During the short time that elapsed between the heavy blow which had occasioned Ussher’s death, and the departure of Pat Brady with the gig, a great many thoughts had passed through Thady’s mind, although he had been in action the whole time. His first idea had certainly been that Ussher was carrying off Feemy against her will; the last words which Ussher had spoken before his death, and which were the only words of his that Thady had heard — “This is d —— d nonsense; you know you must come now,”— certainly were calculated to make him think so. But he soon reflected that had this been so, Feemy could not have been sitting alone in the place where Ussher found her; besides, her own conduct when she came to herself disproved it. Feemy had therefore evidently been a consenting party. Still, however, he thought that he could not but be justified in doing what he had done in his sister’s defence, even though his interference was in opposition to her wishes. Then he thought of the man himself, whom he had known so long, seen so frequently, and hated so bitterly. There he was now — dead — a cold corpse — entirely harmless, and unable to injure him or his more. But Thady already felt his enemy’s blood heavy on his conscience, and he would have died himself to see him rise on his feet. Thoughts as to his own safety crowded on his mind; he felt that if he intended boldly to justify the deed, he should himself declare what he had done — see that the body was properly taken care of — and give himself up at once to the police. As to the fact of his having killed the man, that he had declared to his sister before he had at all thought what his conduct ought to be, and he had done the same to Brady; it was useless for him therefore to attempt to conceal it, even if he had wished to do so. But he felt afraid to give himself up to the police; he abhorred the idea of what he thought would be the disgrace of being in confinement; and instead of going, as he at first thought to have done, at once to Father John, and telling him all that had happened, he listened to Brady’s traitorous advice, and determined to take himself, at any rate for a time, to the fancied security of Joe Reynolds and his haunts.
After Brady had departed he stood on the road, till he could hear no longer the sound of the retreating wheels, and while standing there determined he would not leave the place, for the last time perhaps, till he had told his father what had happened, and ascertained whether Feemy had recovered. He reflected that it would be a dreadful thing for her to tell her father and the servants, and to be called on to explain why her brother was away; having made this resolution he walked again up to the house.
He pushed the door open, and at once went into his sister’s room. Here she was still lying on the sofa, and Katty was sitting beside her — begging her mistress to tell her what was the matter. But Feemy had not spoken since she had been there; she had recovered her senses, for she held her hands before her eyes, and the tears were falling fast beneath them: but she had not spoken a word to Katty since her brother had placed her on the sofa.
When he entered the room she uncovered her eyes for a moment; but as soon as she saw him she buried her face in the pillow, and it was plain from her sobbing that she was crying more violently than before.
Thady walked up to the sofa, and as he did so the girl got up.
“Go out, Katty,” said he, “I want to spake a word to your misthress, but be in the kitchen; I’ll call you when I’ve done.”
She retreated — not, however, farther than the door, which she closed, and left the brother and sister together. The last time they had been so in that room — the last time the two had conversed alone together before, was when Thady cautioned his sister against the man he just now killed; he thought of this, but he was too generous to let the reflection dwell on his mind at such a moment.
“Feemy,” he said, as he attempted to take his sister’s hand — which, however, she violently drew back from him —“Feemy, I’m going to lave you a long time, and I must spake to you first — perhaps the last words I’ll ever be able to say to you at all. Feemy darling, won’t you listen to me then? — eh, Feemy?”
Feemy, however, only buried her head further in the sofa, and did not answer him a word.
“I must spake a word to you,” continued Thady, “about him that is now — him that was with you on the avenue. I told you, Feemy, he was dead, and what I told you then was only too true. God knows when I struck him I did not wish for that; but how was I to see him with you in his arms — carrying you off through the dark night, and from your own house, without raising my stick to strike him? I don’t say this to be blaming you now, and I don’t ask you to tell me why you were there; but you must know, dearest, that it was for your sake I raised my hand; and though the blow I struck has killed him you loved, you shouldn’t now at such a moment turn from your brother, who has brought all this upon himself only to protect your honer and your name.”
Still Feemy did not turn her face towards him, or answer him.
“Well! I know what’s on your heart, and may be it’s as heavy as that which is weighing on my own. I must say a word or two to the owld man, that he may not larn from sthrangers what it is his son has done; and then I must wish good-bye to Ballycloran — I trust for iver! But there’s one thing I’ll ask you, Feemy, before I go. There’ll be men from Carrick here before the night is over, looking for me; and when they come, they’ll be asking you all manner of questions about this deed; tell them it was I that did it — but tell them how, and why I did it; tell them that it was not my purpose to kill the man, but that I could not see him dragging my sister from her house before my eyes, without raising my stick against the man that was doing it; that, Feemy, is all I want of you,”— and he turned to go, but when he reached the door, he returned, and putting his hand on his sister’s shoulder, said —“Sister, my own sister, will you kiss me before I lave you for so long?”
Feemy shuddered horribly as she felt his hand upon her. Thady quickly withdrew it, for he saw it was all covered with blood; Feemy, however, had seen it, for she screamed loudly — she had raised her head to answer, and at last she said —“Kiss you! no; I hate you — you’re a murdherer; you’ve murdhered him because you knew I loved him; go away — go out of that; you’ll kill me too if you stand there with his blood upon your hand!”
Thady, who had fallen on his knees to kiss his sister, now hastily jumped upon his feet, and a dark frown came upon his brow. It was just upon his lips to tell his sister to whose folly it was owing that Myles Ussher was now a corpse; but before the words had left his mouth he checked himself. Even then, at that saddest moment of all, when the horrid word he so dreaded, had been applied to him by the only person whom he really loved, he was able to restrain his passion, and was too high-minded to add to the suffering of his sister, though she was so unjust and cruel to him.
“God forgive you, Feemy,” he said; “but that’s a cruel word to come from you!”— and he left the room. He met the two girls in the passage, for Biddy had returned from Mrs. Mehan’s, whither she had gone after Ussher had passed, and she was now horrified to find that her mistress’s plans had been, as she thought, defeated by her brother, and her departure prevented.
“Good God! Mr. Thady,” said she, with pretended astonishment, “what ails the misthress then?”
“Go in to her, Biddy, she’ll want you; Captain Ussher is dead,” and he went into his father’s room.
Here a still more distressing scene awaited him. He felt that if he meant to escape he should not lose much time, but he could not leave his father in ignorance of what had taken place. Larry was sitting, as usual, over the fire with his pipe in his mouth, and was nearly asleep, when Thady came in. The noise of the closing door roused him, however; but he only put his empty glass to his lips, and when he found there was nothing in it he turned round again dissatisfied to the fire.
“Larry,” said his son, “I’ve bad news for you.”
“You’ve always bad news. I niver knew you have anything else.”
“I’m going to lave you, father, altogether.”
“Faix, then, that’s no such bad news,” said the cross old man. “The door’s open, and you’ve my lave; may be we’ll do as well without you, as we’re like to do with you.”
Thady made no answer to this piece of silly ill-nature, but continued —“Larry, you’ll be sorry to hear what I’ve to tell you, but I’d sooner you should hear it from me than from another. Myles Ussher is dead; it was I, father, that killed him.”
At the first declaration the old man had turned round in his chair, and he sat staring at his son; but when he heard the second and more dreadful part of the story, his jaw dropped, and he sat for some time the picture of an idiot.
“He was bringing disgrace on you, Larry, and on your name; he was disgracing your family and your daughter, and myself; he was dragging Feemy away with him by night. I saw him with her, speechless and fainting in his arms, and I struck him down as he was doing it with my stick. I didn’t think, father, to strike so hard, but his skull was broken, and he died without a struggle.”— The old man still stared at him, and Thady continued,
“And now, father, I am going to lave you; for av I’m found here, when they come to look for me, they’ll take me to prison, and may be when they come to hear the truth of it all — and I suppose they will — they’ll see I didn’t mane to kill him; but if they call it murdher, why then I trust you’ll niver see me agin.”
“Murdher,” at last said the old man, laughing; “who doubts but that it was murdher? in course they’ll call it murdher. Well, he was the only frind you’d left me, and now that you’ve murdhered him, you may go now; you may go now — but mind I tell you, they’ll be sure to hang you.”
This was old Macdermot’s last address to his son. It was very evident that the poor old man had gradually become more and more imbecile during the last few days, and the suddenness of the melancholy news he now heard utterly destroyed his mind. Each, however, of the dreadful words he uttered fell with an awful appearance of intention and sane purpose on the ears of his son. He had hitherto restrained his feeling powerfully, and had shown no outward signs of strong emotion; but when his father said that there was no doubt the deed he’d done was murder, he burst into a flood of tears, and left the room without being able to articulate a word.
When the police came, which they did before the night was over, in search of Thady, they were unable to make anything of the old man; at first he took them for emissaries of Keegan’s, and swore that they should not have admittance into the house, and when they were in it he endeavoured to hide himself, declaring at the same time, that he understood the law; that the money was not due till November, and that Keegan had no right to send the men there, harassing him, yet. When, however, he was made to understand that it was not about Keegan and the rents, but about the death of Ussher that they had come, he whimpered and whined, declaring that he had not murdered him; that he loved Ussher better than any one in the world — yes, better than his own children — and that for the world he would not hurt him. When at length the men explained to him that they were only there to look for Thady, he was worse than ever; for he began cursing his son dreadfully, swearing that if he had committed the murder, he would neither hide nor screen him, and finally declaring that he hoped they might catch him and hang him.
The next morning he was taken away to give evidence before the Coroner at Carrick-on-Shannon. It was the first day since the summer that he had been above a few yards from his own hall-door, and though the day was fine, he suffered much from the cold. When he got to his destination he could hardly speak; the room was greatly crowded, for the whole neighbourhood had by that time heard of the event; and when the poor old man had warmed himself by the fire, near which a seat had been procured for him, he smiled and nodded to those around, perfectly unconscious of the cause which had brought him there, but evidently thinking it must be holiday occasion.
Brady had stated to the Coroner pretty accurately what he knew, for there was nothing which it could have benefited him to falsify. The two girls proved that after Brady had started with the body, Thady had had interviews with his sister and his father, and it was necessary that both of them should be examined.
When the book, on which he was to be sworn, was handed to Larry Macdermot, he at first refused it, and when it was again tendered to him, he put it in his pocket, and made the man who gave it to him a bow. The Coroner, seeing he was in such a state of mind as rendered him unable to give evidence and unfit to be sworn, asked him some questions on the subject, but Larry instantly began to cry, and protest his own innocence, swearing, as he had done before, that he had loved Ussher better even than his own family.
It was a most melancholy sight — that poor, weak old man, whom so many of those now present had known so long, and who so very few years before had been in the full strength of manhood and health, for even now he was hardly more than fifty.
But sad as all this was, the examination of Feemy was still worse. As she had been actually present at the moment when Ussher had been killed, it was absolutely necessary that her evidence should be taken by the Coroner; and the sergeant of police, who came with a car from Carrick for them in the morning, insisted, in spite of all that she and the maids could say to the contrary, that she must accompany him back. She had got on the same car with her father; Biddy and the other girl were on the same seat with her, one on each side; but before they reached Drumsna, she was in such a state, that they could hardly keep her on the seat.
When they reached that village, the car was stopped by Father John. He had heard of the sad occurrence late on the previous evening, for Pat Brady had spared no exertions in disseminating the news of the catastrophe far and wide as he returned from Carrick. He had stopped at the priest’s gate, and finding Father John absent on a sick visit, had nearly frightened Judy out of her life, by telling her what had happened. Father John had not returned home till two in the morning, and he then heard some garbled version of the story, from which he was led to believe that Thady was in custody at Carrick, for the murder of Ussher.
Early on the morning of the inquest, he went into Carrick, and there learnt from the police the truth, and ascertained the fact that an inquest was held on the body that day, and that both old Macdermot and his daughter were to be examined at it.
Up to this time Father John did not know that Feemy had left Drumsna; and though the police informed him that she had been absolutely present when the fatal blow was struck, he could not believe it, and hurried off to Mrs. McKeon’s, to tell her all that he knew, and learn from her all that she could tell him.
The kind-hearted man hardly knew what he was doing, so shocked was he, and surprised by what he had heard. He could hardly believe that after what Thady had said to him, after the promises he had made, he would deliberately, and with premeditation, plan and execute Ussher’s murder. Such an idea was incompatible with the knowledge that he had of Thady’s disposition, and he concluded that there must have been some quarrel between the two men, in which Ussher had fallen the victim. He little dreamt when he started for Mrs. McKeon’s, how much more justly the blood which had been shed was to be attributed to the sister than to the brother, or he would hardly dared again to solicit her kind offices for his protegée.
When he got to Drumsna, the McKeons were only just rising from breakfast, but Father John saw, on entering the room, from their grave and anxious faces, that they had all heard the news. Tony had been out to his fields before breakfast, and had there been told by one of the men that Ussher’s body had on the previous night been taken through Drumsna to the police station at Carrick, and that it was said that Thady Macdermot, the murderer, had already escaped out of the country.
This tale Tony had communicated in a whisper to his wife, and she had afterwards told the girls. What was the good of keeping it secret? before the evening it would be known to the whole country. When Father John came in, they all crowded round him, to learn what really might be relied on as the truth of the case; but he could only tell them that it was too sure that Ussher had died by Thady’s hand — that that young man was not in custody — and that he had been informed that Feemy herself was present when the blow had been struck.
“Feemy and their poor father,” added Father John, “are to be examined today before the Coroner; it will be a dreadful thing for her, poor girl! to be forced to tell all her secrets, to declare all that she would most wish to conceal before the mob that will be in the room at Carrick.”
“Yes,” added Tony, “and to stand there without any one to support her, and to be asked questions, which if they’re answered correctly, may be will hang her brother.”
“I’ll never believe,” said Father John, “that he killed him in cold blood. Yourself, Mrs. McKeon hasn’t a kinder heart within you than that young man; he never would have committed a wilful, premeditated murder; I don’t think yet it will come to be so bad as what McKeon says. But when did Feemy leave this? I thought she was here, and was to stay here for some time to come.”
Mrs. McKeon then explained how Feemy had insisted on returning home the morning after the ball, with the promise of returning again. After talking over the various unaccountable circumstances of the case, without once suspecting that Feemy had consented to and had actually been in the act of going off with Ussher, Mrs. McKeon agreed, at the instigation of her husband and the priest, to accompany Feemy to the inquest, and after it was over to bring her to her own house, and to allow her to remain there till something should be definitely arranged as to her future residence.
“For,” said Tony, “Ballycloran will be no place for her again, nor the county either for the matter of that; but now that she’s unhappy she shan’t want a roof over her head; we were glad enough to see her when she held her head high, and I wouldn’t advise any one to say much against her now she’s in throuble — unless he wished to quarrel with me.” And Tony McKeon closed his fist as much as to show that if any one did entertain so preposterous a wish he could be little better than a born idiot.
Tony then sent a message into Carrick for a postchaise, that Feemy might not be exposed to the curiosity of every one in the street by sitting on an outside vehicle; and when she arrived in Drumsna from Ballycloran, she was taken off the car on which her father was sitting, and brought into Mrs. McKeon’s house. She would not, however, speak to any one, and could hardly sit on a chair without being supported. She squeezed, however, her kind friend’s hand, when she promised to go to the inquest with her, and seemed grateful when she was told that she should not return to Ballycloran, but should again occupy her old quarters at Drumsna.
At length they got into the hack chaise, and were driven into the yard of the hotel where the inquest was to be held. This was the same house in which McKeon and his party had dined on the evening before the races, and there the cold stiff body of the man was lying on the same table round which he and so many others were carousing but a few hours since. There he lay, at least all that mortal remained of him, who was then so joyous, so reckless, and so triumphant, in the very room in which he had boasted, in his wilful wickedness, of the sad tragedy he was intending to inflict on those who had been so friendly to him at Ballycloran, and of which he was now himself the first victim.
The table on which he was laid out had been hastily removed for the dance, and it had now been as hastily replaced for its present purpose. The laurel wreaths with which the walls had been decorated were yet remaining, and when the Coroner entered the room his foot slipped on a faded flower, which some wearied beauty had dropped when leaving it on the previous morning. Little more than four and twenty hours had elapsed since the fiddles were playing there, and some of those who were now summoned upon their oaths to decide in what manner Ussher had met his death, had on that morning been nearly the last to leave the room in which they were now to exercise so different a vocation.
Biddy and Katty were first examined, and it was from the evidence of the former that Father John first heard that Feemy had agreed to elope with Ussher; and it appeared from what the girl said that her mistress was to have left the house some time previous to the time at which the other girl proved that she had been brought back by her brother. This added greatly to his sorrow; but at the same time, he now instantly perceived under what provocation Thady had struck the fatal blow. Brady proved that his master had confessed to him that it was he who had killed Ussher, and that he had said that when he did so his sister was in Ussher’s arms. The stick was then brought forward, which was proved to be the one usually carried by Thady; and the blood upon the stick, and the nature of the wound upon the dead man’s head, left no doubt that this was the weapon with which he had been killed.
The father was then brought in, and we have already seen the manner in which he conducted himself. It was now necessary to examine Feemy, and at last she came in, almost carried in Mrs. McKeon’s arms, with a thick veil over her face, which, however well it hid her countenance, by no means rendered her sobs inaudible. Two chairs were placed for them by the table, and when they were both seated the book was handed to Feemy; then she had to take her glove from her right hand, and this was so wetted with her tears, and she herself was so weak, that it was long before she could get it off; and when she had taken the oath — when she had sworn to tell not only the truth, but the whole truth — she found it impossible to speak a word, and the Coroner was obliged to ask her questions, to which Mrs. McKeon was allowed to get the answers, spoken below her breath, and in whispers.
“Did she know Captain Ussher was dead?”
“She did.”
“Did she know that it was her brother who had killed him? Was it her brother Thady?”
“Yes, it was.”
“How did she know it was he who had done it? Did she see him do it?”
“No, she didn’t see him.”
“How then did she know it?”
“He had told her so afterwards.”
“Could she say how he killed him?”
“No, she could not.”
“Or why?”
To this question even Mrs. McKeon could get no answer.
“Where was she when Captain Ussher was killed?”
No answer.
“Was she with Captain Ussher?”
“She believed she was.”
“Why, or for what purpose, was she with him?”
To this question, although pressed for some time, she would not answer; and Mrs. McKeon, who was up to this time totally ignorant of the locality in which Ussher had been killed, and was really unaware how it had come to pass that Feemy was present at the time, was quite unable to suggest to her what answer she ought to make; and finding that it was with difficulty she could keep Feemy from falling from her chair, she told the Coroner she was really afraid Miss Macdermot was so ill, that she would be quite incapable of answering any more questions; and she added, that considering all the circumstances of the case — that the young lady had been engaged to the unfortunate man who was dead, and was the sister of the man who had killed him, it was not to be wondered at, if she found her dreadful position too much for her.
The Coroner answered that he was quite prepared to give Miss Macdermot every indulgence in his power, as he felt as strongly as any one could do the distressing situation in which the young lady was placed, but that it was absolutely imperative that the last question he had asked should be answered. And that he was sure when he stated that the result of the inquest very probably depended on what the answer to the question might be — as from that the jurors would probably have to decide whether her brother was to be accused of murder, or merely homicide — he was quite sure, he said, under these circumstances, Miss Macdermot would make an effort to answer it fully and firmly. He was willing, he added, to put the question in a form which might render it more simple for her to answer, though it would oblige him to say that which he feared would be still further distressing to her feelings.
He then told her and Mrs. McKeon, that from the evidence of the servants it had appeared that she, Feemy, had agreed to elope with Captain Ussher; and that, as far as could be judged from circumstantial evidence, she was in fact eloping with him when Thady had killed him; now, it was necessary for her to state whether she was there of her own good will, going away with him; or if not, what she was doing at the moment of the tragical occurrence.
After many fruitless attempts made by Mrs. McKeon to get an answer to this, Feemy said, through her friend, that she was sitting down.
“Does she mean that she was sitting down when the blow was struck?”
“She doesn’t know where she was.”
“When was she sitting down?”
“She was sitting down till Captain Ussher lifted her up.”
“When Captain Ussher lifted her up, was she going away willingly with him?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Did she struggle with him at all?”
