!"
And Mary ran round, and began to draw the bolts of the front door. Up jumped Larry at the unwelcome sound, from his accustomed seat by the fire.
"What in the divil's name are ye afther? What are ye doing? Ye owld hag, will ye be letting the ruffians in on me?" And he caught violently hold of Mary's gown to drag her back, before she had accomplished the liberation of the rusty bolts.
"Now go in, sir, and sit down," said Mary. "Go in, sir, will you; I tell you it's yer own daughter, and no ruffian whatever.Dra——the owld man, but he'll have every rag off the back of me! Don't I tell you, it's Miss Feemy. Will you be asy now?—do you want to have me stark naked?"
"Come away, woman, I tell you; don't I know Feemy's gone off, away from me; she'll niver, niver come back; it's Keegan and his hell-hounds you're letting in on me."
By this time Mary had accomplished her object of undoing the door in spite of the old man's exertions, and Feemy entered weary and worn, soiled with the road, and pale and wan in spite of the hectic flush which reddened a portion of her cheek.
"Father," she said when she saw the old man standing astonished and stupified in the hall, "father, don't ye know me—won't ye spake to me?"
"Why thin, Feemy, is it yer own self in arnest come back again? And where's yer lover? the man ye married, ye know—what war his name?—why don't ye tell me? Mary, what's the name of the Captain Feemy married?"
"Asy, sir, asy; come in thin," and Mary led him into his own room, and Feemy followed in silence with her eyes already filled with tears.
"Where's yer own husband thin, Feemy dear? Ussher, I main—Captain Ussher—it's he'd be welcome with you now, my pet," and he began stroking his daughter's shoulders and back, for she had still her bonnet on her head. "Thady's not here now to be brow-beating and teasing him; it's we'll be comfortable now the cowld long nights—for the Captain 'll be bringing the whiskey and the groceries with him, won't he, darling? and Thady the blackguard's out along wid Keegan, and they can't get in through the door, for it's always locked;" and then turning to Mary, he said, "why don't you put the locks back, youd——djade? do you want them to be catching me the first moment I'm seeing my own darling girl here?"
Feemy could not say a word to her father: his absolute idiotcy, and the manner in which he referred to Ussher, quite upset her, and she sat down and wept bitterly.
"What ails you, pet?" continued the old man, "what ails you, alanna? they shan't touch him, dear—there, you see the big lock's closed now; he'll be safe from Thady now, darling."
"Oh, Miss Feemy," said Mary, "he's quite beside himself; asy now, sir, asy, and don't be talking such nonsense; don't ye know the Captain got kilt—months ago—last October?"
"Killed—and who dared to kill my darling's husband? who'd dare to touch him? why wasn't he here? why wasn't he inside the big lock?"
"Why, don't you know," and Mary gave the old man a violent shake to refresh his memory; "don't you know Mr. Thady kilt him in the avenue?"
"May his father's curse blisther him then! May—but I think they wor telling me about that before. Eh, Feemy?" he continued, with a sigh, "it's a bad time I've been having of it with this tipsy woman since you were gone; she don't lave me a moment's pace from morning to night; bad 'cess to her, but I wish she wor well out of the house. I'll have you to mind me now—and you'll not be bawling and shaking me as she does; but she's always dhrunk," he added in a whisper.
Feemy could bear this no longer; she was obliged to make her escape from the room into her own, in which she found that Mary had taken up her temporary residence during so much of the day as she could spare from bawling at, and shaking, poor Larry. At dinner time, she again went into her father's room, but he took no farther notice of her, than if she had been there continually for the last four months. He grumbled at his dinner, which consisted of nothing but potatoes, some milk, and an egg, and he scolded Feemy for having no meat; after dinner she mixed him a tumbler of punch, for there was still a little of Tony's whiskey in the house; and whether it was that she made it stronger for him and better than that which Mary McGovery was in the habit of mixing, or that the action to which he had been for so many years accustomed roused some pleasant memory within him, when he tasted it, hesaid—
"Heaven's blessing on you, Feemy, my daughter; may you live many happy years with the man you love."
Feemy soon left him, and went to bed, and Katty, who had been dispatched to Drumsna, returned with her mistress's small box, and a kind message from Mrs. McKeon:—"Her kind love to Miss Macdermot; she hoped she had felt the walk of service to her, and she would call some time during the next week." She had asked no questions of the girl which could lead her to imagine that her mistress's departure from Drumsna had been unexpected, nor had she said a word to her own servants which could let them suppose that she was surprised at the circumstance.
For five or six days Feemy remained quiet at Ballycloran—spending the greater part of her time in her own room, but taking her meals, such as they were, with her father; she had no books to read, and she was unable to undertake needlework, and she passed the long days much as her father did—sitting from breakfast till dinner over the fire, meditating on the miseries of her condition. There was this difference, however, between them—that the old man felt a degree of triumph at his successful attempt to keep out his foes, whereas Feemy's thoughts were those of unmixed sorrow. She had great difficulty too in inducing Mary to leave her alone to herself. Had that woman the slightest particle of softness in her composition, anything of the tenderness of a woman about her, Feemy would have made a confidant of her, and her present sufferings would have been immeasurably decreased; but Mary was such an iron creature—so loud, so hard, so equable in her temper, so impenetrable, that Feemy could not bring herself to tell her tale of woe, which otherwise she would have been tempted to disclose. She had, therefore, the additional labour of keeping her secret from Mary's prying eyes, and Mary was nearly as acute as Mrs. McKeon.