“No.”
“Did any of her friends know she was going with him?”
Before, however, the poor girl could be got to answer this question, she had fainted, and it was found impossible to restore her for a long time; and when she had recovered, it was only to give way to the most distressing cries and hysterical shrieks; she threw herself on the floor of the bedroom to which she had been taken, and Mrs. McKeon was afraid that she would have broken a blood-vessel in the violence of her emotions. As it was, she was for a long time spitting blood, and fell from one fit into another, until the medical man who was now with her was afraid that she would become entirely delirious.
It had long been found impossible to proceed with her examination any further. She had, however, unwittingly, and hardly knowing at the time what she was saying, given evidence against her brother which the facts of the case did not warrant.
For when Thady had first seen her, she was not going willingly with Ussher; she had then fainted, and Ussher was dragging her, apparently with violence, along the road.
When it was found in the inquest room that Feemy Macdermot could not possibly attend again, the coroner gave the jury the substance of the evidence on the case. He pointed out to them that though there could be no doubt that young Macdermot was the man by whom Captain Ussher had been killed, still if they thought there was sufficient ground for them to believe that Ussher was ill-treating his sister, and that the brother had interfered on her behalf, they should not come to the decision that murder had been committed.
The jury, after consulting for a short time, brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Thaddeus Macdermot; and, accordingly, a coroner’s warrant was issued for his apprehension and trial, and was handed over to the police, that they might lose no time in endeavouring to take him prisoner.
Thady left the house immediately after the last cruel speech his father made to him, with the tears running fast down his face. He leapt down the steps, hurried across the lawn, through the little shrubbery, and over the wall into the road. He did not dare to go alone down the avenue, and by the spot where Ussher’s body had lain, and where the ground would still be moist with his blood.
His father’s words still rang dreadfully in his ears —“Murdered! of course they’ll call it murder! of course they’ll be sure to hang you!” And then he thought of all the bearings of the case, and it seemed to him that his father must be right; that there could be no doubt but that all men would call it by that horrid name which sounded so hideously in his ears. If that which he had done was not murder, what manner in which one man could kill another would be thought so? It was now evident to him that Feemy had been with Ussher willingly — that she was there of her own consent and by appointment; and merely because she had fainted in his arms, he had struck him down and killed him. Of course his father was right; of course they would call it murder. And then again, even if he could justify the deed to himself — even if he could make himself believe that the man was at the time using violence to his sister — how could he get that proved? whereas proofs of her having consented to go off with him would no doubt not be wanting. And then again, Thady remembered — and as he did so the cold sweat stood upon his brow — how lately he had sat in company where the murder of this very man whom now he had killed had been coolly canvassed and decided on, and he had been one of those who were to be banded together for its execution. Would all this be forgotten at his trial? Would there not certainly be some one to come forward at that horrid hour, and swear these things against him — ay, and truly swear them? And then he fancied the precision with which he knew each damning word he had lightly uttered would be brought against him. Would not these things surely condemn him? Would they not surely hang him? It would be useless for him, then, to open his bosom and to declare to them how hateful — even during the feverish hours of that detested evening — the idea of murder had been to his soul. It would be useless for him to tell them that even then, at that same time, he had cautioned Ussher to avoid the danger with which he was threatened. It would be vain for him to declare how soon and how entirely he had since repented of the folly of which he had on that occasion been guilty. The stern faces by whom he would be surrounded at his trial — when he should stand in that disgraceful spot, with his head leaning on that bar so often pressed by murderers, miscreants, and thieves — would receive his protestations very differently from that benign friend who had previously comforted him in his misery. They would neither listen to nor believe his assurances; and he said involuntarily to himself —“Murder! of course they’ll call it murder! of course they’ll hang me!”
The oftener he thought of this, the more he hurried, for he felt that the police would be soon in search of him, and that at most he had but that night to escape from them. As these ideas crossed his mind he hastened along the lane leading to Drumleesh, sometimes running and sometimes walking, till the perspiration stood upon his brow. If it was murder that he had done — if the world should consider it as murder — then he would most probably soon be in the same condition as that criminal whose trial had so vividly occurred to his recollection a few days ago. At that time the idea had only haunted him; he had only then dreamt of the possibility of his situation being the same as that man’s, and the very horror he had then felt at the bare thought had made him determined to avoid those who could even talk of the crime which would lead to that situation. But now he had of his own accord committed that crime; and how had he done it? In such a manner that he could by no possibility escape detection. Then again he tried to comfort himself by reflecting that it was not murder — that his intention had not been to murder the man; but his father’s horrid words again rang through his ears, and he felt that there was no hope for him but in flight.
The moon got up when he was about half-way to his destination, and he left the road lest by chance there might be any one out at that hour who would recognise him. He crept on by the hedges and ditches, sometimes running along the bits of grass between the tillage and fences — sometimes having almost to wade through the wet bottoms which he crossed, often falling, in his hurry and in the imperfect light of the cloudy moon, till at last, tired, hot, and covered with dirt, pale with fear, and nearly overcome by the misery of his own reflections, he reached Corney Dolan’s cabin. It was now about eleven o’clock; it had been past ten when he left Ballycloran, and in the interval he had traversed above five Irish miles. There was no light in the cabin, which was a solitary one, standing on the edge of a bog. Now he was there he feared to knock, as he did not know what to say to Corney when he should come to the door. Besides, he was aware that his hands and coat were soiled with blood, and he was unwilling that the inmates of the cabin should see him in that plight.
He had, however, no time to spare, and as it was necessary that he should do something, after pausing a few minutes, he knocked at the door. No one answered, and he had to knock two or three times before he was asked in a woman’s voice who he was, and what he wanted there at that hour of the night. He stated that he wanted to see Corney Dolan. The woman told him that Corney Dolan wasn’t at home, and that he couldn’t see him. Thady knew that he lived alone with his mother, an aged woman, nearly eighty years old, and that it was she who was speaking to him now.
“Nonsense, mother,” said he; “he’s at home I know, and I must see him. Don’t you know me?”
“Faix, then, I don’t — and I don’t want,” said the old hag. “At any rate, Corney’s not here; so you may jist go back agin, whoever you call yerself.”
“But where is he, then? Can you tell me where I’ll find him?”
“I can’t tell you thin. What should I know myself? So now you know as much about it as I do.”
“Well, then, get up and let me in. Don’t you know me? I’m Corney’s landlord, Thady Macdermot. I’ll wait here till he comes; so get up and let me in.”
There was a silence for some time; then he heard the old woman say to some one else,
“The Lord be praised! It can’t be him — it can’t be Mr. Thady coming here at this time of night. Don’t stir I tell ye — don’t stir, avick!”
“Oh! but it wor him, mother. Shure, don’t I know his voice?” answered the child that the old woman had spoken to.
“I tell you it is me,” shouted Thady. “Open the door, will you! and not keep me here all night!”
The child now got up and opened the door, and let him into the single room which the cabin contained. There were still a few embers of turf alight on the hearth, but not sufficient to have enabled Thady to see anything had not the moon shone brightly in through the door. There was but one bed in the place — at the end of the cabin farthest from the door, standing between the hearth and the wall, and in this the old woman was lying. The child, about eight years, had jumped out of bed, stark naked, and now in this condition was endeavouring with a bit of stick to poke the hot embers together, so as to give out a better heat and light. But Thady was in want of neither, and he therefore desired the boy to get into bed, and upsetting with his foot the little heap which the urchin had so industriously collected together for his benefit, so as to extinguish the few flickering flames which it afforded, he sat down to try and think what it would now be best for him to do.
“Where’s Corney, then,” he said, “at this hour? Will he be long before he’s here?”
“Not a one of me rightly knows, yer honer; maybe it’ll not be long afore he’s here, and maybe it’ll not be afore the morning,” said the child.
“And, maybe, not then,” added his grandmother. “There’s no knowing when he’ll be here; maybe not for days. I don’t know what’s come to them at all now — being out night skirring through the counthry; it can’t come to no good, any ways.”
“When Corney’s at home, where does he sleep?” said Thady, looking round the cabin for a second bed, but seeing none.
“He mostly takes a stretch then down there afore the fire; but Corney’s not over partickler where he sleeps. For the matter of that, I b’lieve he sleeps most out in the bog at day time.”
Thady now sat down on one of the two rude stools with which the place was furnished, either to wait for Corney, or to make up his mind what other steps he would take. He had closed and bolted the door, and was just in the act of asking the old woman whether Joe Reynolds was at present living on his bit of land, or if not, where he was, when he heard footsteps coming up to the little path to the door, and the woman, sitting up in bed, said,
“There’s both on ’em thin; get up, Terry, and open the door.”
One of the men outside rattled the latch quietly, to let the inmates know who it was that desired admittance; and the naked boy again jumped out of bed, and opening the door, ran back and jumped in again.
Two men now entered, whom Thady, as they appeared in the moonlight through the open door, at once recognised as Joe Reynolds and Corney Dolan. He was seated close to the fire, and in the darkness and obscurity of the cabin, they did not at first perceive him.
A few moments since he had been longing for these two men who now stood before him, as the only persons on whom he could depend for security and concealment, and now that they were there he almost wished them back again, so difficult did he find it to tell them what he had to say, and to beg of them the assistance he required.
“Who the divil are you?” said Corney; “who’s this you’ve got here, mother? — and what made you let him in here this time of night?”
“Shure it’s the young masther, Corney, and he axing afther you; you wouldn’t have me keeping him out in the cowld, and he waiting there to see you that ought to have been at home and asleep two hours since.”
“Faix, Mr. Thady, and is that yerself?” said Corney; “well, anyway you’re welcome here.”
“I’m glad to see you here, Mr. Thady,” said Joe; “didn’t I tell you you’d be coming? though it’s a quare time you’ve chosen. Didn’t I tell you you’d be changing your mind?”
“But was yer honer wanting me, Mr. Thady,” said Corney; “‘deed but this is a bad place for you to come to; sorrow a light for ye or the laste thing in life; what for did you not get a light, you ould hag, when the masther came in?”
“A light is it, Corney; and how was I to be getting a light, when there’s not been a sighth of a bit of candle in the place since last winter, nor likely to be the way you’re going on now.”
“Whisht there now,” said Joe; “we’ll be doing very well without a light; but why wasn’t you down here earlier, Mr. Thady? — We two have just come from mother Mulready’s, an’ by rights, as you’ve come round agin, you should have been there with us.”
“Never mind that, Joe, but come out; I want to spake to you.”
“Did you hear the news about Ussher?” continued Joe without moving, and in a whisper which the old woman could not hear. “That blackguard Ussher has escaped out of the counthry afther all, without paying any of us the debt that he owed us, for all the evils he’s done. He went away out of Mohill this night, an’ he’s not to be back agin; av I’d known it afore he started I’d have stopped him in the road, an’ by G——d he should niver have got alive out of the barony.”
“But did you hear he was gone?” said Corney.
“I did,” replied Thady: “but Joe I want to spake to you, and there’s no time to spare; come here,” and Joe followed him to the door. “Come further; I don’t want him to hear what I’ve to say to you;” and he walked on some little way before he continued — “you were wishing just now that you had shed Ussher’s blood?”
“Well — I wor; I suppose, Mr. Thady, you’re not going to threaten me with the magisthrate again. I wor wishing it — an’ I do wish it; he was the hardest man on the poor — an’ the cruelest ruffian I iver knew. Isn’t there my brother, that niver even acted agin the laws in the laste thing in life — the quietest boy, as you know, Mr. Thady, anywhere in the counthry, an’ who knew no more about stilling than the babe that’s unborn; isn’t he lying in gaol this night all along of him? an’ it an’t only him; isn’t there more? many more in the same way, in gaol all through the counthry; an’ who but him put ’em there? I do wish he was for-a-nens’t me this moment, an’ that I might lave him here as cowld a corpse as iver wor stretched upon the ground!”
“I tell you, Joe, av you had your wish — av you struck the blow, and the man you so hate was dead beneath your feet, you’d give all you had — you’d give your own life to see him agin, standing alive upon the ground, and to feel for one moment that you’d not his blood to answer for.”
“By G——d! no, Mr. Thady; I’m not so wake; and as for answering for his blood, by the blessed Virgin, but I’d think it war a good deed to rid the counthry of such a tyrant.”
“He’ll niver act the tyrant again, Joe, for he is dead. I struck him down with my stick in the avenue at Ballycloran, this night, and he niver moved agin afther I hit him.”
“The holy Virgin save us! But are you in arnest, Mr. Thady? D’ye main to say he’s dead — that you killed him?” And after walking on a little, he said — “By the holy Virgin, I’d sooner it had been myself; for I could have borne the thoughts of having done it better than you are like to do. An’ what did you do with the body?”
“Brady took it into Carrick.”
“And does Brady know it war you did it?”
“Yes, they all know it — father and all; what was the use of telling a lie about? Feemy was with him when I struck him.”
“And war she going off with him? Niver mind, Mr. Thady, niver mind; it’s a comfort to think you’ve saved your sisther from him, an’ you know what a ruffian he was. By all the powers of glory there’s a weight off my mind now I know he’s not escaped from the counthry, where he caused so much misery, and did so much ill. But I’d a deal sooner it had been I that done it than yourself.”
“I wish it war not done at all — I wish he were alive this day. What will I do now, Joe?”
“Faix, that’s the question; any way, this is not the place for you any longer; they’d have you in Carrick Gaol before tomorrow night, av you were not out of this, an’ far out of this too.”
“Where is it you have the stills, Joe? Av I were there, couldn’t I be safe, for a little time at laste, till I got some plan of getting entirely out of the counthry? Or may be when they hear the case, and how it all happened, they mightn’t think it murder at all — the Coroner I main; and then I could go home agin, or at any rate go away where I choose without hindrance; it’s little I care where I was, so long as it’s not in prison.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Thady, there’s no hopes for you in that way. The magisthrates, with Jonas Brown at the head of them, will be a dail too willing to make a bad case of it, the divil mend them, to let you off; an’ the only thing for you is, to keep out of their hands.”
“Would they find me there, Joe, up in the mountains, where you have the stills?”
“They might, and they mightn’t; but if you war there, an’ they did find you, they’d be finding the stills too, an’ the boys wouldn’t like that.”
“Where shall I go then? I thought you’d be able to help me. In heaven’s name, what shall I do? the night’s half over now; can’t you think of any place where I might be, for tomorrow at any rate? I depended on you, Joe, and now you won’t help me.”
“There you’re wrong. I’m thinking now, where is the best place for you: and by G——d as long as I can stick to you, I will; both becase you were always a kind masther to the poor, an’ becase the man you killed war him I hated worse than all the world besides; but it’s no asy thing to say where you’d be safest. D’you know Aughacashel, Mr. Thady?”
“I niver was there, but I know that’s the name of the big mountain over Loch Allen, to the north of Cash.”
“Well, that’s where the stills are mostly at work now, an’ that’s where I was to be myself, tomorrow evening; but now we must both be there before the sun’s up, for no one must see us on the road. But, Mr. Thady, how’ll I do about taking you there, when you wouldn’t come to Mulready’s to take the oath, which all must do afore they’ll be allowed among the boys that is together, or as will be together there tomorrow evening?”
Thady then promised him, that when he reached their destination, he would take any or every oath that might be proposed to him; that he would join their society in every respect, whatever might be its laws, and that if they would assist him in his present condition by affording him whatever security might be in their power, he would faithfully conform to all their rules and regulations. So far did his fears and the agitated state of his mind overcome the great repugnance which still he felt to break the solemn promise he had given Father John, and which he had so faithfully intended to keep.
Reynolds reflected that though it was contrary to their regulations to bring a stranger to the haunts where his companions carried on their illegal trade, they could hardly be unwilling to give shelter to the man who had killed the enemy whom they all so cordially hated, and to murder whom they were all sworn; particularly when his present necessity of concealment arose from the fact of his having done so. Reynolds had an idea of justice in his composition: he knew that had he murdered Ussher, his companions would have used every effort to conceal him, and to baffle his pursuers; and he was determined that they should do as much for Thady.
He went back to the cabin for Corney Dolan, and told him the story which he had just heard; and at about midnight the party started for the mountains.
Aughacashel is a mountain on the eastern side of Loch Allen, near the borders of the County Cavan — uncultivated and rocky at the top, but nevertheless inhabited, and studded with many miserably poor cabins, till within about a quarter of a mile of the summit. The owners of these cabins, with great labour, have contrived to obtain wretchedly poor crops of potatoes from the barren soil immediately round their cabins. To their agricultural pursuits many joined the more profitable but hazardous business of making potheen, and they were generally speaking, a lawless, reckless set of people — paying, some little, and others no rent, and living without the common blessings or restraints of civilization: no road, or sign of a road, came within some miles of them; Drumshambo, the nearest village, was seven or eight miles distant from them; and although they knew that neither the barrenness of their locality, nor the want of means of approach would altogether secure them from the unwelcome visits of the Revenue police or the Constabulary, still they felt sure that neither of these inimical forces could come into their immediate neighbourhood, without their making themselves aware of their approach, in time to guard against any injury which they might do them, either by removing all vestiges of their trade, or by sending those who were in fear of being taken up, into the more inaccessible portions of the mountain. On the western side of Aughacashel, immediately over Loch Allen, and about half way between the lowlands and the summit, a kind of rude limekiln had been made, apparently for the purpose of burning lime for the neighbouring land; but the very poor state of the rocky ground about, which gave signs of but little industry, afforded evidence that the limekiln had not added much to the agricultural wealth of the country. It was now at any rate made use of for other purposes, for it was in here that Joe Reynolds at present usually worked his still. There were only two cabins immediately close to it; one of which was occupied by a very old man and his daughter, but in which Corney Dolan and Reynolds resided, when they were away from Drumleesh; and the other belonged to another partner in the business, who considered himself the owner of the limekiln, and the head of the party concerned in it. This man’s name was Daniel Kennedy, and to the reckless, desperate contempt of authority and hatred of those who exercised it, which characterized Reynolds, he added a cruelty of disposition, and a love of wickedness, from which the other was much more free.
This was the place to which his two guides were now conducting Thady, and where it was proposed that he should, at any rate for some time, conceal himself from those, who, it was presumed, would soon be scouring the country in search of him. It was now a bright moonlight night, and the three men hurried across the country with all the haste they could make. Little was said between them as they went, excepting observations made between Joe and his comrade, as to the characters and occupations of the residents in the various cabins by which they passed. After going for some considerable way across fields and bogs and bottom lands, they came out on a lane, running close round a small lake lying in the bed of the low hills which rose on the other side of it. The water was beautifully calm, and the moon shining immediately down upon it, gave it the appearance of a large surface of polished silver. At this spot the fields came close down to the road, and also to the water, and in the corner thus formed stood a very small poor cabin.
This lake was Loch Sheen, and it was in that cabin that Ussher had apprehended Tim Reynolds and the two other men, little more than a fortnight ago.
Joe stopped a moment when he reached the spot, till Thady, who was following the other man, had come up, and then, pointing to the low door, close to which he stood, said,
“The last deed as that ruffian did as now lies so low was in that cabin. It war there he sazed Tim, an’ dragged him off with ropes round his arms, an’ sent him to Ballinamore Bridewell, an’ all for ‘spaking a few words of comfort to an owld woman he’d known since he war a little child. I swore, Mr. Thady, that that man should be put beneath the sod before the time came round that Tim should be out agin; an’ this very night I war a grieving in my heart to think that he war out of the country safe an’ merry — ready agin to play the same bloody game with them among he war going; an’ that I should let him go without so much as making one effort to keep my word with him! By G——d, Mr. Thady, quare as you may think it, who are now so low within yerself with what you’ve done, that thought was heavy on my heart this night. Had I known what way he war to travel, I’d followed him, had it been for days an’ nights, till I had got one fair blow. By dad, he would niver have wanted a second. Corney what’s the owld hag doing since her two sons is in gaol along with Tim?”
“Ah! thin, she’s doing badly enough; she war niver from her bed since. Faix, Joe, they’ll niver be out in time to bury her.”
“Is it starving she is?”
“Well thin, I b’lieve that’s the worst of it; that an’ the agny, an’ no one to mind her at all, is enough to kill an owld woman like her.”