About noon, on Monday, Feemy was horror-struck at being told by Katty that Father John was at the back door asking for her.
"Oh, Katty, tell him to wait awhile; say I'm ill, can't you—do, dear!"
"Why, Miss, I towld him as how you war up, and betther, thank God, since you war home."
It was clearly necessary that she should see the priest; but she insisted on his not being shown in till she had dressed herself; and she again submitted herself to those agonies which she trusted, for a time, would hide her disgrace, which at last must become known to all. When this was done, she seated herself on the sofa, and plucked up all her courage to go through the painful conversation which she knew she was to endure. She did not rise as he entered, but remained on the sofa with the hectic tint on her face almost suffused into a blush, and her hands clasping the calico covering of the cushion, as if from that she could get more strength for endurance.
Father John shook hands with her as he seated himself by her; the tears came into his eyes as he observed the sad change which so short a time had made in her. The flesh had fallen from her face, and the skin now hung loose upon her cheek and jaw bones, falling in towards the mouth, giving her that lean and care-worn look which misery so soon produces. Her healthy colour, too, had all fled; part of her face was of a dull leaden paleness, and though there was a bright colour round her eyes, it gave her no appearance of health. She looked ten years older than when he had seen her last. No wonder Mrs. McKeon pitied her so deeply; she appeared even more pitiable than her brother, who was awaiting his doubtful fate in gaol—though with nervous anxiety, still with unflinching courage.
"I am glad to hear you're better, Feemy. Mrs. McKeon thinks you a great deal better."
"Thank ye, Father John; I believe I'm well enough now."
"That's well, then; but you must take care of yourself, Feemy; no more long walks; you should have waited for the car to come home that day. Mrs. McKeon's not the least angry; if you are more at ease here than at Drumsna, she's glad for your sake you're here now, and she bids me tell you how sorry she is she didn't give you the car the day you asked for it."
"Oh, Father John, Mrs. McKeon's been too kind to me. Indeed I love her dearly, though I could never tell her so. Give her my kind love. I never thought she was so kind a woman."
"I will, Feemy; indeed I will. She is a kind woman; and it will please her to the heart to hear how you speak of her. She sends you all manner of loves, and Lyddy and Louey too. She is sending up a few things for you too. Patsey 'll bring them, just till affairs are settled a little. She wishes me to tell you she 'll be up herself on Thursday; she wouldn't come before, for she thought you'd be better pleased to be alone a few days."
"Tell her not to come here. This is no place for her now. They never open the front door now. This is no place for any one now, but just father and me. But tell her how I love her. I'll never forget her; no, not in my grave!"
"But I've another message for you, Feemy."
"Is it from her?"
"No, not from her, well as she loves you; it's from one who loves you better than she does; it is from one who loves you better than any ever did, since your poor mother died."
Feemy raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, as she listened to Father John's words, and marked his solemn tones. No thought of Thady entered her mind; but some indefinite, half-conceived idea respecting Ussher—that he had not been killed—that he had come to life again—that some mysterious miracle, such as she had read of in novels, had taken place; and that Father John had come with some blessed news, which might yet restore her to happiness and tranquillity. The illusion was but for a moment, though during that moment it completely took possession of her. It was as speedily dispelled by Father John's concludingwords—
"I mean from your brother."
Feemy gave a long, long sigh as she heard the word. She wished for no message from her brother; he had robbed her of everything; she could not think of him without horror and shuddering.
"He sends his kindest love to you. I told him you were better, and he was very glad to hear it. Though he has many heavy cares of his own to bear, I have never seen him but he asks after your health with more anxiety than he thinks of his own prospects. Now you are better, Feemy, won't you send him some message by me?—some kind word, which may comfort him in his sorrow?"
Feemy was no hypocrite; hypocrisy, though she did not know it herself, was distasteful to her. She had no kind feelings for her brother, and she did not know how to make the pretence which might produce kind words; so she remained silent.
"What! not a word, Feemy? you who spoke so well, so properly, so affectionately, but now of that good friend of yours—have you not a word of kindness for a most affectionate brother?"
Feemy still remained silent.
"Why, Feemy, what is this? Don't you love your own brother?"
She said nothing in reply for a moment or two; and then, bursting into tears, she exclaimed,
"Don't scold me, Father John!—don't scold me now, or I shall die! I try to forgive him—I am always trying! But why did he—why did he—why didhe—"She was unable to finish her sentence from the violence of her sobs and the difficulty of uttering the words which should have concluded it. She meant to say, "Why did he kill my lover?"
"Don't agitate yourself, Feemy. I don't mean to scold you; I don't mean even to vex you more than I can possibly help; but I must speak to you about your brother. I see the feeling that is in your mind, and I will not blame you for it, for I believe it is natural; but I beseech you to pray that your heart may be softened towards your brother, who instead of repugnance, deserves from you the warmest affection. But though I will not attempt to control your feelings, I must tell you that you will be most wicked if you allow them to interfere with the performance of your duties. You know your brother's trial is coming on, do you not?"