“Niver mind,” replied Joe, “it will be a comfort to her any way to hear that Ussher’s gone before her; not but what they’ll go to different places, though.” And then, after a time, he added, “Ussher’s black soul has gone its long journey this night with more curses on it than there are stones on these shingles. But come on, lads, we mustn’t be standing here; we must be in Aughacashel before sunrise, or else they’ll be stopping us as we pass through the counthry.”
And again they went through the clear bright moonlight. They passed Loch Sheen, and soon afterwards another little lake, lying also to the left of the road, and then they found themselves in the small village of Cashcarrigan. This they passed through silently and quickly and without speaking a word, and having proceeded about half a mile on the road towards Ballinamore, they again left it and took to the fields. They went along the northern margin of Loch Dieney, running where the ground was hard enough, at other times stepping from one dry sod to another, through gaps and fences, which seemed as well known to Thady’s guides as the cabins in which they had passed their lives. They left Drumshambo to their left, and at about four in the morning they came to Loch Allen. Here they got upon a road which for some way skirts the eastern side of the lake, along which they ran for about a mile and a half, and then turned into a small boreen or path, and began to ascend the mountains.
“Asy boys, now,” said Corney; “we’re all right when we’re here; an’, by the powers! I’m hot,” and the man began wiping his brow with his sleeve.
“What, Corney, you’re not blown yet!” said the other, “an’ here’s Mr. Thady as fresh as a four year old. Come along, man; the sooner he’s got a snug room over his head the better he’ll be. You forget he’s not accustomed to be out all night, and take his supper of moonshine, as you are. Come along, Mr. Thady; you’ll soon be where you’ll get as good a dhrop as iver man tasted, an’ you’ll feel a deal better when you’ve got a glass or two of that stuff in you.”
Thady, who, in spite of Joe’s compliment as to his freshness, was so weary that he could hardly drag his legs along, and who had seated himself for a moment upon one of the big loose stones which were scattered over the side of the hill, again rose, and they all resumed their journey. They soon lost the track of the boreen, but they still continued to ascend, keeping by the sides of the loose built walls with which the land was subdivided. It was astonishing what labour had seemingly been wasted in piling wall after wall in that barren place, and that even in spots where no attempt had been made at tillage, and where the only produce the land afforded was the food of a few miserable sheep and goats, which it might be thought could have grazed in safety without the necessity for all those numerous fences. These, however, after a time, ceased too; but just at the spot where the open mountain no longer showed any signs of man’s handiwork, Dan Kennedy’s lime-kiln was built, and immediately behind it were the two cabins of which we have before spoken.
It was at the door of the furthest of these two that Joe — did not knock — but raised the latch and rattled it. The old man within well knew the sign, and, getting out of bed, drew the wooden bolt, and admitted the three into the cabin. Though he did not expect Joe or Corney, and had not an idea who Thady was; and though Thady’s dress, which was somewhat better than those worn by his usual associates, must have struck him as uncommon, he made no remark, but hobbled into bed again, merely saying, in Irish, “God save ye kindly, boys! it’s a fine night ye’ve had, the Lord be praised!” There was a second bed in the place — if a filthy, ragged cotton tick filled with straw, and lying on the ground, could be called a bed — in which the old man’s daughter was lying. It was nearly dark now out of doors, for the moon had disappeared, and it was hardly yet six o’clock; but one of the men lighted a candle, of which there were two or three hanging against the wall. The girl was not asleep, for her eyes were wide open, looking at the party, but she seemed not at all surprised by their entrance, or at the addition to their usual numbers, for she lay quite quiet where she was, as if such morning guests in her bed-chamber were no unusual thing.
Joe now got a stool for Thady; and he and Corney sat down opposite the fire, while Reynolds drew a stone jar out from beneath the old man’s bed — he seemed well to know the place where it was to be found — and reaching a cracked cup down from a shelf which was fixed into the wall over the fire-place, filled it with spirits and handed it to Thady. He swallowed a considerable portion of it and returned it, when Joe filled it again, finished the contents himself, and gave it again full to Corney, who in a very short time did the same.
“By gor,” said the latter, “I wanted that; an’ I tell you that’s not bad work. Why, Mr. Thady —”
“Have done with your Misthers, Corney,” said Joe, in a whisper, “let them find out who he is theyselves. They’ll know soon enough, divil doubt them! there’s no good telling them yet, any how.”
“That’s thrue, Joe; but as I was saying, that’s not bad work; why, Mr. Thady —”
“Sorrow saze yer tongue, thin, ye born idiot!”
“Well, by dad, it comes so natural to me, Joe, to call him by his own name, that one can’t help it; but it war only four o’clock when we left this, this blessed afthernoon — that is, yesterday afthernoon — an’ since that we wor down at Mulready’s, an’ then at Drumleesh, an’ now we’re here agin; why how many miles is that?”
“Niver mind the miles; he”— and Joe pointed to Thady —“he has done a deal more than that in the same time — an’ whatever comes of it, he did a good deed. Howsomever, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll take a stretch now. Meg! — I say, Meg,”— and he turned round to the girl who was lying in the corner —“get out of that, an’ make room for this man to lie down. You’ve been asleep all night; make room for yer betthers now.”
The girl, without grumbling, turned out of bed, and burthened with no feeling of conventional modesty, commenced and finished her toilet, by getting into an old ragged calico gown, and tying up, with a bit of antique tape, her long rough locks which had escaped from their bondage during her sleep. Thady for a long time resisted, but Joe at last was successful in persuading him to take advantage of the bed which Meg had so good-humouredly relinquished.
“I an’ Corney have still-work to do afore daylight, an’ we won’t be back afore it’s night,” said Joe, “but do you bide here, an’ you’ll be safe. You must put up with the pratees this day, for there’s nothing better in it at all; but I’ll be getting something fitter for you by night; an’ av’ you feel low, which you’ll be doing when you wakes, mind, there’s the sperrits in the jar there undher the bed; a sup of it won’t hurt you now an’ agin, for indeed you’ll be wanting it, by yerself here all day. An’ look you,”— and he led him to the door as he spoke, and pointed to the two within —“they’ll soon know who you are, an’ all about it; but you needn’t be talking to them, you know; an’ you may be quite certain, that even should any one be axing about you, they’ll niver ‘peach, or give the word to the police, or any one else. Av you like to go out of this during the day, don’t go further than the kiln; an’ av you lie there, you could easily see them miles afore they war nigh you, even av anything should put it into their heads to think of coming afther you to Aughacashel.”
The two guides then took their leave of him, and Thady laid himself down on Meg’s bed, and, after a time, from sheer fatigue and exhaustion, he fell asleep.
At what hour he woke Thady did not know, but it was broad day, and the sun was high in the heavens; he would have slept again if he could, that he might again forget the dreadful deed which had made the last night so horrible, but he could not; he was obliged therefore to get up, and when he did so he felt himself weak for want of food. Meg it appears had gone out. The old man could not speak a word of English; but Thady could talk Irish, and he had no difficulty in getting plenty of potatoes from him, and as he was eating them the old man pulled out the jar of whiskey. Thady took part of another cup full, and then felt less sad than he had done before. After his breakfast he sat for a long time over the fire, smoked his pipe till he had no tobacco left in it, got up and sat down again, walked to the door and then again returned to his seat. At last he became dreadfully fatigued; he felt all the misery which a man, usually active, always feels when condemned for a time to idleness; he sat watching the turf, as though he could employ his mind, or interest himself in observing the different forms which the sods took, or how soon they would reduce themselves to ashes; then he counted the smutty rafters on which the crazy roof was supported, and then the different scraughs of which it was composed; he next endeavoured to think how the old man got through the tedium of his miserable existence. There he sat on the bed, quite imperturbable; he had not spoken ten words since Thady had got up, and seemed quite satisfied in sitting there enjoying the warmth of the fire, and having nothing to do. How Thady envied his quiescence! Then he began to reflect what had been this man’s life; had he always been content to sit thus tranquil, and find his comfort in idleness? At last he got almost alarmed at this old man; why did not he speak to him? why did he sit there so quiet, doing nothing — saying nothing — looking at nothing — and apparently thinking of nothing? it was as sitting with a dead body or a ghost — that sitting there with that lifeless but yet breathing creature. Every now and again, as he endeavoured to fill his mind with some idea that was not distressing to him, the thoughts of the horrors of his own position would come across him — the almost certainty of detection — the ignominy of his future punishment — the disgrace to his father and his sister; and even if not detected, if left in his present concealment, the horrors of such a life as he was now leading, a few hours of which had already nearly made him frantic, nearly overwhelmed him.
He got up, and leaving his companion to himself, he went to the lime-kiln and laid himself on the top of it, looking down the mountain towards Loch Allen and Drumshambo, that he might see if any of the police were coming in search of him. The open air was for a time pleasanter than the close heat of the burning turf, and solitude by far preferable to the company of that silent old man — but it was only for a short time that he felt the relief. The horrid inactivity of the day, joined to the weight that was on his mind, nearly drove him mad; as long as he had work to do — while he had to dispose of the dead man’s body — while he had his father and his sister near him — as long as he was hurrying through the country with Reynolds — the energy of whose character had for a time relieved him — as long as the sweat was pouring down his face, and his legs had been weary under him — he had borne much better the misery, which he felt now he was always doomed to bear; for he had then thought less of the past and the future; but now he could occupy his mind with nothing but the remembrance of the death he had inflicted, and the anticipation of the death he was to suffer. He tried to sleep, but it was in vain; he tried to imitate that old man, and let his mind sleep, but no, he could only think — he could not but think. Oh! he said to himself, that it were all over — if it were only done — if he could only swallow up the next six months and be dead and forgotten! If he had got past that dreadful trial — that cold unfeeling prison, with the harsh noise of the large key and the fetters, the stern judge, and the twelve stern men sworn to hang him if he deserved it! If he could escape the eyes of the whole country which would then be on him; the harsh, cold, solemn words which would then be addressed to him — the sorrow of his father — the shame of his sister — and, last and worst, the horrid touch of that dread man with the fatal rope! It was not death he feared — it was the disgrace of death, and the misery of the ignominious preparations. He knew in his heart that heaven could not call it murder that he had done; but he felt equally sure that man would do so.
He lay there on the lime-kiln till the sun had already set, and then he was again driven into the cabin by the cold.
There sat that silent, still old man. He had not moved from his former position, his bare feet thrust into old ragged shoes, which in some former generation had been made for some strong man double his size, and hanging down so that his toes just reached the floor — his hands resting on the quilt on each side of him, and his head dropping on his chest. Oh, what an easy, quiet mind, thought Thady, must that man have — how devoid of care and fear must he be, to be able to sit there motionless all the live-long day, and not feel it dreary, long, endless, insupportable, as he did.
The girl was still absent, and Thady again sat himself down by the fire, the blazing turf on which gave the only signs that the old man had moved. Again he counted the rafters, counted the miserable scraps of furniture, counted the sods of turf, speculated where the turf was cut — who cut it? who was the landlord of the cabin? what rent was paid? who collected it? But a minute — half a minute sufficed for the full consideration of all these things, and again he began to reflect how long it would be before the police would find him, and drag him forth from that dreary place; how long it would be before he should feel the handcuffs on his wrist; and before the first day of his concealment had passed over, he had become almost impatient for that time; and looked forward to the excitement of his capture, which he knew must sooner or later take place, with something like a wish that it might soon occur, to relieve him from the weight of his present condition.
At last he determined to speak to his companion, and after considering for some time what he should say to him, he asked him what his name was; but Thady had spoken in his usual language, and the old man, looking up, answered that he had no English.
“What’s your name?” asked Thady, in Irish.
“Andy McEvoy.”
“And is this cabin your own?”
“Yes.”
“And who’s your landlord?”
“The mountain belongs mostly to Sir Michael.”
“But don’t you pay any rent?”
“No.”
“And what is it you do all day long?”
“Why then mostly nothing; I’m very old.”
“And what does your daughter be doing?”
“Why then I don’t rightly know; she’s mostly out for Dan Kennedy.”
“And where do you be getting the pratees?”
“‘Deed I b’lieve Meg gets them mostly from Dan’s garden.”
“Who does Dan pay his rent to?”
“Why then I can’t be saying.”
It was useless carrying on a conversation any longer with such a man. He neither interested himself about his house, his food, his landlord, or his family, and Thady again held his tongue.
Soon after dusk Meg returned; she had in the folds of her gown a loaf of bread and a very small piece of bacon, and it was evident to Thady that whatever had become of Joe and the other, they had not forgotten him or their promise to provide him with some better food than the lumpers which sufficed for Andy McEvoy and his daughter.
When the old man saw the provisions his eyes glistened a little, and he clutched the dirty quilt somewhat faster, and by the eagerness he evinced for the food it was a relief to see that he had some human feeling left. Meg boiled the bacon and some potatoes together, and when they were ready, put them on the dirty deal table before Thady; she did not seem much more communicative than her father, but she asked him civilly if he would eat, and evidently knew he was of a higher rank than those with whom she was accustomed to associate, for she went through the ceremony of wiping the top of the table with the tail of her gown. Thady eat a portion of what was given him; and as he did so he saw the old man’s greedy eyes glare on him, as he still sat in his accustomed seat; it was quite horrible to see how greedy and ravenous he appeared. Thady, however, left much more than he consumed, and the girl carefully putting the bit of bread away, for his breakfast in the morning, divided the remnant of the bacon with her father.
Then the man’s apathy and tranquillity vanished, and the voracity with which he devoured the unaccustomed dainty showed that though he might have no demon thoughts to rack his brain, the vulture in his stomach tortured him as violently.
Joe Reynolds and Corney returned about an hour after dark, and requested Thady to come out with them, which he did. They then told him that it was necessary that he should now take the oath, which they before warned him that he would have to take if he accompanied them to their haunts at Aughacashel. He at first felt inclined to declare that he had again changed his mind, and that instead of taking this oath and joining himself in any league with them, he was prepared to return home to Ballycloran, and give himself up to the police; but his courage failed him now that he was, as it were, in their own country, and particularly after the kindness and attention that Reynolds had showed him. He therefore followed them, and they entered together the other cabin belonging to Dan Kennedy. Dan and his wife, and another man, his brother, were there. Dan was a sullen, surly, brutal looking ruffian, about fifty years old, and his wife was a fitting mate for such a man; she was dirty, squalid, and meagre; but there was a determined look of passion and self-will about her, which plainly declared that whoever Dan bullied, he did not, and could not, bully his wife.
His brother Abraham was a cripple, having no use in either of his legs; but he had an appearance of intelligence and wit in his face, which his brother in no degree shared, and he was very powerful with his arms. It was he who chiefly made the spirits, while Dan and the others procured the barley — brought it up to Aughacashel, malted it, and afterwards disposed of the whiskey.
“Well, my hearty,” said Dan, as Thady followed his guides into the cabin, where his family party were engaged drinking raw spirits round the fire, “so you’ve done for that bloody thief of the world, have you? Joe tells me you riz agin him quick enough when you found him at his tricks with yer sisther. Divil a toe though you stirred to come to mother Mulready’s when we axed you, in spite of the oath you took on the holy cross; but you’re quick enough coming among us now you’re in the wrong box yourself.”
“Asy, Dan,” said Joe; “what’s the use of all that bother now; an’t he here? and hasn’t he rid us of him that would have got clane off from us, but for Mr. Thady here, that struck the blow we ought to have struck?”
“Thrue for you, Joe,” said Abraham; “so hould yer jaw, Dan, and give me hoult of the blessed book till I give him the oath.”
“All’s right,” said Dan; “and I’m glad to see you here, my lad of wax, seeing what sent you; but business first and play after. I s’pose if you’re maning to stay here wid us — an’ by G——d you’re wilcome — you’ll not be saying anything agin giving me or Corney there, a bit of a line to some of your frinds at Ballycloran, to be sending you up a thrifle of money or so, or a few odd bits of duds, or may be a lump of mate or bacon, or a pound or two of sugar to swaiten the punch.”
Thady looked very blank at this, for he by no means wished to be writing to his friends at Ballycloran, nor were the articles mentioned in Dan’s catalogue at all too plentiful in that place; however, before he could answer, Joe indignantly scoffed at his friend’s shabbiness.
“D——n it, Dan, I didn’t think you war that main, to be charging a boy for the morsel he’d be ating, an’ the sup he’d be taking, an’ him undher a cloud, an’ he afther doing us sich a sarvice.”
“Av he wor one of ourselves,” replied Dan; “but a gintleman the likes of him, may be, would be plased not to be beholden to the likes of us.”
“Nonsense, Dan,” said Joe; “don’t think of giving such a line at all, Mr. Thady. I’m not so bad off, but I’ll not see you wanting; you’re as wilcome to everything here as daylight.”
“Spake for yerself; you’re mighty ready, I’m thinking, to spake for others,” said Dan’s helpmate; “av the gintleman’s willing to help a poor man like Dan for putting a house over his head in his throubles, who’s to hinder him?”
Thady, however, made them understand that he would give them no such letter to his father or his sister as they proposed, and Abraham then proceeded to administer the oath to him. By this he bound himself, first of all, never to divulge to any one, particularly not to any magistrate or policeman, or in any court of law, anything that should be done or said in that place where he now was, that might be prejudicial to any of the party. Secondly, to give all aid and assistance in his power to all those now present, and to any which might be in possession of a certain pass-word, and who might be able to answer certain questions with the fit and appointed answers, and to help in the escape or concealment of any such, when they might be either in confinement, or in dread of being arrested. And thirdly, that he would aid and assist in all schemes of vengeance and punishment which would be entered into by those with whom he was now bound, against any who attempted to molest them, but especially against all Revenue officers and their men.
To all these conditions Thady bound himself, and as he finished repeating each article after Abraham, he kissed the dirty prayer-book which that man presented to him; and having done this, he made one of the party round the fire, whilst Corney, Dan, and Joe took it by turns to go out and watch that no unexpected visitor was at hand.
When the night was tolerably advanced the three left the family of the Kennedys to themselves, and returned to Andy’s cabin; and Thady having refused to allow that Meg should be again disturbed for his accommodation, they all stretched themselves upon the earthen floor before the fire, and were soon asleep.
The next morning Joe and Corney again went away early, and Thady found himself doomed to pass just such another day as the preceding one.
After giving him his breakfast Meg again also went out, and left Thady alone with her father.
By way of propitiating the old man he gave him half the bit of bread which he was eating. Andy devoured it as he had done the bacon, and then resumed the same apathy and look of idle contentment which had so harassed Thady on the previous day. This second day was more grievous, more intolerable even than the first. He walked from the cabin to the lime-kiln, and from the lime-kiln to the cabin twenty times. He went to Kennedy’s cabin, to try if he could kill time by subjecting himself to the brutality of the man or his wife; but the door was locked or bolted, and there was apparently no one in it; he clambered up the hill and then down again — and again threw himself upon the walls of the lime-kiln, and looked upon the silver lake that lay beneath him. But the day would not pass — it was not even yet noon — he could see that the sun had yet a heavy space to cover before it would reach the middle of the skies. Oh heavens! what should he do? Should he sit there from day to day, when every hour seemed like an age of misery, waiting till he should be dragged out like a badger from its hole. He looked towards the village, and to different bits of road which his eye could reach, thinking that he should see the dark uniform of a policeman; but no, nothing ever was stirring — it seemed as if nothing ever stirred — as if nothing had life by day, in that lifeless, desolate spot. At length he thought to himself that he would bear it no longer; that he would not remain for a short time indebted for his food to such a man as Dan Kennedy, and then at length be taken away to the fate which he knew awaited him, and be dragged along the roads by a policeman, with handcuffs on his wrists — a show, to be gaped at by the country! No; he would return at once, and give himself up; he would boldly go to the magistrates at Carrick — declare that he had done the deed, and under what provocation he had done it, and then let them do the worst they chose with him.
After much considering, and many changes in his resolutions, he at length determined that he would do this — that as soon as it began to be dusk, he would leave the horrid mountain where he had passed the saddest hours that he had yet known, and go at once from thence to Father John, and implicitly follow the advice which he might give him.
When once he had definitely resolved on this line of conduct he was much easier in his mind; he had at any rate once more something to do — some occupation. He had freed himself from the prospect of long, weary, unending days, to be passed with that horrid man; and he was comparatively comfortable.