"Yes."
"Wednesday fortnight next is the day fixed, I believe. You know you will have to be a witness?"
"I believe so, Father John."
"Certainly you will; and I wish you now to listen to me, that you may know what it is that you will then have to do. In the first place you will be asked, I presume, by one gentleman whether you were willingly eloping with Captain Ussher?" Feemy shuddered as the name was pronounced. "And of course you must answer that truly—that you were doing so. Then another gentleman will ask you whether you were absolutely walking off with him when the blow was struck which killed Captain Ussher; and, Feemy, you must also answer that truly. Now the question is, can you remember what you were doing when the blow was struck? Tell me now, Feemy, can you remember?"
"No, Father John, I remember nothing; from the time when he took me by the arm, as I sat upon the tree, till Thady told me he was dead, I remember nothing. If they kill me, I can tell them nothing."
"Feemy, dear, don't sob so! That's all you'll have to say. Merely say that—merely say that you were sitting on a tree. Were you waiting for Captain Ussher there?"
"Yes."
"And that whilst you were there you saw Thady; isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"And Ussher then raised you by the arm, and then you fainted?"
"I don't know what happened to me; but I heard nothing, and saw nothing, till Thady lifted me from the ground, and told me he was dead."
"That's all, Feemy. Surely there's no great difficulty in saying that—when it'll save your own brother's life to say so; and it's only the truth. You can say as much in court as you've just said to me, can't you? Mrs. McKeon 'll be there with you—and I'll be there with you. You'll only have to say in court what you've just said to me."
"I'll try, Father John. But you don't know what it is for one like me to be talking with so many horrid faces round one—with the heart dead within—to be asked such horrid questions, and everybody listening. I'll do as you bid me; I'll go with them when they fetch me—but I know I'll die before I've said all they will want me to say."
Father John tried to comfort and strengthen her, but she was in great bodily pain, and he soon saw that he had better leave her; she had at any rate shown him by her answers to his questions, that the evidence she could give would be such as would most tend to Thady's acquittal; and, moreover, he perceived from her manner, that though the feelings which she entertained towards her brother were of a most painful description, she would, nevertheless, not be actuated by them in any of the answers she might give.
On the Thursday following Mrs. McKeon and one of her daughters called at Ballycloran, and in spite of the bars and bolts with which the front door was barricaded, they contrived to make their way into Feemy's room. She remembered that Father John had told her that they would call on that day, and she was therefore prepared to receive them. Mrs. McKeon brought her some little comforts from Drumsna, of which she was sadly in want; for there was literally nothing at Ballycloran but what was supplied by the charity of those who pitied them in their misfortunes; and among other things she brought two or three volumes from the library. She was very kind to her, and did and said all in her power that could in any way console the poor girl. Though Father John had been gentle in his manners and had endeavoured to abstain from saying anything hard, still Mrs. McKeon was more successful in her way of explaining to Feemy what it was that she would have to do. She promised, moreover, to come to Ballycloran and fetch her, and to remain with her and support her during the whole of the painful time that she would either be in the court itself, or waiting in the neighbourhood till she should be called on to give her evidence. She did not allude either to the manner in which Feemy had left Drumsna, or to the suspicions which she had formerly expressed. Her whole object now was to relieve as much as possible the despondency and misery so plainly pictured in the poor girl's face. As she put her arm round her neck and kissed her lips, Feemy's heart yearned towards her new-found friend with a kind of tenderness she had never before felt. It was as though she for once experienced a mother's solicitude for her in her sorrows, and she longed to throw herself on her knees, hide her face in her friend's lap, and confess it all. Had she been alone with her she would have done so; but there sat Louey in the same room, and though her conduct to Feemy had been everything that was kind, she felt that it was not as if she had been absolutely alone with her mother. She could not at the same time confess her disgrace to two.
Mrs. McKeon went away, after having strongly implored Feemy to return with her to Drumsna, and remain there till the trial was over. But this she absolutely refused to do—and at last it was settled that Mrs. McKeon should come for her on the morning on which the trial was to come on, and that she should hold herself ready to attend on any day that she might be called for after the commencement of the assizes.
The time now wore quickly on. When Mrs. McKeon called it had only wanted a fortnight to the first day on which the trial could take place; and as it quickly slipped away, day by day, to that bourn from which no day returns, poor Feemy's sorrow and agonies became in every way more acute. At last, on the Wednesday,—the day before that on which she was to be, or at any rate, might be fetched,—she was in such a state that she was unable to support herself in a chair. Mary McGovery would not leave her for a moment. The woman meant kindly, but her presence was only an additional torment. She worried and tortured Feemy the whole day; she talked to her, intending to comfort her, till she was so bewildered, that she could not understand a word that was said; and she kept bringing her food and slops, declaring that there was nothing like eating for a sore heart,—that if Ussher was gone, there were still as good fish in the sea as ever were caught,—and that even if Thady were condemned, the judge couldn't do more than transport him, which would only be sending him out to a better country, and "faix the one he'd lave's bad enough for man and baste."
About seven in the evening Feemy was so weak that she fainted. Mary, who was in the room at the time, lifted her on the sofa, and when she found that her mistress did not immediately come to herself, she began stripping her for the sake of unlacing her stays, and thus learnt to a certainty poor Feemy's secret.
Mary had a great deal of shrewd common sense of the coarser kind; she felt that however well inclined she might be to her mistress, she should not keep to herself the circumstance that she had just learnt; she knew it was her duty as a woman to make it known to some one, and she at once determined to go that evening to Mrs. McKeon and tell her what it was she had discovered.
As soon as Feemy had come to herself, she got her into bed, and having performed the same friendly office for the old man, she started off for Drumsna; and having procured a private audience with Mrs. McKeon, told her what had occurred.
Mrs. McKeon was not at all surprised, though she was greatly grieved. She merelysaid,—
"You have done quite right, Mary, to tell me; but don't mention it yet to any one else; after all this affair is over we'll see what will be best to do. God help her, poor girl; it were almost better she should die," and as Mary went down stairs she called her back to her. "Take my silk cloak with you, Mary. Tell Miss Macdermot I've sent it, because she'll be so cold to-morrow—and Mary," and here she whispered some instruction on the stairs, "and mind I shall come myself for her—but let her be ready, as may be there mayn't be a minute to spare."
Father John was certainly right when he said that Mrs. McKeon had a kind heart.
And now the assize week in Carrick-on-Shannon had commenced, and all was bustle and confusion, noise, dirt, and distraction. I have observed that a strong, determined, regularly set-in week of bad weather usually goes the circuit in Ireland in company with the judges and barristers, making the business of those who are obliged to attend even more intolerable than from its own nature it is always sure to be. And so it was in this case.
On Tuesday afternoon Mr. Baron Hamilton and Justice Kilpatrick entered Carrick-on-Shannon, one after the other, in the company of the high sheriff, and a tremendous shower of rain, which drenched the tawdry liveries of the servants, and gave a most uncomfortable appearance to the whole affair.
The grand jury had been in the town since Monday morning—settling fiscal business—wrangling about roads—talking of tolls—checking county cesses—and performing those various patriotic offices, which they would fain make the uninitiated believe, require so much talent, industry, and energy; and as they were seen stepping over the running gutters, and making the best of their way through the splashing streets, their physiognomies appeared ominous of nothing good to the criminals, whose cases had in the first instance to come before them.
Every lodging in the town was engaged, beds being let, sometimes three in a room, for the moderate sum of a guinea each for the week. The hotels, for there are two, were crowded from the garrets to the cellars. Happy the man at such a period, who enjoys a bed-room which he can secure with a key—for without such precaution the rightful possessor is not at all unlikely, on entering his own premises, to find three or four somewhat rough looking strangers, perhaps liberated jurors, or witnesses just escaped from the fangs of a counsel, sitting in most undisturbed ease on his bed, eating bread and butter, and drinking bottled porter. Some huge farmer with dripping frieze coat will be squatted on his pillow, his towel spread as table-cloth on the little deal table which has been allotted to him as the only receptacle for his jug, basin, looking-glass, brushes, and every other article of the toilet, and his carpet-bag, dressing-gown, and pantaloons chucked unceremoniously into a corner, off the chairs which they had occupied, to make way for the damp friends of the big farmer, who is seated on the bed. This man is now drawing a cork from a bottle of porter, the froth of which you are quite sure from the manner in which the bottle is held, will chiefly fall upon the sheets between which you are destined to sleep,—unless some half drunken ruffian, regardless of rights of possession and negligent of etiquette, deposits himself there before the hour at which you may think good to retire to rest.
Fruitless and vain would it be for you to endeavour to disturb that convivial party. Better lock up your bag, above all things not forgetting your brushes; and, as you are a witness yourself, go down to the court and admire the ingenious manner in which the great barrister, Mr. Allewinde, is endeavouring to make that unfortunate and thoroughly disconcerted young man in the witness box, swear to a point diametrically opposite to another point to which he has already sworn at the instigation of counsel on the other side,—and thereby perjure himself. Never mind the bustling of eager, curious countrymen; never mind those noisy numerous policemen with their Sunday brass-chained caps; push on through them all, make your way into the centre of the court—go down there right on to the lawyers' benches; never mind the seats being full—plunge in; if you hesitate, look timid—ask question, or hang back—you are lost, thrust out, expelled, and finally banished with ignominy into the tumultuous sea of damp frieze coats, which æstuates in the outer court. But go on with noise, impudence, and a full face; tread on people's toes, and thrust them back with "by your leave," and you will find yourself soon seated in direct view of the judge, counsel, witness and prisoner. You will be taken for an attorney, or, at any rate, for an influential court witness. If you talk somewhat loud, and frown very angrily in the face of the tallest policeman, you may by the ignorant even be taken for a barrister.