He determined to wait till it was nearly or quite dusk, which would be about five or half-past five o’clock, and then to leave the cabin, and making what haste he could to Drumshambo, go from thence by the road to Cashcarrigan and Ballycloran; and he calculated that he would be able to reach Father John’s cottage between ten and eleven, before the priest had gone to bed; and having finally settled this in his mind, he returned to the cabin for the last time, determined manfully to sit out the remainder of the afternoon in the same apathetic tranquillity, which his enemy Andy displayed.
For four long hours there he remained, seated on the same stool, without moving or speaking; and for the same time there sat Andy on his bed, looking at the fire, and from time to time dragging a few sods from under the bed to throw them upon the ashes and keep up the warmth which seemed to be his only comfort. At length Thady thought it was dark enough, and without saying a word to the old man, he left the cabin and again descended the hill. He would not return by the same path by which he had come for fear he should meet Joe or Corney, or Meg — for he was unwilling that even she should see him escaping from his hiding-place. By the time that he reached Drumshambo it was dark, and it continued so till he got to Cashcarrigan, which he did without meeting any one who either recognised him or spoke to him. From thence he passed back by the two small lakes and the cabin of the poor widow who owed her misery to Ussher’s energy, and across the bog of Drumleesh to the lane which would take him by Ballycloran to Father John’s cottage. But before he reached Ballycloran the moon again rose bright and clear, and as he passed the spot where he more particularly wished to be shrouded by the darkness, it was so light that any one passing could not but recognise him.
He pulled his hat far over his forehead, and passed on quickly; but just as he got to the gateway he met Mary McGovery, who was on the very point of turning up the avenue to the house. The turn in the road, exactly at the spot, had prevented him from seeing her before, and she immediately recognised him.
“Holy Virgin! Mr. Thady,” she said; “and is that yerself?”
“Hist, Mary, don’t spake so loud — not that I care who spakes now; you see it’s me; and I’m going to the Cottage. Is Father John at home?”
“And what would you do with Father John, now? Don’t you know the police is afther you?”
“What matther? it’s not much throuble I’ll be giving thim, looking for me. I’m going to thim myself now.”
“An’ what for would you do that, Mr. Thady? Don’t you know they found it murdher agin you? We all hoped you were out of the counthry afore this. What for would you go to the police? Time enough when they catches you.”
This was the first time that Thady had heard that a verdict of murder had been found against him before the Coroner, and though it was only what he expected, nevertheless the certainty, now that it reached him, almost made him change his mind and return to Aughacashel. The remembrance, however, of that weary day, and the feeling that even though he were there, he would assuredly be ultimately taken, strengthened his resolution, and he said,
“No, Mary, I’ve had enough of running away already. But tell me; how’s Feemy?”
“Why, thin, Mr. Thady, she’s nothing much to boast of; since she was in Carrick, yesterday, she’s been very bad intirely.”
“What is it ails her? It’s — it’s that man’s death, isn’t it, Mary?”
“‘Deed, Mr. Thady, I s’pose that war the first on it. Poor young lady! in course she feels it. — Wouldn’t I feel it, av any one was to knock poor Denis on the head? — not that it’s the same thing, altogether, for the Captain wasn’t her lawful wedded husband. — Not that I’m saying agin you, Mr Thady, for what ye did.”
“Never mind about that, Mary; what I’ve done is my own look out. But would Feemy see me, do you think?”
“See you, Mr. Thady! How could she see you, an’ she in a raging fever in bed at Mrs. McKeon’s? in course she couldn’t see you.”
“Good God! and is she so bad as that?”
“Faith then, she is, very bad intirely; at laste, Docther Blake says so.”
“It’s very well, any way, that she’s at Drumsna, instead of here at Ballycloran. Mrs. McKeon must be a kind woman to take her at such a time as this. And what’s the owld man doing here by himself?”
“He’s very quare in his ways, they do be saying; but I didn’t see him meself yet; I’m going down to mind him, meself, this blessed moment.”
“Why, isn’t the two girls in it still?”
“Yes, they is, Mr. Thady; but they got frighted with the quare ways the owld man brought back with him from Carrick. He’s wake in the head, they say, Mr. Thady, since he war up afore the gintlemen at the inquest; an’ as the two girls wor frighted with ’im, an’ as I am, maybe, a bit sthronger, an’ a thrifle owlder nor they, Father John said I’d better step down an’ mind him a bit; an’ when all was settled, that he would see my expinses war paid.”
“Well, Mary, good night! Be kind and gentle with the owld man, for he’s enough on him jist now to unsettle his mind, av it were sthronger than it iver was; and don’t tell him you see me here, for it would only be making him more onasy.”
“Good night, thin, an’ God bless you, Mr. Thady,” said Mary. “You’ve a peck of throubles on yer head, this night,” she added to herself, as she walked up the avenue, “an’ it’s little you did to desarve ’em, onless working hard night an’ day war a sin. Well, God forgive us! shure you’re betther off still, than the gay man you stretched the other night;” and she went on to commence her new business — that of watching and consoling Larry Macdermot in his idiotcy.
Thady pursued his road to the Cottage, without meeting anyone else, and with some hesitation knocked at the priest’s door. His heart palpitated violently within him as he waited some little time for an answer. It was about eleven, and he knew that at that hour Father John would still be up, if he were at home, though Judy would probably have retired to her slumbers. He was right in his calculation; for in a short time he heard the heavy step of Father John in the hall, and then the rusty door-key grated in the lock. Thady’s knees shook beneath him as he listened to the rising latch. How should he meet Father John’s eyes after what he had done? How should he find words to tell him that he had broken the solemn vow that he had taken on the holy scriptures, and had, in his first difficulty, flown to the disreputable security to be found in the haunts of such men as Joe Reynolds and Dan Kennedy. However, this he would have to tell him; for the door was now open, and there stood the priest, with his eyes fixed on Thady’s sad face and soiled appearance.
Thady had not had his clothes off for the last two nights, and they now bore all the soil and stains of his two midnight walks; his countenance was pale in the extreme, and, never full or healthy, now seemed more thin and wan, than forty-eight hours’ sorrow could possibly have made it. He was much fatigued, for his shoes had become soaked with water in the moist grounds through which he had passed and repassed, and his feet were blistered with his long and unaccustomed walks.
When Father John saw him, his heart melted within him at the sight of the young man’s sad and melancholy figure. We already know that from the moment he had first heard of the catastrophe, he had made excuses in his own heart for Thady; and when he had heard, as he did at the inquest, that his sister had been with Ussher when he lifted his stick against him, he had not only acquitted him in his own estimation, from anything like the crime of murder, but he also felt certain that had he been in the same situation, he would most assuredly have done the same as Thady had done. He had been much surprised at the Coroner’s verdict; he could not think how twelve men on their oath could call Ussher’s death murder, when it so evidently appeared to him that the man stigmatised by that verdict as a murderer, had only been actuated by the praiseworthy purpose of defending his sister from disgrace and violence; and when, moreover, it was so plain that Thady’s presence on the scene at the moment was accidental, and that the attack could not have been premeditated.
The jurors, however, had not been Thady’s friends, as Father John was, nor were they inclined to look upon such a deed with the same lenient eyes. It appeared to them that Ussher was not using any violence to the young lady, who had herself admitted in her evidence, that she was a willing party to Ussher’s proceedings. Doubtless, there might be circumstances, which at the prisoner’s trial would be properly put forward in palliation of the murder, by his counsel; but with that the jury before the Coroner could have nothing to do; and on these considerations, the jurors with very little delay had come to the conclusion which had so surprised and grieved Father John. Still, however, he looked forward with almost absolute certainty to Thady’s acquittal at his trial, and was by far more angry with the young man himself, at his folly in attempting to fly from justice, than he was at the deed which had put him under its power. Now, however, when he saw him pale, fatigued, harassed, and in sorrow at his door, his anger all turned to pity, and the only feeling left in his bosom led him to think how he could assuage his sufferings and comfort him in his afflictions.
Thady was the first to speak — “Father John,” he said, “I’ve come to give myself up; I thought I’d tell you, as I passed the door.”
“Oh my son, my son!” said Father John. “Come in though, Thady, come in-till we think what’s best to do in this sad time;” and they went again into the little parlour, where so short a time ago Thady had made the promise which he now had to confess he had broken.
He then gave the priest, by degrees, the whole history of the affair; he told how the different events had happened; he explained how Feemy’s appearance as she lay fainting in Ussher’s arms, and that man’s words to her, when he declared that she must come with him, had at the moment made him think that she was being dragged away by violence; and that he had had this conviction on his mind when he raised his stick to strike. He then told Father John exactly what he had done since the occurrence, the precautions which he took respecting the body — the visit which he paid to his father and his sister, and lastly, how he had fled for the sake of security, and passed two miserable days among the mountains in Aughacashel.
“Ah! my poor boy,” said Father John, “that’s what I have to blame you for. What made you fly there? what made you fly anywhere? why did you not with an honest face at once place yourself in the hands of the police, from whom you must know you couldn’t have remained concealed?”
“Oh, Father John, av you could feel all I felt when I first knew the man was dead — when my own sisther spurned me — and when my father told me I was a murdherer, you wouldn’t wonder at my flying, av it were only for an hour.”
“That’s true, my boy — that’s very true; and I won’t ask you now where you were, or who were with you — or what folly you may have done whilst there; for I haven’t the heart to blame you for what you’ve done in the extremity of your misery. But now, Thady, we must think of the future; of course you know, that having come to my house, and having seen me, you must at once place yourself in the hands of the police.”
“In course, Father John; I was only on my way to Carrick when I called here. In truth, I wanted a kind word from you before they put me in that horrid place.”
“My poor, dear boy, it’s little comfort I can give you, except to tell you that we all think — that is McKeon and I, and the rest of us — that when the trial comes on they must acquit you — any jury must acquit you; and that till that time comes, you may be sure whatever can be done for you by the warmest friends, shall be done by us. But you know, Thady, till that time does come — till the trial is over, you must remain in prison.”
“But, Father John, do you think they’ll acquit me? do you think — does Mr. McKeon think, they’ll not find it murder?”
“Indeed he does, Thady, and so do I; and so I’m sure does the Coroner, by what he said to the jury. I’m sure he didn’t expect them to find it murder at the inquest.”
“That’s great comfort, Father John; but you always had comfort for me. But tell me, what’s this I hear about Feemy and my father; is it thrue they’re both ill?”
“I’ve little comfort for you in that quarter, I’m afraid; but though Feemy’s ill, I don’t think she’s dangerously so. She will want time to bring her round; but I’ve no doubt time will bring her round. She has had a great deal to try her too; she was very fond of that man, though he was so unworthy of her; and it isn’t easy for a girl like Feemy to get over at once the loss of him she loved so dearly.”
“God send she may recover! I did it all for the best. Larry was long ailing; I fear this has knocked him up intirely; what’ll the tinants do now at all? they’ll have no one over thim but Keegan, I suppose: he’ll be resaving the rints now, Father John; won’t he?”
“Don’t mind that now, my boy; you’ve enough on your heart now without troubling yourself about that.”
“Well, then, I’ll be wishing you good bye; I’ll go on to Carrick.”
“No, Thady, not to-night; stay here to-night. I would not have you go in and give yourself up under cover of the dark. Early tomorrow — as soon as Counsellor Webb will be up, you shall go with me to him. He’ll no doubt commit you; indeed he must do so; but that will be better for you than lying all night in the guard-room at the police station, and being dragged out in the morning, cold, comfortless, and hungry.”
Father John then got him supper and had a bed prepared for him, and early in the morning he sent down to Ballycloran for his linen and clothes that he might appear in a more respectable manner before the magistrate; he had his horse and car ready for them after breakfast, and at about ten they started for Counsellor Webb’s.
They found the magistrate at home, and Father John sent in word to him that Mr. Macdermot having heard the verdict which had been returned at the Coroner’s inquest, had come to surrender himself. Mr. Webb received the two into his study, and having explained to Thady that it was of course his duty immediately to commit him, sent to Carrick for police, in whose charge it would be necessary that the prisoner should be sent from thence.
“I’m very sorry,” said Webb, “that this should be my principal duty, and that I should be obliged to hand you over to the constables; but you must have been aware that I should do so, when you came to me.”
Father John then took Mr. Webb aside, and explained to him all the particulars of the case, which had not come out at the inquest; and at last it was agreed that he, Mr. Webb, should go with them into Carrick — that they would call at the police-office to inform the sergeant there that the prisoner was in custody, and that they should go direct to the gaol, and that Thady should be immediately handed over to the custody of the gaoler. This was accordingly done, and he avoided the disgrace, which he so feared, of being led through the town with handcuffs on his wrists.
Father John did not leave him until he had seen him settled with whatever comfort a prison could afford; but of these things, now that he was there, he seemed to think much less than the priest himself.
When Father John was kindly petitioning with the Governor to allow the prisoner a light in his cell, he said, “What matters? a light won’t make the time pass over quicker.”
The next assizes would not take place till April, six months after the present time; and it was finally agreed that Father John should take on himself all the cares connected with his defence, and should from time to time visit him in his confinement, and give him such news respecting his father, his sister, and the affairs at Ballycloran, as he might have to bring; — and then he took his leave.
When he was gone Thady was once more alone and in solitude; moreover, he felt strongly the gloom of the big cold walls around him — of the huge locks which kept him — the austerity and discomforts of prison discipline, and all the miseries of confinement; but yet even there, in gaol and committed to take his trial for life — though doomed to the monotony of that dull cell for six months — still he felt infinitely less wretched than he had done whilst sitting in Andy McEvoy’s cabin, wondering at the torpidity of its owner. The feeling of suspense, of inactivity, the dread of being found and dragged away, joined to the horror he felt at remaining in so desolate a place, would have driven him mad. Now he knew that he had no daily accident to fear — no new misfortune to dread — and he nerved himself to bear the six long coming months with fortitude and patience. Though the time was long, and his weary days generally unbroken by anything that could interest or enliven them, still, from the hour when Father John first spoke to him at his hall-door, to that in which he was led into the Court-house dock as a prisoner to take his trial for his life, he never once repented that he had quitted Aughacashel and his mountain security, to give himself up as a prisoner to the authorities of Carrick.
As story-tellers of every description have, from time immemorial, been considered free from those niceties by which all attempts in the nobler classes of literature are, or should be restrained, we consider no apology necessary for requesting the reader to leap over with us the space of four months; but still, before we continue our tale from that date, it will be as well that we should give a short outline of the principal events which produced the state in which the circumstances of the Macdermots will then be found, and we are sorry to say that they were not such as could offer much consolation to them.
It will be remembered that Pat Brady was commissioned by his master to take Ussher’s body to the police station at Carrick, in Fred Brown’s gig. This commission he promptly performed, and also that of restoring the gig to its owner; and after having thus completed his master’s behests like a good servant, he paid a visit on his own account to Mr. Keegan.
Although it was late, he still found that active gentleman up, and gave him a tolerably accurate account of what had happened at Ballycloran, adding that “the young masther had gone off to join the boys, at laste that’s what he supposed he’d be afther now.” As soon as Keegan’s surprise was a little abated, he perceived that the affair would probably act as a stepping-stone, on which he might walk into Ballycloran even sooner than he had hitherto thought to do; and when, as one of the jurors at the coroner’s inquest, on the next morning, he saw that poor Larry had evidently fallen into absolute idiotcy, and heard that Thady had, in fact, escaped, he instantly determined to take such legal steps on behalf of his father-in-law as would put the property under his management. And this, accordingly, he did. The proper steps for proving the old man to be of unsound mind would have been attended with very great expense; instead of doing this, he got himself made receiver over the property, and determined to arrest Larry, which, in his existing state, he conceived he should have no difficulty in doing. Here, however, he found himself very much mistaken, for nothing could induce the old man to leave his own room, or so much as allow the front door to be unlocked. Mary Brady still continued to attend him every day, returning home to her husband after sunset, and she found him very easy to manage in every other particular, as long as he was allowed to have his own way in this.
He had quite lost the triumphant feeling which led him to boast in the streets of Carrick, after leaving the inquest, that he had escaped from Flannelly’s power, and that he would never have to pay him another farthing; for now if he heard a strange step, he fancied it to be a bailiff’s, and if there was the slightest noise in the house, he thought that an attempt was being made to drag him off by violence. It was a miserable sight to see the old man, thin, wan, and worn out, sitting during that cold winter, by a few sods of turf, with the door of his own room ajar, watching the front door from morning till night, to see that no one opened it. Before Christmas he had his bed brought down into the same room, in order that he might not be betrayed into the hands of his enemies in the morning before he was up, and from that time no inducement could prevail on him to leave the room for a moment.
During this time his poverty was very great; the tenants had been served with legal notices to pay neither to him nor to Thady any portion of their rents, and consequently provisions were very low and very scarce at Ballycloran; in fact, had it not been for the kindness of Father John, Mr. McKeon, and Counsellor Webb, whose property was adjoining to Ballycloran, Larry would have been starved into a surrender. Mr. Webb went so far as to interfere with Mr. Keegan, and to point out to him that in all humanity he should stay his proceedings till after Thady’s trial, but Keegan replied that he was only acting for Mr. Flannelly, who was determined to have the matter settled at once; that all he wanted was his own, and that he had already waited too long.
When Keegan found that Larry Macdermot, in spite of his infirmities, was too wary to be caught, he endeavoured to bribe Mary to open the door to his emissaries, and to betray the old man; but though Mary was very fond of money, she was too honest for this, and she replied to the attorney by telling him, “that for all the money in the bank of Carrick, she wouldn’t be the one to trate the ould blood that way.” Larry consequently still held out at Ballycloran, living on the chance presents of his friends, who sent him at one time a few stone of potatoes, at another a pound of tea, then a bit of bacon, or a few bottles of whiskey; this last, however, was confided to Mary, with injunctions not to allow him too frequently to have recourse to the only comforter that was left to him.
Though Keegan failed to gain admission into the house, and could not therefore put himself into absolute possession of the estate, still he could do what he pleased with the lands, and he was not long in availing himself of the power. In January he served notices on all the tenants that unless the whole arrears were paid on or before the end of the next month, they would be ejected; and to many of those who held portions of the better part of the land, he sent summary notices to quit on the first of May next following. These notices were all served by Pat, who assured the tenants that he only performed the duties which he had now undertaken that he might look after Mr. Thady’s interests, and as, as he said, “there could be no use in life in his refusing to do it, for av he didn’t, another would, and the tenants would be no betther, and he a dale the worse.”
These things by no means tended to make Keegan’s name popular on the estate, particularly at Drumleesh, where the tenants were but ill prepared to pay their rent by small portions at a time, and were utterly confounded at the idea of having to pay up the arrears in a lump; but Pat assured him that although they were surly and sullen, they gave no signs or showed any determination of having recourse to violence, or of openly rebelling against the authority of their new landlord.
Pat, however, knew but little of what was going on amongst them now. Although they found no absolute fault with the arguments which he used for acting on Mr. Keegan’s behalf, still he soon discovered that the tenants had withdrawn their confidence from him, and that they looked upon him rather as the servant of their new tyrant, than as the friend to whom they had been accustomed to turn, when they wanted any little favour from their old master. He had moreover discontinued his visits to Mrs. Mulready’s, and had for a long time seen nothing of Joe Reynolds and his set, who spent most of their time in Aughacashel, or at any rate away from Drumleesh.
Joe Reynolds had been altogether unable to account for Thady’s sudden disappearance from Aughacashel. At first he thought he must have been taken prisoner by some of the police, whilst roaming about in the neighbourhood; and although he ultimately heard that Father John and he had gone together to Counsellor Webb’s, still he never could learn how Thady had fallen into the priest’s hands. Joe, however, did not forget that Thady had done what he considered the good service of ridding the country of Ussher, and he swore that he would repay it by punishing the man, who in his estimation was robbing Thady of his right and his property; he had long since declared at Mrs. Mulready’s, as we are aware, that if Thady would come over and join his party, Keegan should not come upon the estate with impunity, and he was now determined to keep his word.
Keegan, trusting to the assurance of Pat, that the tenants were all quiet and peaceable, at length began to go among them himself, and had, about the beginning of February, once or twice ridden over portions of the property. About five o’clock one evening in that month, he was riding towards home along the little lane that skirts Drumleesh bog, after having seen as much of that delectable neighbourhood as a man could do on horseback, when his horse was stopped by a man wrapped in a very large frieze coat, but whose face was not concealed, who asked him, “could he spake to his honer about a bit of land that he was thinking of axing afther, when the man that was on it was put off, as he heard war to be done.” As the man said this he laid his hands on the bridle, and Keegan fearing from this that something was not right, put his hand into his coat pocket, where his pistols were, and told the man to come to him at Carrick, if he wanted to say anything. The man, however, continued, “av his honer wouldn’t think it too much throuble jist to come down for one moment, he’d point out the cabin which he meant.” Keegan was now sure from the man’s continuing to keep his hand on the bridle, that some injury to him was intended, and was in the act of drawing his pistol from his pocket, when he was knocked altogether from off his horse by a blow which he received on the head with a large stone, thrown from the other side of one of the banks which ran along the road. The blow and the fall completely stunned him, and when he came to himself he was lying on the road; the man who had stopped his horse was kneeling on his chest; a man, whose face was blackened, was holding down his two feet, and a third, whose face had also been blackened, was kneeling on the road beside him with a small axe in his hand. Keegan’s courage utterly failed him when he saw the sharp instrument in the ruffian’s grasp; he began to promise largely if they would let him escape — forgiveness — money — land — anything — everything for his life. Neither of them, however, answered him, and before the first sentence he uttered was well out of his mouth, the instrument fell on his leg, just above the ankle, with all the man’s force; the first blow only cut his trousers and his boot, and bruised him sorely — for his boots protected him; the second cut the flesh, and grated against the bone; in vain he struggled violently, and with all the force of a man struggling for his life; a third, and a fourth, and a fifth descended, crushing the bone, dividing the marrow, and ultimately severing the foot from the leg. When they had done their work, they left him on the road, till some passer by should have compassion on him, and obtain for him the means of conveyance to his home.
In a short time Keegan fainted from loss of blood, but the cold frost soon brought him to his senses; he got up and hobbled to the nearest cabin, dragging after him the mutilated foot, which still attached itself to his body by the cartilages and by the fragments of his boot and trousers; and from thence reached his home on a country car, racked by pain, which the jolting of the car and the sharp frost did not tend to assuage.
At the time of which we are writing — about the first week in March — he had been entirely unable to ascertain any of the party by whom he had been attacked. The men were Dan Kennedy, Joe Reynolds, and Corney Dolan; of these, Joe alone was personally known to Keegan, and it was he who used the axe with such fell cruelty; but he had been so completely disguised at the time, that Keegan had not in the least recognised him. Dan was the man who had at first stopped the horse, and he being confident that Keegan had not even heard his name, and that he was very unlikely to be in any place where his victim could again see him so as to know him, had not feared to stop the horse, and address its rider without any disguise.
This act, which was originally proposed and finally executed more with the intent of avenging Thady, than with any other purpose, was the most unfortunate thing for him that could have happened; for in the first place it made the magistrates and the government imagine that the country was in a disorderly state generally, and that it was therefore necessary to follow up the prosecutions at the Assizes with more than ordinary vigour; and in the next place, it made Keegan determined to do all that he could to secure Thady’s conviction, for he attributed his horrible mutilation to the influence of the Macdermots.
Other things had also occurred during the four months since Thady had given himself up to the authorities, which had determined the law officers of the government to follow up Ussher’s murderer with all severity, and obtain if possible a conviction.
The man who had been sent to Mohill in Ussher’s place was by no means his equal either in courage, determination, or perseverance; still it had been necessary for him to follow to a certain degree in his predecessor’s steps, especially as at the time illicit distillation had become more general in the country than it had ever been known to be before. A man named Cogan, who had acted very successfully as a spy to Ussher, also offered his services to the new officer, by whom they were accepted. This man had learnt that potheen was being made at Aughacashel, and, dressed in the uniform of one of the Revenue police, had led the men to Dan Kennedy’s cabin. Here they merely found Abraham, the cripple, harmlessly employed in superintending the boiling of some lumpers, and Andy McEvoy in the other cabin, sitting on his bed; not a drop of potheen — not a grain of malt — not a utensil used in distillation was found, and they had to return foiled and beaten.
The new officer, whose name was Foster, also received various threatening letters, and among them the following:—
This is to giv’ notis, Captin Furster, av you’ll live and let live, and be quite an’ pacable — divil a rason is there, why you need be afeard — but av you go on among the Leatrim boys — as that bloody thundhering ruffin Ussher, by the etarnal blessed Glory, you wul soon be streatched as he war — for the Leatrim boys isn’t thim as wul put up with it.
This was only one of many that he received — and these, together with the futility of his first attempt — a tremendous stoning which he and his men received in the neighbourhood of Drumshambo — the burning of Cogan’s cabin, and the fate of his predecessor, totally frightened him; and he represented to the head office in Dublin that the country was in such a state, that he was unable, with the small body of men at his command, to carry on his business with anything approaching to security.
These things all operated much against the chance of Thady’s acquittal, and his warmest friends could not but feel that they did so. People in the country began to say that some severe example was necessary — that the country was in a dreadful state — and that the government must be upheld; and these fears became ten times greater, when it was generally known that Thady, a day or two before the catastrophe, had absolutely associated with some of the most desperate characters in the country.
Brady, at first, had been unwilling to divulge all that he knew to Mr. Keegan; for, though he felt no hesitation in betraying his old master, he was not desirous to hang him; but Keegan, by degrees, got it all out of him, and bribed so high that Pat, at last, consented to come forward at the trial and swear to all the circumstances of the meeting at Mrs. Mehan’s, and the attorney lost no time in informing the solicitor, who was to conduct the prosecution on behalf of the crown, what this witness was able to prove.
All this was sad news for Father John, and his friend McKeon, but still they would not despair. They talked the matter over and over again in McKeon’s parlour, and Tony occasionally almost forgot his punch in his anxiety to put forward and make the most of all those points, which he considered to be in Thady’s favour. It was not only the love of justice, his regard for the family of the Macdermots, and Father John’s eloquence which had enlisted McKeon so thoroughly in Thady’s interest — though, no doubt, these three things had great weight with him — but his own personal predilections had also a considerable share in doing so.
The three leading resident gentlemen in the neighbourhood were Sir Michael Gibson, Mr. Jonas Brown, and Counsellor Webb; they were the three magistrates who regularly attended the petty sessions at Carrick; and as they usually held different opinions on all important subjects relative to the locality in which they resided, so all their neighbours swore by one of them, condemning the other two as little better than fools or knaves.
Sir Michael was by far the richest, and would, therefore, naturally have had the greatest number of followers, had it not been that it was usually extremely difficult to find out what his opinion was. He was neither a bad nor a good landlord — that is to say, his land was seldom let for more than double its value; and his agent did not eject his tenants as long as they contrived not to increase the arrears which they owed when he undertook the management of the property; but Sir Michael himself neither looked after their welfare, or took the slightest care to see that they were comfortable.
On the bench, by attempting to agree with both his colleagues, he very generally managed to express an opinion different from either of them; and as he was, of course, the chairman, the decisions of the bench were in consequence frequently of a rather singular nature; however, on the whole, Sir Michael was popular, for if he benefited none, he harmed none; and he was considered by many a safe constitutional man, with no flighty ideas on any side.
Jonas Brown was hated by the poor. In every case he would, if he had the power, visit every fault committed by them with the severest penalty awarded by the law. He was a stern, hard, cruel man, with no sympathy for any one, and was actuated by the most superlative contempt for the poor, from whom he drew his whole income. He was a clever, clear-headed, avaricious man; and he knew that the only means of keeping the peasantry in their present utterly helpless and dependent state, was to deny them education, and to oppose every scheme for their improvement and welfare. He dreaded every movement which tended to teach them anything, and when he heard of landlords reducing their rents, improving cabins, and building schools, he would prophesy to his neighbour, Sir Michael, that the gentry would soon begin to repent of their folly, when the rents they had reduced were not paid, the cabins which they had made comfortable were filled with ribbonmen, and when the poor had learnt in the schools to disobey their masters and landlords. Sir Michael never contradicted all this, and he would probably have become a second Jonas Brown, and much more injurious, because so much more extensive in his interests, were it not for the counteracting influence of Counsellor Webb, who was in all his opinions diametrically opposed to Mr. Brown.
Mr. Webb was a clear-headed, and a much more talented man than his brother magistrate. He was, moreover, a kind-hearted landlord — ever anxious to ameliorate the condition of the poor — and by no means greedy after money, though he was neither very opulent nor very economical. But, nevertheless, with all these high qualities he was hardly the man most fit to do real good in a very poor and ignorant neighbourhood. He was, in the first place, by far too fond of popularity, and of being the favourite among the peasantry; and, in the next, he had become so habituated to oppose Jonas Brown in all his sayings and doings, that he now did so whether he was right or wrong.
Thady’s case had been much talked of in the country, and the rival magistrates, of course, held diametrically opposite opinions respecting it.
Jonas Brown had declared at his own table, that “unless that young man were hanged, there would be an end to anything like law in the country; his being the son of a landlord made it ten times worse; if the landlords themselves turned ribbonmen, and taught the tenants all manner of iniquity, and the law didn’t then interfere, it would be impossible to live in the country; he, for one, should leave it. Here had a most praiseworthy servant of the crown — a man who had merited the thanks of the whole country by the fearless manner in which he had performed his duties, here,” he said, “had this man been murdered in cold blood by a known ribbonman, by one, who, as he understood, had, a few days before the murder, conspired with others to commit it; and yet he was told there were a pack of people through the country — priests, and popularity hunters, who were not only using their best endeavours to screen the murderer, but who absolutely justified the deed. By G——d, he couldn’t understand how a man, holding the position of a gentleman, could so far forget what he owed to his country and himself as to dirty his hands with such a filthy business as this, however absurd his general opinions on politics might be. As for the man’s sister, that was all a got up story since the business. Every one knew that the family had been trying to catch the young man for the girl; she had been allowed to walk with Captain Ussher at all hours, night and day; and he was doing no more than walking with her when he was basely murdered by her brother. As for him (Jonas Brown), he hoped and trusted the murderer would be hung as he deserved.”
The purport of this piece of after-dinner eloquence was duly conveyed to Counsellor Webb, who fully appreciated the remarks about the popularity-hunting gentleman who was dirtying his hands. Up to this time these two men, though differing so widely from each other, had still kept up a show of courtesy between them; but Mr. Brown’s remarks altogether put an end to it.
Counsellor Webb never again addressed him in friendly terms.
He did not, however, in the least relax his efforts on Thady’s behalf, or express less strongly his opinion on the case. He told Sir Michael one morning in Carrick, after some public meeting at which all the gentry of the neighbourhood had been present, and while many of them, and among them Mr. Brown, were standing by, that “he had lately been giving a great deal of very close attention to that very distressing case of young Mr. Macdermot; he thought it was the most melancholy and heartrending case he had ever known. It was proved beyond possibility of doubt that Ussher was eloping with the young man’s sister; it seemed now to be pretty certain that the girl was herself absolutely senseless at the time the occurrence took place; he believed she had changed her mind, or got frightened, or what not; it was now a known fact, that she was being dragged senseless in the man’s arms, when Macdermot attacked him. And was a brother to stand by and look on at such a sight as that, and not protect his sister, and punish the miscreant who was endeavouring to dishonour her? Was Mr. Macdermot to turn his back upon the affair, and leave his sister to her fate because, forsooth, the man who did it was a Revenue officer? Let us bring the matter home to ourselves, Sir Michael,” he continued. “Suppose you saw that gay young Captain Jem Boyle hurrying through the demesne at Knockadrum with one of your own fair flock in his arms, violently carrying her off, wouldn’t you not only knock him down yourself, if you could catch him; but also set all your people after him, begging them to do the same? Of course, you would; and what more has this young man done? Unfortunately he struck too hard; but that, although we may deplore the circumstance, shows no criminality on his part; but only the strong indignation which he very properly felt. As to the cock and bull story of his being a ribbonman, no man of sense could entertain it. It appears that a few nights before the occurrence he went to a tenant’s wedding, and unfortunately took a drop too much punch. That had been many a good man’s case before his. And then he got among a lot of men who were uttering vague, nonsensical threats against different persons, whom they disliked. One, I hear, says that Ussher was threatened; and another — and, I am told, by far the more creditable witness — that it was Keegan, the attorney, whose name was mentioned; it appears, that when drunk, he promised to join these men in another drinking party, which promise he, of course, never thought of keeping after he was sober; and yet there are some who are cruel enough to say — I won’t say harsh enough to believe, for they can’t believe it — that when he attacked Ussher in his sister’s defence, Macdermot was only carrying into execution a premeditated plan of murdering him! Premeditated indeed, when it was plain to every one, that it was by the merest accident that he happened to be in the avenue at the time. People might just as well say that it was he who cut off the attorney’s foot the other day, though he was in gaol at the time. I must say,” continued the Counsellor, “that should the poor young man fall a victim to the false evidence which I am aware private malice and wretchedly vindictive feeling will supply, then the basest murder will really have been committed which ever disgraced this county. I don’t envy the state of mind of any gentleman who can look forward with a feeling of satisfaction to the prospect of that poor youth’s being hanged for protecting his sister, merely because the seducer was in habits of intimacy with himself or his family.”
Mr. Brown left the meeting, taking no immediate notice of the Counsellor’s philippic. It was not, however, because he did not comprehend the latter part of it, or that he meant to overlook it.
Sir Michael was much distressed in making up his mind finally on the subject. It was reported, however, soon after the meeting above alluded to, that he had stated to some of his more immediate friends and admirers, that “he considered it highly discreditable, he might say disgraceful, for any of the more respectable classes to give any countenance to the illegal meetings, which he was afraid were too general through the country, and that there was too much reason to fear that the unfortunate man in prison had been guilty in doing so; but that there could be no doubt that every one was justified — he might add, only performed his bounden duty — in protecting the females of his family from injury or violence.”
Now Tony McKeon was a tenant both of Sir Michael and of the Counsellor; he also held land from other landlords, but he had no connexion whatever with Mr. Brown: he was not at all the sort of tenant that Jonas liked; for though he always punctually paid his rent to the day, he usually chose to have everything his own way, and would take no land except at a fair rent and on a long lease.
Mr. Webb, however, was his chief friend and principal ally in the country. Sir Michael was altogether too grand for him, seeing that Tony had no idea of being a humble dependent; but Mr. Webb would occasionally come and dine with him — and often asked him in return. Mrs. Webb too was civil to his wife and the girls — always lent them the Dublin pattern for their frills, frocks, and other frippery — and seldom drove into Drumsna without calling. The consequence was, that the Counsellor was a man after Tony’s own heart. Though they were of different religions, they had, generally speaking, the same political feelings and opinions — the same philanthropical principles — and the same popular prejudices; and after a few years intimacy in each other’s neighbourhood, Mr. Webb well knew where to find a powerful recruit for any service in which he might wish to enlist one.
Tony declared that if any one spoke ill of Feemy’s character, he should make it personal with himself; that he was ready, willing, and moreover determined to quarrel with any one who dared to apply the opprobrious name of murderer to Thady; and he had even been heard, on one or two occasions, to stand up for Larry himself, and to declare that although he might be a little light-headed or so, he was still a deal better than those muddy-minded blackguards at Carrick who had driven him to his present state.
For a long time Feemy had been very ill, but after Christmas she had apparently got a little stronger; she would sit up in her bed-room for a few hours in the day; but still she would talk to no one. Mrs. McKeon endeavoured more than once to lead her to the subject which she knew must be nearest her heart, thinking that if she could be got to speak of it, she would be relieved; but in vain. In vain she tried to interest her in her brother’s fate — in vain she tried to make her understand that Thady’s safety — that his acquittal would, in a great degree, depend on her being able to prove, at the trial, that at the time when the occurrence took place, she was herself insensible. She shuddered violently at the idea of being again questioned, and declared with sobs that she should die if she were again dragged to that horrid place. When Mrs. McKeon asked her if she would not make a struggle to save her brother’s life, she remained mute. It was evident that it was for her lover that she was still grieving, and that it was not the danger or ignominy of Thady’s position that afflicted her.
Mrs. McKeon, however, conceived it to be her duty to persevere with her — and, at last, told her how wrong it was of her to give way to a grief, which was in its first stage respected. Feemy answered her only with tears; and on the next morning told her that she had determined to return to Ballycloran, as she thought she would be better there, at home with her father.
To this, however, Mrs. McKeon would not consent, and Feemy was told that the doctor had forbidden her to be moved. She was, therefore, obliged to remain satisfied for the present, as she had no means of escaping from Drumsna; but she soon became more sullen than ever — and, at last, almost refused to speak to any one.
Things went on in this way till about the middle of March. Feemy constantly requested to be allowed to go home, which request was as constantly refused; when different circumstances acting together gave rise to a dreadful suspicion in Mrs. McKeon’s mind. She began to fear that Ussher, before his death, had accomplished the poor girl’s ruin, and that she was now in the family way. For some few days she was determined to reject the idea, and endeavoured to make herself believe that she was mistaken; but the more close her observations were, the more certain she became that her suspicions were well founded. She was much distressed as to what she should do. Her first and most natural feelings were those of anger against Feemy, and of dismay at the situation into which her own and her husband’s good nature had brought herself and her daughters; and she made up her mind that Feemy should at once have her wish and return to Ballycloran. But then, she might be mistaken — or even, if it were too true — how could she turn the poor girl, weak, ill, and miserable, out of her house, and send her to an empty unprovided barrack, inhabited by an infirm, idiotical old man, where she could receive none of that attention which her situation so much required?
She communicated her suspicions to the doctor, and after a few days’ observations, he told her that there was too much reason to fear that the case was as she supposed. He, however, strongly advised her to speak to Miss Macdermot herself on the subject. This she did, at last, most tenderly, and with the greatest gentleness — but still imploring Feemy to tell her the truth. Feemy, at first, could not speak in reply; she threw herself on her bed sobbing most violently, and fell from one fit into another, till Mrs. McKeon was afraid that she would choke herself with the violence of her emotion. At last, however, she declared that the accusation brought against her was untrue — protested on her most solemn word and honour that it was not the case — and ended by saying how thankful she was to Mrs. McKeon for her kindness and protection, but that she must now beg her to allow her to return to Ballycloran.
Feemy’s denial of the charge against her was so firm, and so positively made, that it very much shook her friend’s suspicions. When Feemy begged to be sent home, she told her not to agitate herself at present — that they would all see how she was in a day or two — and then speaking a few kind words to her, left her to herself.
Mr. Jonas Brown was in a towering passion, when he left the meeting at which he had listened to, but had not ventured to answer, Counsellor Webb’s remarks respecting Thady Macdermot and the supposed intimacy between Ussher and the inmates of Brown Hall. He had so openly expressed his wish that the young man might be capitally punished — and this joined to the fact that Ussher had not been as intimate at any other house as he had been at Brown Hall, could leave no doubt on the mind of any one who had been present, that Webb’s allusion had been intended for him. His first impulse was to challenge his foe at once; but his ardour on that point soon cooled a little, and he came to the conclusion of sleeping on the matter, or, at any rate, of drinking a bottle or two of wine over it with his sons.
As soon as the servant had withdrawn after dinner he began his grievance.
“By G——d, Fred, that ruffian Webb is passing all bounds. He’s not only forgotten the opinions and notions of a gentleman, but he has lain down the manners of one too.”
“Why, what has he done now? With all his queer ideas, Webb can be a gentleman if he pleases,” said Fred.
“I must say,” said George, “the Counsellor is a good fellow on the course. I don’t care how seldom I see him anywhere else.”
“I don’t know what you may call being a good fellow or a gentleman,” replied the father; “but I know he has insulted me publicly, and that in the most gross way, and before half the country. I don’t know whether that’s your idea of acting like a gentleman or a good fellow.”
“It’s what many a gentleman and many a good fellow has done before him,” said George; “but if he has insulted you, of course he must apologize — or do the other thing.”