In fact, into court you must come, there is no other place open to receive you. The big room at the hotel, in which we have been three times on such different occasions, the long big room where McKeon presided over so many drunken spirits—where poor Feemy made her last arrangements with her lover at the ball—and where so soon afterwards she was brought forward to give her evidence touching his death, while his cold body was lying dead on the table before her,—this long big room is now set apart for yet another purpose. The grand jury are to dine there, and already the knives and forks are laid out upon the long deal table. The little coffee-room—so called, though whiskey-room, or punch-room, or porter-room would be much the more appropriate name, unless indeed there is a kind of "lucus a non lucendo" propriety in the appellation—is full nearly to suffocation. There is not an unoccupied chair or corner of a table to be found.
Large men half wet through—reeking, smelling most unwholesomely as the rain steams up from their clothes—are keeping the cold out of their stomachs by various spirituous appliances. The room is half covered with damp straw, which has been kicked in from the passage; the windows are closed, and there is a huge fire burning on the other side of that moist mass of humanity. On entering the room you feel that you breathe nothing but second-hand rain; a sojourn there you find to be impossible; the porter drinkers are still in your bed-room, even on your bed up-stairs. What are you to do? where are you to go? Back home you cannot. You have a summons in your pocket; you have been unfortunately present when Mr. Terence O'Flanagan squeezed the fair hand of Miss Letitia Murphy; false Mr. Terence O'Flanagan would not come to the matrimonial altar when required; fair Miss Letitia Murphy demands damages, and you must swear to the fact of the hand having been squeezed as aforesaid. Who can tell when the case may come on? Rumour comes from the clerk of the peace, town clerk, or some other clerk who sits there in pride of place, always conspicuous under the judge's feet, and whispers that Letitia Murphy, spinster, is coming on next. Attorneys' clerks have been round diligently to all witnesses, especially as it seems to yourself, warning you that the important hour is at hand—that on no account may you be absent, so much as ten minutes' walk from the court. Vainly you think to yourself that it can hardly be of such vital import that you, her father's friend, saw little Letty Murphy's hand ensconced one evening in the brawny palm of that false Lothario O'Flanagan; yes, of serious import is it—if not to Letty, or to Terence—yet to that facetious barrister, Mr. O'Laugher, who, at your expense, is going to amuse the dull court for a brief half-hour,—and of importance to yourself, who are about to become the laughing-stock of your county for the next twelve months. It is, therefore, evident that you cannot leave the filthy town with its running gutters—the filthy inn with its steamy stinking atmosphere, and bed-room porter drinkers for good and all, and let Lothario O'Flanagan, Spinster Letty, Lawyers Allewinde and O'Laugher, with Justice Kilpatrick, settle the matter by themselves their own way; but that you must, willy nilly, in spite of rain, crowd, and offensive smell, stay and help to settle it with them. Into court therefore return, unfortunate witness; other shelter have you none; and now being a man of strong nerves,—except when put into a chair to be stared at by judge, bar, grand jury, little jury, attorney, galleries, &c., &c.,—you can push your way into a seat, and listen with attention to the quiddities of the legally erudite Mr. Allewinde, as on behalf of his client he ingeniously attempts—nay, as he himself afterwards boasts to the jury, succeeds in making that disconcerted young gentleman in the witness chair commit perjury.
Mr. Allewinde is a most erudite lawyer. He has been for many years employed by the crown in its prosecutions, and with great success. He knows well the art of luring on an approver, or crown witness, to give the information he wants without asking absolutely leading questions; he knows well how to bully a witness brought up on the defence out of his senses, and make him give evidence rather against than for the prisoner; and it is not only witnesses that he bullies, but his very brethren of the gown. The barristers themselves who are opposed to him, at any rate, the juniors, are doomed to bear the withering force of his caustic remarks.
"No, really, I cannot suffer this; witness, don't answer that question. The learned gentleman must be aware that this is irregular; my lord, I must appeal to you. Stop, stop; that can never be evidence," and so on:—the unfortunate junior, who fondly thought that with the pet witness now in the chair, he would be surely able to acquit his client, finds that he can hardly frame a question which his knowing foe will allow him to ask, and the great Mr. Allewinde convicts the prisoner not from the strength of his own case, but from his vastly superior legal acquirements.
How masterly is he in all the points of his profession as evinced in a criminal court. With what "becks, and smiles, and wreathed nods," he passes by his brethren on the prosecuting side, and takes his seat of honour. How charmingly he nods to the judge when his lordship lays down the law on some point in conformity with the opinion expressed by himself. How rapidly he throws to the wind the frivolous excuses of some juror wishing to escape the foreseen long night's confinement. How great is he on all points of panels—admissible and inadmissible evidence—replying and not replying. How thoroughly he knows the minute practice of the place; how he withers any attorney who may dare to speak a word on his own behalf, whilst asking questions of a witness on behalf of an otherwise undefended prisoner. How unceremoniously he takes the word out of the mouth of the, in his opinion, hardly competent junior barrister who is with him. How Demosthenic is his language when addressing the jury on the enormity of all agrarian offences; with what frightful, fearful eloquence does he depict the miseries of anarchy, which are to follow nonpayment of tithes, rents, and taxes; and with what energy does he point out to a jury that their own hearths, homes, and very existence depend on their vindicating justice in the instance before them.