“What — let it alone?” rejoined Fred.
“No; fight — and that’s what he’s a deal the most likely to do,” said George.
“Be d —— d,” said old Brown, “but I think both of you seem glad to hear that your father has been insulted! you’ve neither of you a grain of proper feeling.”
“It’s with a grain or two of gunpowder, I’d take it,” said George, “and I’d advise you, father, to do the same; a precious deal better thing than good feeling to settle an insult with.”
“But you’ve not told us what it’s all about?” said Fred; “what was the quarrel about?”
“Quarrel! there was no quarrel at all in the matter — I couldn’t quarrel with him for I wouldn’t speak to him. It was about that infernal friend of yours, Fred, that Ussher; I wish he’d never darkened this door.”
“Poor devil!” answered Fred; “there’s no use abusing him now he’s dead. I suppose the row wasn’t his fault.”
“It was about him though, and the low blackguard that murdered him. Webb was talking about him, making a speech in the public-room, taking the fellow’s part, as I’m told he’s always doing, and going on with all the clap-trap story about protecting his sister; — as if every one in the country didn’t know that she’d been Ussher’s mistress for months back. Well, that was all nothing to me — only he’ll be rightly served when he finds every man on his estate has become a ribbonman, and every other tenant ready to turn murderer. But this wasn’t enough for him, but at the end of the whole he must declare — I forget what it was he said — but something about Ussher’s intimacy here — that it was a shameful thing of me to be wishing on that account that this Macdermot should be hanged, as he deserves.”
“Did he actually mention Brown Hall?” asked Fred.
“No; but he put it so that there could be no mistake about it; he said he didn’t envy my state of mind.”
“Well, tell him you don’t envy his. I don’t think you could call him out for that,” said George.
“By heavens you’re enough to provoke a saint!” continued the father. “Can’t you believe me, when I tell you, he made as direct a cut at Brown Hall as he could, because I can’t repeat all his words like a newspaper? By G——d the pluck’s gone out of the country entirely! if as much had been said to my father, when I was your age, I’d have had the fellow who said it out, if he’d been the best shot in Connaught.”
“Don’t say another word, father,” said George, “if that’s what you’re after. I thought, may be, you’d like the fun yourself, or I’d have offered. I’d call him out with a heart and a half; there’s nothing I’d like better. May be I’d be able to make up a match between Diamond and the Counsellor’s brown mare, when it’s done. He’d be a little soft, would Webb, after such a job as that, and wouldn’t stand for a few pounds difference.”
“That’s nonsense, George,” said the father, a little mollified by the son’s dutiful offer. “I don’t want any one to take the thing off my hands. I don’t want to be shelved that way — but I wish you to see the matter in the right light. I tell you the man was cursedly insolent, Fred; in fact, he said what I don’t mean to put up with; and the question is, what had I better do?”
“He didn’t say anything, did he,” asked Fred, “with your name, or Brown Hall in it?”
“No, he didn’t name them exactly.”
“Then I don’t think you can call for an apology; write him a civil note, and beg him to say that he intended no allusion to you or your family in what he said.”
“Fred’s right for once,” said George, “that’s all you can do as the matter stands now. If he won’t say that, call him out and have done with it.”
“I’ve no wish to be fighting,” said the father; “in fact, at my time of life I’d rather not. I was ready enough once, but I’d sooner settle it quietly.”
“Why, there’s no contenting you,” answered Fred; “just now nothing but pistols and coffee would do for you; and then you were in a passion because one of us wouldn’t take a challenge for you at once, without knowing anything about it; and now you’re just the other way; if you don’t like the business, there’s George will take it off your hands, he says.”
After a considerable quantity of squabbling among this family party it was at last decided that a civil note should be sent to Ardrum, in which Mr. Webb should be desired to state that he had made no allusion to Brown Hall; accordingly a servant on horseback was dispatched on the Monday morning with the following missive:—
Brown Hall, Sunday Evening.
Mr. Brown presents his compliments to Mr. Webb, and begs to inform him that certain expressions which fell from him at the meeting at Carrick on Saturday respecting the murder of Captain Ussher, have been thought by many to have had reference to the family at Brown Hall. Mr. Brown feels himself assured that Mr. Webb would not so far forget himself, as to make any such allusion in public to a neighbouring gentleman and magistrate; but as Mr. Webb’s words were certainly singular in their reference to Captain Ussher’s intimacy with some family in the neighbourhood, and as many conceive that they were directly pointed at Brown Hall, Mr. Brown must beg Mr. Webb to give him his direct assurance in writing that nothing which fell from him was intended to apply either to Mr. Brown or his family.
To W. WEBB, Esq., Ardrum.
Mr. Webb was at home when the servant arrived, and, only detaining him two minutes, sent him back with the following answer:—
Ardrum, Monday Morning.
Mr. Webb presents his compliments to Mr. Brown. Mr. Webb regrets that he cannot comply with the request made in Mr. Brown’s letter of yesterday’s date.
To JONAS BROWN, Esq., Brown Hall.
The conclave at Brown Hall, on receipt of this laconic epistle, unanimously declared that it was tantamount to a declaration of war, and that desperate measures must at once be adopted.
“The sod’s the only place now, father,” said George; “by heavens I like him the better for not recanting.”
“He’s a cursed good shot,” said Fred. “Would you like to send for Keegan before you go out?”
“Keegan be d —— d!” said George; “but have Blake by, for he’ll wing you as sure as Moses.”
“May be not,” said Fred. “Webb’s a d —— d good shot in a gallery; but may be he won’t allow for the wind on the sod; but it’ll be as well to have the sawbones.”
“No fear of your legs, governor, for he’ll fire high. The shoulder’s his spot; you may always tell from a man’s eye where he’ll fix the sight of a pistol. Webb always looks up. If his tool lifts a little, he’ll fire over you.”
“Yes, he might,” said Fred; “or take you on the head — which wouldn’t be so pleasant. I’m not particular — but I’d better run my chance myself with a chap that fired low.”
“There you’re out,” answered the brother. “The low shot’s the death-shot. Why man, if you did catch a ball in the head, you’d get over it — if it was in the mouth, or cheek, or neck, or anywhere but the temple; but your body’s all over tender bits. May heaven always keep lead out of my bowels — I’d sooner have it in my brains.”
The father fidgetted about very uneasily whilst enduring these pleasant remarks from his affectionate children, which, it is needless to say, they made for his particular comfort and amusement at the present moment. At last he lost his temper, and exclaimed —
“D—— your brains, you fool — I don’t believe you’ve got any! what’s the use of the two of you going on that way — you that were never out in your life. I tell you when a man’s standing to be fired at, he doesn’t know, nine times in ten, whether he fires high or low. Who’ll I get to go out with me?”
“Yes, and take your message,” said Fred; “you’ve a deal to do yet before you’re snug home again.”
“Well, who’ll I get to go to him?”
“Why wouldn’t I do?” suggested George. George, at any rate, had the merit of being a good son.
“Nonsense,” said Fred; “if the governor got shot you’d be considered a brute if you were cool; and a man should be cool then.”
“Cool,” said George; “I’d be as cool as a cucumber.”
“Nonsense,” said the father; “of course I couldn’t go out with my own son; there’s Theobald French; I went out with his cousin just after Waterloo.”
“He can’t show — he’s on his keeping. He’d be nabbed before he was on the ground.”
“Then I’ll have Larkin; I’ve known him since I was a boy.”
“Larkin’s too old for that game now; he’d be letting them have Webb up with his back to the sun.”
“Murphy, of Mullough; he’s used to these things — I’ll send over to him.”
“Murphy’s up to snuff; but since the affair of the bill he forged Dan Connolly’s name to, he’s queerly thought of. It wouldn’t do at all, governor, to send anyone that Webb’s friend could refuse to meet.”
“I’ll tell you, father, who’d be proud of the job — and he’s quite a gentleman now, since he got an estate of his own — and that’s Cynthy Keegan. It’d be great fun to see him stepping the ground, and he only with one foot.”
“By heavens, George, you’re a born fool; must you have your d —— d joke, when I’m talking so seriously?”
“Upon my soul, then, if it were myself, I’d send for Keegan. He’d think the compliment so great, he wouldn’t refuse, and it’d be such a joke to see him on the ground with his crutches. But if you don’t like the attorney, send to Fitzpatrick.”
“He’s so young,” said the father; “he’d do very well for either of you; but I’d want some one steadier.”
“Besides,” said Fred, “Webb and Fitz are bosom friends. I wouldn’t wonder if Fitz were Webb’s friend himself.”
“I tell you, father — Major Longsword’s exactly the boy,” said George; “send to Boyle for him; he wants to get a name in the country, and the job’ll just suit him.”
“You’re right for once, George,” said Jonas, “Longsword’s just the man that will answer.” And accordingly it was at last decided that Major Longsword was to be the honoured individual. He had dined once or twice at Brown Hall, and therefore there was some excuse for calling upon him; and a note was accordingly written to him, with a great deal of blarney about his station and experience, and the inexpediency of entrusting affairs of honour to inexperienced country gentlemen. This had the effect of immediately bringing him over to Brown Hall, and on the Tuesday morning he was dispatched to Ardrum, to make what arrangements he pleased with Mr. Webb.
To give Major Longsword his due, Mr. Brown could not have made a much better choice; for though he was a disciple of that school, which thoroughly entertained the now antiquated notion that the world — that is, the world of men in broad cloth — could not go on without duels, or a pretence of duels; still he was one who, as a second, would do all in his power to prevent an absolute effusion of lead. He was a great hand at an apology, and could regulate its proper degree of indifference or abjectness to the exact state of the case; he could make it almost satisfactory to the receiver, without being very disagreeable to the giver; he could twaddle about honour for ever without causing bloodshed; and would, if possible, protect a man’s reputation and body at the same time.
He started on his mission of peace with the determined intention of returning with some document in his pocket which would appease Mr. Brown’s irritated feelings, and add another laurel to the wreath which he considered his due as a peace-maker.
He was shown into Mr. Webb’s parlour, where that gentleman soon joined him, and he was not long in making known his business. Major Longsword plumed himself on his manners in such embassies, and today he was perfect.
“Now, Mr. Webb,” he continued after a long preamble, “of course I am not to judge of the propriety of any words you may think fit to use; but, I am afraid I must admit in this case, a somewhat — I must say a somewhat unwarranted allusion was made to my friend. Such I can assure you is the general opinion. Now, if you will allow me to say as much, I think — I cannot but think, you were right — perfectly right — in not disclaiming such an allusion, having once made it; but I trust, indeed I feel confident, that a man of your acknowledged sense, and general character as a man of the world, will not object to give me a line — a mere line will suffice — addressed to myself; I wouldn’t ask you in such a matter to write to Mr. Brown — a mere line, just stating that you regret having said anything in your fervour which should hurt any one’s feelings. The matter you know is now in my hands, and I pledge myself that shall suffice; I really think such a bagatelle as that cannot be objectionable to you. Were I in your place, I can assure you, Mr. Webb, as a man of honour, I should be delighted to do the same.”
“Were you in my place, Major Longsword,” replied the Counsellor, “you would, no doubt, act with more judgment than I shall do; but without wishing to say anything offensive to you, I may as well assure you at once that I will give no letter to any one on the subject.”
“But, Mr. Webb, you cannot deny or justify the allusion — the very pointed allusion?”
“I certainly shall not deny it; indeed to you, Major Longsword, I have no objection to acknowledge it.”
“And yet you’ll not just state your regret — in a note to myself mind! Why, Mr. Webb, you can’t but regret it; you can’t desire bloodshed.”
“Indeed, Major, I do not regret it. Your friend considered himself at liberty to accuse me in private — not by name, but by allusion, as you say — of certain feelings and opinions derogatory to me. I have retaliated in public. I believe now you will own that I consult your convenience best by telling you that Major Macdonnel, of Tramore, is my friend in this matter. He will make all arrangements with you for the immediate termination of this affair.”
“I shall be proud to see the Major; but still let me hope, Mr. Webb, that this little affair may be arranged. As a magistrate, and as a man, I may say, not exactly in your première jeunesse—”
“As a magistrate, and as a man not exactly, as you say, in my première jeunesse, for I was fifty yesterday, let me assure you that if Mr. Brown intends to call me out, I shall go out. If he intends to let me alone, I shall be better pleased to be let alone; as for a word, or a line of retractation or apology, I will not give it.”
“But, Mr. Webb —”
“Forgive me for interrupting you, but allow me to suggest that any further remarks you may have to make on the subject had better be made to my friend, Major Macdonnel.”
“Would you allow me to put it to you in another light? Suppose now —”
“Major Longsword, the idea of being uncourteous to any man in my own house is particularly grievous to me; but with your pardon I must say that I cannot continue this conversation with you. If you will allow me the honour of considering the remainder of your visit one of compliment, I shall be proud to increase my acquaintance with a gentleman for whom I entertain so profound a respect.”
The baffled Major was obliged to take the hint, to move himself off, and have recourse to his brother major. Major Macdonnel received his visitor with a very long face, assured him that his principal had left him nothing to do but to arrange the meeting, and that however willing he might be to agree to pacific measures himself, he had no power to do so. The Boyle Major, however, found a more willing listener in his colleague than in the Counsellor, and made many eloquent dissertations; but it was all to no purpose; he was obliged to return to Brown Hall, signally defeated as he felt himself, and with the tidings that a place had been agreed to, and that the meeting was to take place at eight, A.M., the next morning.
“I had really hoped, Mr. Brown, to have been able to settle this little matter amicably; indeed I had no doubt about it; but I must say a more impracticable gentleman to deal with than Mr. Webb, it was never my lot to meet upon such an occasion.”
The Major dined at Brown Hall, and could not but admire the solicitude which the two sons expressed for their father’s safety, and the filial manner in which they comforted him. During dinner he was somewhat silent and moody; but when he got to his wine he recovered his spirits, and seemed tolerably happy. Indeed he conducted himself wonderfully well, considering that during the whole evening Fred and George would talk of nothing but trepanned skulls, false knee-caps — cork legs — bullets that had come out of men’s backs ten years after they had entered men’s bellies — surgeon’s knives — pincers and tourniquets — wills — attorneys — leaden coffins, and the family vault. George expressed a great desire to go and see his parent shot. Fred said that eight o’clock was so damnation early, or else he’d be happy. George was so warm in his solicitude, that in spite of his father’s declining this mark of his affection, he insisted on attending him to the ground; and it was only when Major Longsword gravely assured him that if he, George, was there he, Major Longsword, would not be there too, that the anxious son was prevailed on to give up his project.
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 exmilitary 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 preconceived 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 was enceinte, 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 she returned:—
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 sharp voice —
“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, you d —— d jade? 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, he said —
“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 concluding words —
“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 did he —” 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 merely said —
“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 tomorrow — 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 ?stuates 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 Bardell v. 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 he was fond 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 tomorrow?”
“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? Be d —— d but 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?”
“It war your honour they war to put in a bog hole.”
“D——n them! I’ll have ’em before I’ve done. But don’t you know that Macdermot, Reynolds, and the other fellow agreed to put an end to Ussher? Why you told me so twenty times.”
“I b’lieve they did; but faix, I ain’t shure I heard it all rightly myself, yer honour; I warn’t exactly one of the party.”
“That won’t do, Brady; you told me distinctly that Reynolds and Macdermot swore together to kill the man; and you must swear to that in court. Why the barrister has been told that you can prove it.”
“But, Mr. Keegan, do you wish me now to go and hang myself? You would not wish a poor boy to say anything as’d ruin hisself?”
“Be d —— d, but some one has been tampering with you. You know you’ll be in no danger, as well as I do; and by heavens if you flinch now it’ll be worse for you. Mind, I want you to say nothing but the truth. But you know Ussher’s death was settled among them; and you must say it out plainly — d’ye hear? And I tell you what, Brady, if you give your evidence like a man you’ll never be the worse of those evenings you spent at Mohill at Mrs. Mulready’s, you know. But if you hesitate or falter, as sure as you stand there, they’ll come against you; and then I’ll not be the man to help you out of the scrape.”
“But, Mr. Keegan, yer honour, they do be saying that iv I brings out all that, it’ll hang the young masther out and out, and then I’ll have his blood upon my conscience.”
“Have the divil on your conscience. Isn’t he a murderer out and out? and, if so, shouldn’t you tell the truth about it? Why, you fool, it’s only the truth. What are you afraid of? after telling me so often that you would go through with it without caring a flash for any one!”
“But you see there’s so much more of a ruction about it now through the counthry than there war. Counsellor Webb and all thim has made Mr. Thady’s name so great, that there’d be no pace for a boy at all av he war to say a word agin him.”
“Then it’s a coward you are afther all, Brady?”
“No, yer honour, I’m no coward; but it’s a bad thing living in a counthry, where all the boys is sworn to stretch you.”
“Nonsense, Pat; did they ever stretch me? and haven’t I done as bad and worse to them twenty times. They’re trying to frighten you out of your duty, and you’re going to let them. Any way, I see you are not the man for me. I thought you had more pluck in you.”
“Why thin, Mr. Keegan, I’ve pluck enough; but faix, I don’t like hanging the young man thin — and now it’s out.”
“Very well — then you’ll be transported for perjury, that’s all; all the things you’ve to swear to have been sent written out to the Counsellor; and when you contradict in court what you have already declared to be the truth they’ll prosecute you for perjury, and a deal of good you’ll do young Macdermot afther all!”
After a few more arguments of a similar nature, Brady was again reduced to his allegiance, and at last was dismissed, having promised to swear stiffly both that Ussher’s death had been agreed on at the meeting at Mrs. Mehan’s, and also that in private conversation with him (Pat Brady) Macdermot had frequently expressed his determination of being revenged on Ussher for the injury he was doing to his sister. And Hyacinth Keegan betook himself to the company of the fair partner of his prosperity and misfortunes, comforting himself with the idea that he was sure of success in his attempts to secure Thady’s conviction, and flattering himself that Mr. O’Malley could at the worst only ask him some few teasing questions about the property.
On the same evening, namely that immediately before the trial, Father John visited Thady in prison, and it was the last time that they were to meet before the fate of the latter was decided. The priest had constantly visited the young man in his confinement, and had done all in his power to support and cheer his spirits under the horrible circumstances in which he was placed, and not without success. Thady had borne his incarceration and distress with the greatest courage. When remaining at Aughacashel among the lawless associates with whom he had so foolishly looked for safety, he had completely lost his fortitude and power of endurance; he was aware that he was doing what was in every sense culpable, and he then could not but look on himself as a murderer flying from justice; but now he had learned to see what was really criminal in what he had done, and what was venial; and though the last five months had been spent in prison, and though he felt by no means sanguine of his acquittal, he had, nevertheless, never regretted that he had given himself up.
Father John had again today seen Mr. O’Malley, who now that he had the affair thoroughly at his fingers’ ends, seemed to be almost sanguine of success, and consequently the good priest himself was correspondingly elated.
“I trust in God, Thady,” said he, “I confidently trust you will be with me at the Cottage tomorrow night, or at any rate the next. The Cottage shall be your home for some time, my boy, if they allow you any home in the country. I don’t want to give you false hopes, but I don’t think any jury can convict you. I’m sure Mr. O’Malley thinks so too.”
“I don’t think so, Father John; it may be so, but I don’t think so; it’s a comfort to me to know I never meant his death, although he was doing what might have tempted me to shoot him, av I’d had a pistol in my hand; for as I sit here he was dragging her down the avenue by the waist. But I never thought to kill him, and though I think they will hang me, I feel that I haven’t the weight of murdher on my hands.”
“You haven’t, Thady; indeed you may say you haven’t. I that should teach you to repent your sins, not to hide them from your own heart, tell you that you haven’t. But should they condemn you, there are those that will have. But God forbid — may God in his great mercy forbid it.”
“But, Father John, what’ll Feemy do? what will the owld man do when I am-when I’m gone? Keegan’ll have all now. She’ll be turned out to beg across the world; and what’ll ever become of her?”
“Your father’ll be cared for, Thady. Though no one else should see to him, I will, for your sake. He’s very infirm; you’ll be astonished when you see him; but while he lives and while I have a bit of bread to share with him, or a roof to shelter him, for your sake, he shall never want it.”