Mr. Allewinde was never greater than in the case now before the court. A young farmer of the better class had been served with some disagreeably legal document on account of his non-payment of an arrear of rent; he had at the time about twenty acres of unripe oats on the ground for which the arrear was due; and he also held other ground for which he owed no arrear. On ascertaining that a distraint was to be put on the ground which owed the rent, he attended there with a crowd of countrymen, and would not allow the bailiff to put his foot upon the lands; the next day the bailiff came again with police in numbers at his heels, and found the twenty acres which had yesterday been waving with green crops, utterly denuded. Every blade had been cut and carried in the night, and was then stacked on the ground on which no distraint could be levied. In twelve hours, and those mostly hours of darkness, twenty acres had been reaped, bound, carted, carried, uncarted, and stacked, and the bailiff and the policemen had nothing to seize but the long, green, uneven stubble.
The whole country must have been there—the field must have been like a fair-green the whole night—each acre must have taken at least six men to reap—there must have been thirty head of cattle, of one sort or other, dragging it home; and there must have been upwards of a hundred women and children binding and loading. There could at any rate be no want of evidence to prove the fact. One would think so, with two or three hundred people with their tools, horses, and cars. But yet, when the landlord determined on prosecuting the tenant, there was not a person to be found who had seen the corn removed;—not one. In fact people who had not seen, as the bailiff had, the corn covering the broad field one day, and the same field bare the next, began to think that the fact was not so; and that the miraculous night's work was a fable. It was certain that the bailiff had been deterred from entering on the ground, but it was also certain that nothing but words had been used to deter him; he had not been struck or even pushed; he had only been frightened; and it seemed somewhat plain that his faint heart only had prevented him from completing his seizure—either that or some pecuniary inducement. Things were going badly with the bailiff, particularly when in answer to Mr. O'Laugher, he had been obliged to confess that on the morning on which the seizure should have been made he had taken—a thrifle of sperrits! a glass, perhaps—yes, maybe, two—yes he had taken two; three, suggested Mr. O'Laugher with a merely raised eyebrow; he couldn't say that he had not taken three; four? again inquired Mr. O'Laugher; he didn't think he had taken four. Could he swear he had not taken four? He would not swear he hadn't. He would not even swear he had not taken five;—nor even six, so conscientious a bailiff was he; but he was nearly sure he hadn't, and would swear positively he had not swallowed seven. Whereupon Mr. O'Laugher most ill-naturedly put down his morning dram at three quarters of a pint, and asked the unhappy bailiff whether that quantity was not sufficient to make him see a crop of oats in an empty field. It was going badly with the landlord and bailiff, and well with the energetic, night-working, fraudulent tenant;—and would have gone well with him, had he not determined to make assurance doubly sure.
A young man had been dining out, and had returned home at twelve o'clock on the night of the supposed miraculous reaping; he had at that hour walked home along the lane which skirted the field, and had seen no men—heard no noise—nor perceived either reapers, cars, horses, or any signs of work; yet he had passed the very gate of the field through which the corn must have come out, had it come out at all. Such was the effect of this young gentleman's evidence, when he was handed over to Mr. Allewinde by Mr. O'Laugher, with a courteous inquiry of his brother whether he wished to ask that gentleman any questions. Mr. Allewinde said that he would ask him a few questions, and the young gentleman began to tremble.
"Mr. Green, I think your name is," began Mr. Allewinde.
"Yes sir."
And then it appeared that Mr. Green absolutely remembered the night of the 12th September; had heard the rumour of the corn having been removed, but had not observed it growing there when he went to dinner; had dined at the house of the prisoner's father, about a mile beyond the field; had certainly passed the very field; could positively swear he was perfectly sober; was certainly not carried by drunk; had not observed the field especially; could not say he had looked at the field as he passed; had heard of the bailiff's retreat that morning; did not think to look at the ground where the mob had been; did not observe the place; will positively swear he heard nothing; was not walking in his sleep; could not swear whether the oats were standing at the time or not—whether the gate was open or shut—whether or no men were in the field; only he saw none; he believed it was moonlight.
"Why man! what did you see?" asked Mr. Allewinde.
"Nothing particular."
"Had you your eyes open?"
No answer.
"Now by virtue of your oath were your eyes open?"
No answer.
"Come, sir, I must, and will have an answer; on your solemn oath were your eyes open when you walked by that field?"
At last, after various renewed questions, the witness says, "No."
"Did you shut them by accident?"
After that question had been sufficiently often repeated, the witness again said, "No; he had been blinded;" and in the same way it was at last extracted from him that his ears had been stopped also, and that he had been led along the road by the field, that he might be able to swear that he had passed the place during the night without either seeing or hearing what was at the moment taking place there.
Oh that miserable witness! One could swear from the glassy look of his eyes that then also, during those awful questions, he could see nothing. The sweat rolled down his miserable face. That savage barrister appeared to him as a devil sent direct from the infernals, for his express behoof; so unmercifully did he tear him, and lacerate him; twenty times did he make him declare his own shame in twenty different ways. Oh! what a prize for a clever, sharp, ingenious, triumphant Counsellor Allewinde, that wicked false witness, with his shallow, detected device. He played with him like a cat does with a mouse—now letting him go for a moment, with the vain hope that he was to escape—then again pouncing on him, and giving him a fresh tear; till at last, when the young man was desired to leave the chair, one was almost inclined to detest the ingenuity of the ferocious lawyer more than the iniquity of the false witness.