Thady pressed the priest’s hand between his own.
“What a thing it is to have a friend like you! but Feemy — who’ll provide for Feemy? she’ll be the only one left of the name when I’m gone; there’ll be nothing left but her; house and family’ll be gone then, and except for poor Feemy, there’d be an end of the whole concern.”
“Don’t go on that way,” said Father John, with tears in his eyes. “You’ll be able to see after, and live with your own sister yet; and who knows but you may yet beat Keegan out of Ballycloran?”
“Oh, no, Father John! av they don’t hang me out and out — av they don’t put an end to me altogether, I’ll be transported, or sent back here to gaol. I’ll never be at Ballycloran again. Bad as the place is, I loved it. I think it’s all the throuble I had with it, and with the tinants, that made me love it so. God forgive me — I was hard enough to some of them!”
Father John remained with him till the evening was far advanced, and then left him, promising to be in court on the morrow.
“Let me see you there, Father John,” said he. “Stand near me whilst it’s going on; it’ll be a comfort to me to have one friend near me among so many strangers, and at such a time.”
“I will, my boy. I must leave the court when Feemy is to come, for I’ve promised to be with Mrs. McKeon when she brings her in; but excepting that, I’ll stand as near you as they’ll let me.”
The priest then left his friend, and Thady was once more alone in his cell, about to pass the last of many long, tedious nights of suspense. There he sat, on his iron bedstead in his gloomy cell, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy, thinking over the different events of his past life, and trying to nerve himself for the fate which, he too truly believed, was in store for him. Thady’s disposition had not been prone to hope; he had never been too sanguine — never sanguine enough. From the years to which his earliest memory could fall back, he had been fighting an earnest, hard battle with the world’s cares, and though not thoroughly vanquished, he had always been worsted. He had never experienced what men called luck, and he therefore never expected it. Few men in any rank of life had known so little joy as he had done, or had so little pleasure; his only object in life had been to drive the wolf from his father’s door and to keep a roof over him and his sister.
Had patient industry and constant toil been able to have effected this, he would have been, perhaps not happy, but yet not discontented; this, however, circumstances had put out of his power, and he felt that the same uncontrollable circumstances had now brought him into his present position. He knew little of the Grecian’s doctrine of necessity; but he had it in his heart that night, when he felt himself innocent, and was at the same time assured that all the kind efforts of his friends would not save him from his fate — a hangman’s rope and the county gallows.
There he sat the greater part of that night alone on his cold bedside, not knowing whether he was warm or cold — not perceiving whether it was light or dark; and no one but God might know the thoughts that passed through his untutored brain, or the feelings which kindled his warm, though rugged heart. Did he complain that though honest, industrious, and patient, ignominy and death should be his probable doom? Had he bitter hatred in his heart for those who had driven him to his fate? Did he still love those who had evinced so little sympathy with him? Sympathy! Ah! how could he miss that which he had never felt, till Father John had blessed him with his kind words! His love had not been that conscious love which requires kindness to nurture it, and love again to keep it warm. He was not aware himself how well he loved his father and his sister. His lot had been thrown with them; he had passed his life with them, and the feelings, which in a selfish man are given up to self, had with him been turned on those to whose care it had seemed that his life should be dedicated.
I do not say that he looked forward to a probable death without a shudder, or to so speedy a termination of his career, without a wish that, unfortunate as it had been, it might be prolonged; but it was the disgrace, and the circumstances of his fate, which made by far the greater portion of his misery. Could he be but once quiet in his grave, and have done with it all — be rid of the care, turmoil, and uneasiness, he would have been content. Could he have been again unborn — uncreated! He had once repined to Father John, that existence had been for him a necessary evil; and though checked by the priest for the impiety of the thought, was it odd if he often thought, that he was one of those for whom it would have been better had they never been born?
About three or four in the morning, he fell asleep, and was awakened by Father John about eight; he dressed himself in his best clothes — those in which he had been accustomed to go to mass — ate his breakfast, and about ten o’clock was led out of gaol, handcuffed, into the court-house. The gaol at Carrick-on-Shannon is not far from the court-house, and as they are both built on a neck of land running into the river, no portion of the town has to be traversed; but yet there was a great crowd collected to see the poor fellow pass by. This was the first of the bitter moments to which he had so constantly looked forward for the last few months. At length, however, he was in the dock, and here the high wooden palings, twelve feet above the ground on which he had to stand, would screen him from the view of all, save the miserable prisoners beside him and the policemen who had brought him in — until he should be called on to take his place at the bar.
After waiting there for about half an hour, sitting on the rude benches which surrounded the interior of the dock, with his eyes fixed on the red lappets of the gaoler’s coat which hung over the palings as he sat upon the bar, he heard the noise of steps in the court suddenly increased, and the sound of voices hushed; the judge was taking his seat. Mr. Baron Hamilton, accompanied by a fashionably dressed young gentleman with a white wand, entered the court at a side-door, passed behind the jury-box, and sat down on the seat of judgment, under the dusty red canopy which for many years had nodded over the wisdom of Ireland’s soundest lawyers.
Had that piece of red moreen been gifted with an ear to hear, and a tongue to tell, what an indifferent account would it give of the veracity of judges and of the consciences of lawyers! How many offences had it heard stigmatised by his lordship as the most heinous that had ever been brought before him in his judicial capacity! How many murderers, felons, and robbers, described as poor harmless, innocent, foolish boys, brought into trouble by a love of frolic! How many witnesses, vainly endeavouring to tell the truth, forced by the ingenuity of lawyers into falsehood and perjury! What awful denunciations and what light wit, almost in the same breath! Of what laughter hardly suppressed by judicial authority would it tell — what agonizing sobs altogether unsuppressable would it describe — how many a clever, smiling, self-sufficient barrister would it, from long knowledge, have learnt to laugh to scorn — of how many a sharp attorney would it declare the hidden ways! But yards of red moreen are fitting witnesses for judicial gravities and legal exercises. They hang profoundly, gravely — nay, all but solemnly — over the exposition of the criminal. They lend authority to the wrath, and protection to the wit of the wigged. They awe the criminal, repress the witnesses, inspire the juror, silence the spectator, absorb the dust, and tell no tales.
And now the judge having taken his place, the lesser men in office being duly seated beneath him, and the contending barristers having sufficiently dived into their blue bags, the prisoner is summoned, under various indictments, to take his trial for the murder of Myles Ussher; whereupon Thady is called upon by the gaoler, and, rising from his seat, takes his stand at the bar. In his position there, he is just enabled to raise his arm to the railing of the dock, and to rest his hand upon it during the ten long, horrid, wasting hours which he is destined to pass in his present painful position. His face is pale, and — always thin and sad — now thinner and sadder than ever; his eyes wander round the court, and as they at length alight on Father John, who is seated next to Mr. McKeon on the attorneys’ benches, a kind of gentle smile softens his features, and shows how great a relief he feels the presence of a friend to be. In answer to the clerk of the crown, he declares himself not guilty, professes himself ready for his trial, and the business of the day commences.
The first thing that has to be done is to call over the long panel, and the names of all competent persons in the county, from whom the jury is to be selected. But even preparatory to this, the counsel for the defence commence their fight. Mr. O’Laugher, who, as the phrase goes, is with Mr. O’Malley, begins by declaring that the list from which the names are read is an illegal list — a foolish, useless, unauthoritative list — nothing but balderdash, moonshine, and waste paper — all empty sounds, and consisting of a string of names as little to the purpose in the present case as a regimental roll-call. The sub-sheriff, who with infinite clerkly care, and much sub-shrieval experience, has made out the list, opens wide his disturbed ears, and begins to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Mr. O’Laugher goes on to declare that the present list, instead of being one properly, legally, and expressly drawn out for March 183 — is only a copy of the one in use during the summer assizes in the last year, and assures the judge with much indignant emphasis, that he cannot allow his client to submit to the injustice of receiving a verdict from a jury composed under such atrocious circumstances.
The objection is listened to with as much gravity as though a statement had been made that the prisoner had been in Newfoundland at the time of Ussher’s death, and Mr. Allewinde’s assistant begins to argue the case. The sub-sheriff and his two clerks are put into the chair, and have to swear one thing and another. Books are lugged into court — dirty papers overhauled — thick volumes quoted and consulted — precedents urged — objections answered — a great deal of self-confidence shown. At last, after a weary hour’s talk, it seems somehow decided that the sub-sheriff was in the right of it — that the list is correct, and that the prisoner may be tried. But Mr. O’Laugher is not in the least chagrined at the victory of his adversary; one would say, from his countenance, that his only object had been to delay the business for an hour, and that he triumphed in his success.
The list is accordingly read over, and the householders of County Leitrim are summoned to appear and answer to their names under a penalty of two pounds. A lamentable deficiency, however, is apparent; one only here and there answers to his name as it is called out in the sonorous and practised voice of the clerk of the crown. A notice is then given that they will be again invoked under a penalty of ten pounds, which, in spite of the fear which pervades the minds of jurymen that this will be a lock-up affair, entailing a bedless night and a meagre supper, surreptitiously supplied through the windows of the court-house, has the desired effect, and Cornelius O’Reilly, Patrick Tierney, Anthony Reynolds, &c., &c., reply to the call, and the court becomes sufficiently full of strong, thick-set, comfortable men.
This is only the long panel. Now the jury has to be formed. To twenty names the prisoner is entitled to object from caprice, and Mr. O’Laugher is not the man to give up one of the twenty. Then he can object to as many more as he chooses, on showing cause, and you may be sure Mr. O’Laugher has a great many causes to show. One man has lived near young Macdermot all his life, has been a friend of his, must have formed an opinion on the case, and is therefore not fit: another man has been his enemy, and is therefore not fit; a third man used to drive with Captain Ussher twice a week; a fourth lived in Mohill; a fifth at Drumsna; a sixth did not live in the county at all; a seventh had not a house of his own, and so on. Why, it appeared there was not a proper juror in the county! On all these objections Mr. O’Laugher was beaten; and as he was beaten on each, he indefatigably prepared for the next.
Then the jurors themselves objected. They unblushingly declared themselves unfit; — asserted that they could not depend upon themselves to give a true verdict, and assured the judge that their minds would be improperly biassed by circumstances on one side or the other. What atrocious characters! — what self-condemned miscreants! Why does not the judge instantly, with that stern look he knows so well how to assume, turn them out of court, bid them make way for honest men, and send them home, disgraced for ever, to their sorrowing families? Does he do so? No indeed! he picks his teeth while Mr. Allewinde assures this recusant or the other that he has no doubt but that he will make a most eligible juror; and at last, with considerable delay, a little trial takes place in each case, and two other jurymen have to decide on their oaths, whether Terence Murphy stands indifferent between our Lord and Sovereign the King and the prisoner at the bar; and to enable them to decide, they have to hear all the evidence in the case.
The twelve are at last sworn — the proper officer repeating in each case those awful words, “Juror, look upon the prisoner. Prisoner, look upon the juror. You shall well and truly try, and true deliverance make, between our Lord and Sovereign the King and the prisoner at the bar — so help you God!”
As this injunction in each case reached Thady’s ear, he moved his eyes upon the man who was then being sworn, as if demanding from him that true deliverance to which he felt himself entitled. And now the prisoner having pleaded, the indictments read, and the jury armed with pen, ink, and paper, Mr. Allewinde, full of legal dignity and intellectual warmth, rises to his subject. We will not follow him through the whole of the long narrative which he, with great practised perspicuity, and in the clearest language, laid before the jury, for we already know the facts which he had to detail. He first of all described the death of Ussher; then stated that he could prove that the prisoner had killed him, and having informed the jury that doubtless the prisoner’s sister was in the act of eloping with the deceased when he met his death, launched out into a powerful description of the present dreadful state of the country. He told the jury that it was in his power to prove to them that the prisoner was one of an illegal society who had often threatened Ussher, and that he had but a day or two previous to the affray met a sworn portion of his own tenants for the purpose of planning the murder. He went on to tell the jury that they were not to allow themselves to be deceived by the idea that the murder could not have been premeditated, because there existed a presumption that the prisoner was not aware of Ussher’s expected presence in the avenue; for that the fact of the murder having been talked over deliberately, and then executed, afforded the strongest evidence that the prisoner was at the time lying in wait for the deceased; and that, through the servants, or from other means, he had made himself cognisant of the projected elopement. He then, preparatory to examining the witnesses, concluded in the following words —
“Gentlemen of the jury — You are probably all aware that the prisoner is from that rank in life to which the greatest number of yourselves belong; and you cannot but see that the fact of his being so, greatly increases the magnitude of his presumed crime. Far be it from me to urge you on this account to come to a conviction, should the evidence prove in any way deficient; but I do implore you, if you value the peace of your country — the comfort of your hearths — the safety of your houses — and the protection of your property; not to allow yourselves to be led away by a feeling of false sympathy, or to be improperly actuated by the idea that the deed was done in legitimate defence of the prisoner’s sister, if the evidence do not prove that such was the case. I do implore you to divest yourselves of any such preconceived notions. Did the evidence merely go to show that Mr. Ussher was killed by the brother whilst eloping with the sister, it would doubtless be fair that the circumstance should be taken into your consideration; but when you shall have heard it proved that the death of this unfortunate man was deliberately talked over, canvassed, and decided on by the very man by whom it was executed, you will only fall into the shallow device by which the prisoner has endeavoured to deceive you, did you not clearly perceive that he has merely used the fact of his sister’s elopement as a favourable opportunity for the completion of his project. Gentlemen, I shall now proceed to call the different witnesses, satisfied that when you shall have heard their evidence, you will have no difficulty in coming to a verdict in the case.”
The first witness called was Dr. Blake. He stated that he had examined the body the day after Ussher had met his death; that he had no doubt death had been occasioned by two heavy blows, one of which had fractured the skull immediately over the temple, and which was of itself quite sufficient to cause instantaneous death; that he should presume these blows to have been inflicted with some heavy blunt instrument, and that he considered the stick then produced in court and shown to him was such as had probably been used on the occasion.
This witness was not cross-examined.
Biddy was next called, and took her seat in the chair with much trepidation; but her usual womanly volubility soon returned to her, and she gave her evidence fluently enough. She stated that her mistress had confided to her her intention of eloping with Ussher on the morning of the evening on which he had been killed; that in obedience to her mistress’s commands, she had walked down the road towards Mohill, and had met Ussher in a gig, and had put a parcel for her mistress into it; that when she returned to the house, she believed her master — that was the prisoner — was in the house, in her mistress’s sitting-room; that shortly after her return she saw him come into the hall; that he then told her to go in to his sister, and that Captain Ussher was dead. She did not know what became of him after that, and that she had not seen him from that moment till the present one.
Mr. O’Laugher then asked her, whether she had told any one of her mistress’s intention of eloping with Ussher, and she replied that she had not — that she had never opened her lips on the subject to any one before she heard the prisoner say that Captain Ussher was dead. She also stated that it was her young master’s habit to go out to the stables every night.
She also was then allowed to go down, and Frederick Brown was called. He proved that Ussher had revealed to him his plan of running off with Feemy, and he stated, that not thinking much about it, he had told three or four friends of the circumstance, and that he could not tell whether or not it might in that manner have got round to the ears of the prisoner.
Mr. O’Laugher in his cross-examination bothered this young gentleman considerably, but as neither the questions nor the answers are material to the story, it would be useless to repeat them.
The next witness was Pat Brady, and as the verdict to which the jury came, depended in a great degree on his evidence, it will be given as nearly as possible in detail.
Having given his name, he stated that at the time of Ussher’s death he was in the employment of the prisoner; that he had been his confidential servant, and was intimate with all his habits; that on the night when the deceased was killed, at some time, he supposed, about half-past nine o’clock, his master had entered the kitchen at Ballycloran, and had desired him, Brady, to follow him out into the avenue; that his master, when in the avenue, had told him that he had killed Captain Ussher.
By this time the counsel had ceased asking questions, and as the witness was telling his own story, we will leave it in his words.
“I thought it war poking his fun at me, yer honours — for I knowed the Captain hadn’t been at Ballycloran that night, and that the masther had been ating his dinner at home, so I didn’t be taking much notice of what he war saying, till we war mostly half down the avenue, when Mr. Thady told me the body war there. Well, yer honours — what with the night, and what wid the trees it was a’most too dark to see; but I felt the man’s body with my foot, and then I know’d it war thrue enough what the masther was afther saying. I axed no questions thin, for I knew there’d been ill blood betwixt them, and when I comed to remember myself, I wasn’t that much surprised. But Mr. Thady axed me what we’d be doing wid the body, and I can’t exactly take upon myself to say what I answered; but, at last, he said as how we would take it down to Mrs. Mehan’s as keeps the shebeen shop beyond Ballycloran. He then told me something about Miss Feemy and the Captain — as how he was carrying her off by force like, and that war why he’d stretched him. Well, yer honours, at the bottom of the avenue, at the gate like — though for the matter of that, there ain’t no gate there — we discovered the Brown Hall gig, and Mr. Fred’s crop-tailed bay pony horse standing in the middle of the road — and the masther bid me take the body away to the police at Carrick, saying he would be off at oncet to the mountains in Aughacashel. Well, yer honours, this I did — I left the Captain’s body with the police — I took the gig to Brown Hall — and I brought home Miss Feemy’s bundle as had been left there in the gig, when the Captain came out into the avenue — and that’s the long and the short of what I knows about it, yer honours — at laste, all I knows about the murder.”
“The prisoner then owned to you,” continued Mr. Allewinde, “that it was he who killed Captain Ussher?”
“Shure he made no bones about it all — but told me straight out that he’d killed him in the avenue.”
“Did he say why he had done so?”
“Faix I don’t remember his saying thin why he’d done it — and I didn’t think to ask him. He was in a flurry like, as war nathural, and he and I carrying the dead man that’d been hearty only a few minutes afore! But shure, yer honour knows the thing had been talked over.”
“What thing had been talked over?”
“Why, the Captain’s death.”
“You mean to say by that, that arrangements had been made by certain persons to kill Captain Ussher?”
“I don’t know about arrangements; but there war boys through the counthry determined to have a fling at him.”
“Now I am going to ask you a question particularly affecting the prisoner, and one to which you must give me a direct answer. Have you ever been in the prisoner’s company, when he and others have expressed their determination to murder Captain Ussher?”
“Faix, I don’t know about dethermination and murder, but I’ve heard him threatened.”
“Have you heard him threatened with murder?”
“I’ve heard the boys say that he would be undher the sod that day six months.”
“Have you heard Captain Ussher threatened with death in the prisoner’s presence?”
“I don’t know that they ever said death or murder; they don’t spake out that way; av they war going to hole a chap, it’s giving him his quiatis or his gruel they’d be talking about.”
“Well, now, on your oath, have you ever, in the prisoner’s presence, heard such language used respecting Captain Ussher as made you think that he was to be killed?”
“Didn’t I tell yer honour I thought all along how he’d be killed.”
“Were you ever at Mrs. Mulready’s in Mohill?”
“I war.”
“Did you ever hear Captain Ussher’s name mentioned there?”
“I did.”
“Now tell the jury as nearly as you can what was said respecting him there.”
“Why a lot of boys swore together over a noggin or two of sperrits, to put him undher the sod — that’s all; but shure, yer honour, Mr. Thady, that’s him there,” and he pointed to the dock, “was niver at Mother Mulready’s.”
“Well, but when the boys swore to put the Captain under the sod was the prisoner’s name mentioned?”
“Oh, it war ofthen.”
“And what was said about him?”