This case was now over; the bailiff again held up his head; the landlord gained his cause; the farmer was sent to prison, and the blind and deaf witness sneaked out of town in shame and disgrace. This came of not letting well alone.
The Wednesday was now advanced, and it was settled that there would not be time for the great murder case, as poor Thady's affair was called. Besides, Mr. Allewinde was also to conduct that, and he wanted some rest after his exertions; and as he walked out with triumph, some minor cases were brought forward for disposal, and Mr. O'Laugher rushed into the other court to defend Terence O'Flanagan before Mr. Justice Kilpatrick, against the assaults made upon his pocket by that willow-wearing spinster, Letitia Murphy.
In rushed also all the loungers from the other court. In such a place as Carrick-on-Shannon, a breach of promise of marriage case is not an every day treat, and, consequently, men are determined to make the most of it. Counsellor O'Laugher runs his hands through his dark grey hair, opens wide his light blue eye, pulls out the needful papers from that bottomless bag, and though but the other moment so signally defeated in the other court, with sure trust in his own resources prepares for victory.
The case is soon stated. Mr. Terence O'Flanagan, with five hundred a-year, profit rents, out of the town and neigbourhood of Mannhamilton, has, to the palpable evidence of the whole and next baronies, been making up, as the phrase goes, to Letty Murphy, for the last six months. This has been no case of Bardellv.Pickwick, but a real downright matter of love-making on the one side, and love made on the other. Letters, too have been written, and are now to be read in court, to the great edification of the unmarried jury, and amusement of the whole assemblage; and the deceitful culprit has gone so far as to inform the father, Murphy, that he has a thousand pounds saved to settle, if he, the father, has another to add to it. All these things Mr. O'Malley puts forward on behalf of the injured Letty, in his opening speech, and then proceeds to bring evidence to prove them.
In the first place the father gives his evidence, and is cross-examined with great effect by Mr. O'Laugher; then the letters are read, and are agreed by all to be very affectionate, proper, agreeable love-letters; there is no cross-questioning them, for though answered, they will not answer; and our friend, who escaped but just now melancholy from the porter drinkers in his bed-room, is brought forward to prove the love-makings of the delinquent.
All Mr. O'Malley's questions he answers with great readiness and fluency, for it was for the purpose of answering them that he came forward. He states without hesitation that love-making to a considerable extent has been going on; that to his knowledge, and in his presence, most particular attentions have been paid by Mr. Terence to Miss Letty; that they have sat together, talked together, walked together, and whispered together to such an extent, that in his, the witness's, mind, they had for some time past been considered to be a regularly engaged couple; and that, moreover, he had himself seen Mr. Terence O'Flanagan squeezing the hand of Miss Letty. Having declared so much on behalf of the lady, he also was handed over to Mr. O'Laugher to be made to say what he could on behalf of the gentleman.
In answer to different questions, he stated that he himself was a middle-aged gentleman, about forty—a bachelor moving in good society—sufficiently so to be acquainted with its usages; that he was in the habit of finding himself in company with ladies—married ladies and single; he confessed, after some interlocutions, that he did prefer the company of the latter, and that he preferred the good-looking to the plain—the young to the old; he would not state whether he had made up his own mind on the subject of matrimony, and had a very strong objection to inform the jury whether he was engaged. Was his objection insurmountable? Yes, it was; whereupon it was decided by the court that the witness need not answer the question, as he could not be called on to criminate himself. He had, probably, however, been in love? suggested Mr. O'Laugher; but he wouldn't say that he had. A little smitten, perhaps? Perhaps he had. Was, perhaps, of a susceptible heart? No answer. And accustomed to Cupid's gentler wounds? No answer. Hadn't he usually in his heart a prepossession for some young lady? Mr. O'Laugher must insist on having an answer to this question; as it was absolutely necessary the jury should know the nature of a witness's temperament, whose evidence was chiefly one of opinion, and not of facts; how could they otherwise know what weight to give to his testimony? Hadn't he usually a prepossession in his heart for some young lady? There was a great deal of hesitation about this question, but at last he was got to inform the jury on his oath that he usually—in fact always—did entertain such a prepossession. Was he not fond of conversing with the lady who for the time might be the object of this feeling? He supposed he was. Of walking with her? No, not particularly of walking with her. Did he never walk with his loved one? He didn't think he ever did, except by accident. Weren't such happy accidents of frequent occurrence? They might be. Weren't they gratifying accidents when they did occur? Why, yes; he supposed they were. Then hewasfond of walking with his loved one? Why, taking it in that way, he supposed he was. Mr. O'Laugher supposed so too. Did he never whisper to this loved object? No, never. What, never? Never. What; could he swear that he had never whispered to the present object of his adoration? He had no object of adoration. Well, then, object of love? He had no object of love; that is, he wouldn't say whether he had or not. He thought it very hard that he should be asked all these questions. Well, then, object of prepossession. Could he swear that he had never whispered with the present object of his prepossession? Never—except in church; that was to say, he couldn't tell. Never except in church—never walk with her except by accident! Mr. O'Laugher surmised that the witness was a very cautious fellow—quite an old bird—not to be caught with chaff. Did he never sit by her? Sit by who? By the object of his prepossession? He supposed he might, at dinner, or at a party, or a concert or a ball.
"What! sit by the object you love best at a concert, and not whisper to her between the tunes—and you a Connaught man!" said Mr. O'Laugher. "Come, mend your reputation a little; wasn't that a slip you made, when you said now you'd never whispered to her at a concert?" Perhaps he had at a concert. "Well, now, I thought so. I thought by your complexion you wouldn't sit by a pretty girl, and take no notice of her. Did you never squeeze a girl's hand while you were whispering to her?" He couldn't remember. "Now, on your oath did you never squeeze a girl's hand?" He might have done so. "Did you never put your arm round a girl's waist?" At last the witness owned he might have done even that. "And now, one question, and I've done. Did you never kiss a girl?" No answer. "Come, that's the last. After all you've owned you needn't haggle at that; out with it, man, it must come at last. Did you never kiss a girl?" Alas for the sake of morality, the witness was at length obliged to own that he had perpetrated the enormity. "And," asked Mr. O'Laugher with a look of great surprise, "were you never proceeded against for damages? Was an action for breach of promise of marriage never brought against you?"
No, never; the witness had never been in such a predicament.
"What, never? You who have declared, I won't say unblushingly, for heaven knows you have blushed enough about it, but openly and on your oath, that you have always some different object of affection, with whom you walk, sit, talk, and whisper; whose hand you squeeze, round whose waist you put your arm (a crime, by the by, never imputed to my client), whom you even confess that you kiss; and yet you sit here secure, unassailed, unsolicited for damages, unengaged, as you lead us to suppose. What are the fathers and brothers of Connaught doing to let such a hydra-headed monster as thou near their doors—such a wolf into their sheep-pens? Go down, thou false Lothario. Go down, thou amorous Turk, and remember that a day of retribution may yet come for yourself."
The unfortunate witness hurried out of court—ran through the pelting rain to the inn—crammed his brushes and pantaloons into the carpet-bag in spite of damp, farmers, and burly porter drinkers—paid a guinea for the bed in which he had never slept, and hiring a post-car, hurried from the scene of his disgrace, regardless of the torrents which were falling.
On the Wednesday morning, for it had been forgotten till then, a summons was served on Hyacinth Keegan to attend as a witness at Thady's trial, on the prisoner's behalf; and as he was living in the town the service was quite in sufficient time, and there was no possible means by which he could avoid the disagreeable duty which was thus imposed upon him. He was much annoyed, however, for he felt that there were no questions, which he could be asked on the subject, which it would not annoy him to answer. He had been out but little since the day on which he had been so savagely treated at Drumleesh—indeed he had not been able to go out till quite lately; and he now most thoroughly wished that he was bad enough to obtain a medical certificate, which would prevent the necessity of his attending in court. That, however, was impossible, and he, therefore, sat himself to consider what answers he would give to the questions they would be most likely to ask him. Regard for his oath he had none; but there were some most disagreeable questions which, if asked him, he would be obliged to answer with the truth, for on those subjects he would be unable to lie without detection. His rancour against Thady was unabated. Unless young Macdermot were hung he would be unable to avenge the mutilated stump which crippled all his exertions, and now rendered his existence miserable.
He flattered himself, however, that Brady's evidence would render that event certain; and whatever annoying questions might be put to himself on the defence, he was determined that Brady should swear to enough on the direct examination to ensure his purpose.
On the Wednesday evening it was decided that Thady's case was to come on first in the criminal court on Thursday morning, and on the same Wednesday evening Keegan sent for Brady into his office.
Pat was now regularly installed as the attorney's managing man on the property, and there was therefore nothing very remarkable in his sending for him, although he was going to be a witness on the morrow.
"Did you hear, Brady," said the master, "that they've summoned me for the trial to-morrow?"
"Iss, yer honour; they war telling me so up at the court; there's Dolan is summoned too."
"Who's Dolan?"
"He's one of the boys, Mr. Keegan, as war in it that night at Mrs. Mehan's."
"Well, and what can he say? he can't say Macdermot wasn't there. He can't do any harm, Pat; for if he was to swear that he wasn't there, there's enough to prove that he was."
"No, yer honour, it isn't that he'll be saying, but he'll be saying Captain Ussher's name wasn't mentioned, or may be that the boys were merely taking their drink, innocent like; that's what I be afeared—and that's what Corney 'll say; you'll see av he don't; he's the biggest liar in Drumleesh."
"Oh, they'd soon knock all that out of him; besides, isn't he one of these potheen boys?"
"Faix he is so, Mr. Keegan."
"Then they'll not believe him—they'll believe you a deal sooner than him that way; but you must be plain about this, Brady, that they were talking about Ussher that night—d'ye hear? Bed——dbut if you let them shake you about that you're lost. D'ye hear? Why don't you answer me, eh?"
"Oh! shure, your honour, I'll be plain enough; certain sure the Captain's name war mentioned."
"Mentioned! yes, and how was it mentioned? Didn't you tell me that Reynolds and young Macdermot were talking broadly about murdhering him? Didn't they agree to kill him—to choke him in a bog hole—or blow his brains out?"