“Why, yer honour it was this way — and I’ll tell you all I know about it off hand — and thin you’ll not be throubling yer honour’s self wid all these questions. The boys war mostly tenants to Mr. Thady here — and they did be saying that av so — av Mr. Thady would jine them in putting down the peelers and the Captain — they’d undhertake Mr. Keegan’d never put a second foot on the lands of Ballycloran; and they war the more hot about this, as they knew Mr. Thady war agin the Captain about his sisther, for he thought thim two were too thick like; and he used to be saying as how Ussher war playing his thricks with Miss Feemy. Well, along of this — and knowing as how the masther were agin Mr. Keegan too, they thought he’d jine in; and to bring him round, they swore niver to pay the rint afore he did. Well, yer honour, I was one night at the Widdy’s, that’s Mother Mulready’s, for I’d gone there knowing as how the tenants ‘d be in it, and I war noticing them to be up with the masther on Friday next about the rint. Afther I’d been telling ’em all to be up at Ballycloran, they got swearing that divil a foot they’d stir to the place, or divil a penny they’d pay any more, because Mr. Thady here war so thick with the Captain. This war jist afther the row up to Loch Sheen, when three boys war locked up about some squall — and this made the rest more bitter agin the Captain. Well, when they got swearing this way, I axed ’em, why not go to the masther like a man, and tell him what they thought. Wid that they agreed to come up to Mary’s wedding — that’s Mary McGovery, yer honour, as is my sisther, and who war to be married the Thursday; and so they parted, and a lot on ’em swore that blessed night that the Captain should be under the sod that day six months. Well, yer honour, the next morning Mr. Keegan called down to Ballycloran about law business, and somehow there war words atwixt him and Mr. Thady, and from that they got to blows, and I b’lieve somehow Mr. Keegan got the best of it, and Mr. Thady was a little hurted, and this made him bittherer nor iver.”
“But that did not make him bitterer against Captain Ussher, did it?” asked a juror.
“Faix thin, I think it did, yer honour,” answered Pat. “It seemed to make him bitther altogether agin everybody; when I war talking to him aftherwards about coming down to the wedding, he seemed to be trating all the world alike. But the Captain and Mr. Keegan especial. Well, when the supper war over, and the boys were begun dancing, Mr. Thady come down and immediately comed into the inside room, where the men war sitting dhrinking, and I war wid them: thin one of the men, a tinent to Mr. Thady, up and tould the masther all as I’ve tould yer honours, of what took place at the Widdy’s in Mohill, and how av Mr. Thady would jine them to rid the counthry of the Captain, they’d stand to him, and wouldn’t let Mr. Keegan on the lands of Ballycloran, right or wrong. Wid that there war a dale of shilly-shallying — but at last the masther said as how he would jine the boys in ridding the counthry of the Captain, and he thin agreed to come down to the Widdy’s the next night, or that afther, to get the secret signs and the pass-words, and to take the oaths they war to swear him to. Wid that he tuk an oath thin niver to tell nothin’ of what had passed that night. After that, I don’t remember rightly how it war, but he got up to look for Miss Feemy, and she war out walking in the road wid the Captain. Well, Mr. Thady went down the road afther thim — and there war a ruction in the road betwixt thim two; but as I warn’t there I can’t say exactly what was said one side or the other. By the time they come agin to Mrs. Mehan’s door, Father John, that’s Father Magrath, you know, war there, and made the pace betwixt ’em; and that’s all I can tell yer honours about it av I war to sit here till doomsday.”
“You said just now,” said Mr. Allewinde, “that the prisoner agreed to join the men assembled at Mrs. Mehan’s in ridding the country of Captain Ussher; now what was meant by ridding the country of him?”
“Why isn’t it ridding the counthry of him? yer honour knows what that means as well as ere a boy in the barony.”
“Perhaps I do; but you must tell the jury what you mane by it.”
“Is it I? I didn’t mane nothin’ at all: it warn’t I as said it — or as war ever a going to do it.”
“What did you suppose was the meaning of those who did make use of the phrase?”
“I ‘sposed the boys did mane to get rid of the Captain out of the counthry; jist that, yer honour.”
“But how did you suppose they were to get rid of him?”
“Oh, yer honour, I niver heard the particklars; I niver knew nothin’ of the plan. I warn’t one of them, you know.”
“But the prisoner agreed to join them in any plan, or in some plan for ridding the country of Captain Ussher?”
“He did, yer honour; shure I said that before.”
“Now, you said some time ago, that when you first discovered that Captain Ussher had been killed by the prisoner, and that when you came to remember yourself, you weren’t much surprised. Now, thank God! it is, at any rate in this county, a very uncommon thing to find that one man has killed another. Can you tell the jury why you were not surprised at such an event as that?”
“Becase I knowed there war ill-blood betwixt the two.”
“But men do not kill one another whenever they quarrel, do they?”
“Faix, they do sometimes.”
“Did you ever, of your own knowledge, know a man before who killed another?”
“Oh dear! yes; shure I did.”
“Well, tell us an instance.”
“Why there war ould Paddy Rafferty, who war in the Cavan Militia in the Rabellion — av he didn’t kill scores of the French at Ballinamuck, he’s the biggest liar I ever heard; but he’s dead now, yer honour.”
“Supposing that the death of Captain Ussher had happened a fortnight before — that the prisoner had killed him a fortnight before the day on which he did kill him, would you not have been surprised then?”
“Why I don’t know that a fortnight makes much difference.”
“Answer my question. In such a case as that, would you not have felt more surprise than you did when the affair did occur?”
“Why, yer honour, I can’t answer that — becase, you see, it didn’t happen then, and I couldn’t exactly be saying what my feelings might be.”
“At any rate, you were not surprised?”
“Oh yes, I war surprised; in course it war a surprise to me when I kicked the dead body; but when I come to think over all about the Captain, I warn’t that much surprised.”
“After what had taken place at Mrs. Mehan’s, you did not expect Captain Ussher would be very long lived?”
“Faix, he lived longer than I expected — seeing the way he war going on through the counthry.”
“Do you remember telling me some time ago, speaking of Captain Ussher’s death, that the thing had been talked over?”
“I b’lieve I said as much.”
“What did you mean by that?”
“Why just that the job had been talked about.”
“What job?”
“Why this job.”
“What job? Tell the jury what job.”
“Faix, they all know well enough by this time,” and the witness looked up to the jury, “— or else they oughtn’t to be there, any way.”
“Tell them what job you mean — never mind what they know.”
“‘Deed thin, you’re bothering me so entirely with yer jobs, I don’t rightly know myself which I’m maning.”
“Think a little then, for you must tell them; you said the job had been talked over; what was it that had been talked over?”
The witness gave a stolid look at the counsel, but answered nothing.
“Come,” continued Mr. Allewinde, “what was the job that had been talked over?”
“Bad manners to the likes of me; but I war niver cute, and now I’m bothered intirely.”
“You mean to tell the jury then that you don’t know what you meant when you said the thing had been talked over; do you?”
“Why, I s’pose it was this thing about Captain Ussher. Weren’t we talking of that then?”
“That’s for you to say. Was it Captain Ussher’s death that had been talked over?”
“Witness, don’t answer that question,” said Mr. O’Malley. “I’m sure my learned friend will not press it; it’s very seldom he makes such a slip as that.”
Mr. Allewinde had asked a leading, and therefore an unallowable question.
“Why the witness had just said that he supposed it was this thing about Captain Ussher,” said Mr. Allewinde.
“I’ll say no more about it,” continued Mr. O’Malley, “feeling perfectly certain that you will not press the question.”
“Well,” said Mr. Allewinde to the witness, “tell the jury at once what was the thing that had been talked over.”
“Why, yer honour knows well enough. Shure weren’t you saying it yourself, only the gentleman here wouldn’t let you.”
“Well, now do you say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say what was the thing that had been talked over.”
“Talked over when, yer honour?”
“You told the jury some time since that the prisoner owned to you in the avenue that he had killed Captain Ussher, did you not?”
“Faix, I did — and it was thrue for me — he made no bones about it at all.”
“And you then added that the thing had been talked over; what thing was it that had been talked over?”
“Ah, that’s what you’re wanting, is it? ‘Deed thin I’m axing yer pardon for keeping yer honours all this time in suspinse. Faix thin, Captain Ussher war the thing what war talked over; and divil a lie in it, for he war talked over ofthen enough.”
“Captain Ussher had been talked over in such a manner as to prevent your feeling much surprise, when you found that the prisoner had killed him, isn’t that it?”
“Jist so — faix, I’d have no difficulty in discoursing wid yer honour, av the other gentleman wouldn’t put in his say.”
“You’ll find by and by he’ll have a great deal more to say.”
“In course; and no objection on arth on my part so long as it’s one at a time.”
“Now I think I have only two more questions to ask you, if you will give me direct answers to them.”
“Twenty, av you plaze, yer honour.”
“You have said that the tenants of the prisoner had sworn together to put Captain Ussher under the sod, and also that the prisoner had agreed to join the tenants in ridding the country of him; was the former phrase, that of putting the Captain under the sod, used in the prisoner’s presence on the evening of the wedding?”
“There war a lot of thim phrases used — ridding the counthry — sodding him — and all thim sort of disagreeable sayings; but I can’t swear to any one exactly at Mrs. Mehan’s — thim’s the sort of words.”
“Very well. Now I think you told us that when the prisoner desired you to take the dead body to the police at Carrick, he told you he was going to some place: where did he say he was going to?”
“To Aughacashel.”
“Where’s Aughacashel?”
“It’s a mountain behind Drumshambo.”
“And did he tell you why he was going to Aughacashel?”
“That he mightn’t be tuk, I s’pose.”
“I don’t want your supposition. Did the prisoner tell you why he was going to Aughacashel?”
“There war some of the tinants there, I b’lieve, and he thought he’d be safe may be.”
“Did the prisoner tell you that he was going to Aughacashel because he thought he’d be safe there?”
“I’ll tell you how it war thin. We were jist talking together about what he’d betther be doing, which was nathural, and he with the dead body there, he’d been jist afther killing. Wid that, says he, ‘Pat,’ says he, ‘where’s the stills mostly at work now?’ ‘Faith,’ says I, ‘I don’t exactly be knowing;’ for, yer honour, I niver turned a penny that way myself —‘but,’ says I, ‘sich a one’ll tell you,’ and I mintioned one of the tinants; ‘and where’s he?’ said the masther; ‘why I heard tell,’ says I, ‘that he’s in Aughacashel, but av you’ll go down to Drumleesh, you’ll find out,’ and wid that he went down the road to Drumleesh, and I druv the body off to Carrick.”
“That’ll do,” said Mr. Allewinde. “I’ve done with this witness, my lord.”
Mr. O’Malley then rose, but before he began to cross-examine the witness, he addressed the judge.
“There’s a witness in court, my lord, whom I shall have to examine by and by on the defence, and I must request that he may be directed to absent himself during my examination of the witness now in the chair. It is material that he should not hear the answers which this witness may give, I mean Mr. Hyacinth Keegan, my lord, who is sitting beneath me.”
Keegan was sitting on the bench immediately under that of the barrister, among the attorneys employed in court. When he heard Mr. O’Malley’s request to the judge, he rose up on his one leg, and the judge having ordered him to leave the court, he hobbled out with the assistance of his crutch.
“Your name is Pat Brady, I think,” commenced Mr. O’Malley.
Pat did not reply.
“Why don’t you answer my question, sir?” said the counsellor angrily.
“Why I towld what my name war afore. Thim gintlemen up there knows it well enough, and yourself knows it; why’d I be saying it agin?”
“Well, my friend, I tell you to begin with, I shall ask you many questions you’ll find considerably more difficult to answer than that, and you’d better make up your mind to answer them; for I mean to get an answer to the questions I shall ask, and you’ll sit in that chair till you do answer them, unless you’re moved from it into gaol.”
“Fire away, sir; I’m very well where I am, and I’m thinking I can howld out agin the hunger longer nor yer honer.”
“Your name is Pat Brady?”
“It is.”
“Whose servant are you?”
“Whose servant?”
“Don’t you understand what I say? whose servant are you?”
“Faix thin, I don’t call myself a servant at all.”
“Who’s your master then?”
“Mr. Macdermot here was my masther afore this affair.”
“I didn’t ask who was your master; who is your master now?”
“Why, Mr. Keegan.”
“Mr. Hyacinth Keegan, that’s just gone out of court; he’s your master, eh?”
“He is.”
“And a very good master — isn’t he?”
“Betther, maybe, than yer honour’d be, and yet perhaps none of the best.”
“Answer my questions, sir; isn’t he a good master?”
“Faix, he is so.”
“How long have you been in his employment?”
“How long!”
“Yes, how long?”
“Why, I can’t jist say how long.”
“Have you been a year?”
“No.”
“Six months?”
“No.”
“Will you swear that you never were in Mr. Keegan’s pay before six months ago?”
“I will.”
“You never received any money from Mr. Keegan before six months ago?”
“I did not say that.”
“Why, if you received his money weren’t you in his pay?”
“No; maybe he gave me a Christmas-box or so; he’s very good to a poor boy like me in that way, is Mr. Keegan.”
“In whose employment were you six months ago?”
“In Mr. Macdermot’s; yourself knows that well enough.”
“And Mr. Macdermot and Mr. Keegan were great friends at that time; weren’t they?”
“Faix they were not; I never seed much frindship betwixt ’em.”
“Did you ever see any enmity between them — any quarrelling — or what you very properly call bad blood?”
“Indeed I did then.”
“I b’lieve Mr. Macdermot — that’s the prisoner — had great trust in you; hadn’t he?”
“I believe he had.”
“You knew all the affairs about the estate?”
“I b’lieve I did.”
“He told you all his troubles — all his money difficulties, didn’t he?”
“One way or other, I b’lieve I knew the most on ’em.”
“Particularly as to the money due on his father’s property, which Keegan had to receive; he used to talk to you confidentially about those things?”
“Well, and av he did?”
“But he did so; didn’t he?”
“Faix, but I don’t know what you’re afther; I b’lieve he towld me all about everything.”
“I believe he did indeed; and now I’ll tell you what I’m after. Mr. Macdermot, unfortunately believing you to be an honest man, told you all his plans and secrets, which you, in consideration of certain pay, which you call Christmas-boxes, sold to the man whom you knew to be your master’s enemy; isn’t that the fact now?”
“No, it a’nt.”
“Ah, but I say it is the fact; and now do you suppose any jury will believe a word you’ve said, after having shown yourself guilty of such treachery as that. Do you expect the jury to believe you?”
“‘Deed I do — every word; Lord bless you, they knows me.”
“Now, then, tell me. Can you recall any conversation between yourself and Mr. Keegan since the death of Captain Ussher, relative to this trial?”
“I can.”
“More than one, perhaps?”
“Oh, lor yes; twenty maybe.”
“Will you tell us any particulars you may remember of the last?”
A long conversation then ensued, but Mr. O’Malley could only elicit that Brady had, of his own accord, informed his master of all he knew on the subject, and that he had done so because he thought it right. He admitted, however, that Mr. Keegan had expressed a desire that the prisoner might be hung. A great many questions were then asked as to the present holding of Ballycloran, to which Brady answered, stating with tolerable accuracy the manner in which Larry at present lived on the property, and the hold which Keegan had upon it. He, moreover, stated that the house was in a very bad state of repair, and that most of the tenants who were left on the property were unable to pay their rent. He then, after much hesitation, owned that he had overheard what had taken place between Keegan and Thady in the avenue, on the day when the attorney had called at Ballycloran — that he had heard the name which Keegan had applied to Feemy, and that he had seen the manner in which Thady had been struck.
He was then asked whether he himself had not cautioned Thady against Ussher, telling him the reports that were going through the country as to Ussher’s treatment of his sister. This he denied, stating that it wasn’t probable that “the likes of him should go to speak to his masther about such things as that.” He was repeatedly questioned on this point, but Mr. O’Malley could not shake his evidence. Brady, however, owned that in talking to Thady about Ussher, he had called the latter “a black Protestant,” and that he had always spoken ill of him; “and now,” continued Mr. O’Malley, “I don’t wish to ask you any questions by answering which you will criminate yourself; but you have already said that you have been a visitor at Mrs. Mulready’s shop?”
“Oh yes, I’ve been there.”
“And you have been there when certain persons swore that before twelve months were passed, Captain Ussher should be under the sod?”
“Yes; I swear I heard thim words, and saw the boys take the oath.”
“But to the best of your belief the prisoner was never at this house when such an oath was taken?”
“Is it Mr. Thady? He was niver at mother Mulready’s at all.”
“But he met the party who had taken this oath at your sister’s wedding?”
“He did.”
“And the same subject was spoken of there; was it?”
“What subject?”
“The propriety of sodding Captain Ussher?”
“I don’t know about propriety.”
“Well, then, the advisability of doing so?”
“Oh, yer honer, I aint no scollard. I can’t make nothin’ of thim long words.”
“At any rate, they talked of sodding Captain Ussher at the wedding — didn’t they?”
“I niver said so.”
“Well, but did they?”
“Talk of sodding him! Faix I don’t know; I don’t think they said sodding.”
“Did they say killing?”
“I won’t say they did.”
“Or murdering?”
“No; they did not say nothin’ about murdher.”
“Oh; they did not say anything about murder — or doing for him? perhaps the prisoner and the other boys agreed to do for him?”
“Maybe they did — maybe you were there; only if so I disremember you; but thim’s not the words I swore to.”
“Well, they didn’t agree to sod him, or kill him, or murder him, or do for him; what was it they were to do for him?”
“They were to rid the counthry of him.”
“What — make the country too hot to hold him? eh, is that what you mean?”
“It don’t matter what I mean; that warn’t what they meant.”
“And how do you know what they meant?”
“Why, they meant to kill the man; you know that as well as I.”
“But I don’t know it — nor do I think it; nor what is more, do you think it; for you are sharp enough to know that where there are so many figurative terms in use to signify murder, it is not probable that had they, on this occasion, wished to signify murder, they would have used a phrase which every one knows expresses an intention to drive a man out of the country. Yes, sir, you know that not one of the party would have dared to propose to Mr. Macdermot to have a share in murder. You and they talked of murder at Mrs. Mulready’s, but you know that for your life you would not have dared to mention it before Mr. Macdermot. Now tell me how long was the prisoner at the wedding party?”
“Maybe three hours.”
“Was he sober when he came in?”
“He war.”
“Was he sober when he went out?”
“Sober when he went out?”
“Yes, sir; was he sober when he went out?”
“I don’t think he war — not to say sober.”
“Wasn’t he mad drunk?”
“Mad dhrunk?”
“Don’t repeat my words, sir; wasn’t he mad drunk?”
“Faix, that’s thrue for you, sir — they’re not worth repeating; no, he war not mad dhrunk.”
“Was he drunk? and mind, sir, you are on your oath — and there were many others present there who will prove whether you answer this question truly or falsely; was he drunk when he left the wedding party?”
“‘Deed then I don’t know; you can ask thim as war there besides me.”
“But I choose to ask you, and I choose that you should answer me; was he drunk?”
“Don’t I tell you that I don’t know?”
“On your oath you don’t know whether he was drunk or not?”
“He war screwed; divil a doubt of that; but thin, he could walk — I wouldn’t call him dhrunk.”
“Wasn’t he nearer being so than you’d seen him for many months?”
“Faix, he war. I didn’t see him so bad since Leitrim fair, two years back.”
“And now you say, that at the wedding, the prisoner promised in a day or two to meet the same boys at Mrs. Mulready’s, to settle their plans of ridding the country of Ussher?”
“Yes; about that and other things.”
“And the prisoner never kept that appointment?”
“No, Mr. Thady niver went there.”
“Did you ever say anything to him about not going there?”
“Oh, I did; we were discoursing about it.”
“And what did you say to him on the subject?”
“Why, I towld him av he guv the boys a promise, he oughts never to go back from his word.”
“That is to say, you endeavoured to persuade him to go?”
“By-dad, I don’t know about persuading; it warn’t for the likes of me to persuade him.”
“On your oath, sir, didn’t you endeavour to induce the prisoner to go to Mrs. Mulready’s?”
“I towld him he ought to be as good as his word.”
“Yes, you did; and you think he ought to have gone?”
“May be av he’d gone there, he’d never have stood here this day.”
“You wanted him to go to Mrs. Mulready’s, then?”
“Wanted! No, I didn’t want nothing about it.”
“You only asked him to go?”
“Jist as I towld you; I said av he guv the boys his word, as a man he shouldn’t go from it.”
“Did you say anything to him about Mr. Jonas Brown?”
“Jonas Brown?”
“Yes, Mr. Jonas Brown, the magistrate?”
“Faix, I don’t know. I can’t rightly say.”
“Think now, my man; when you were trying to persuade your master to go to the widow Mulready’s, did you mention Mr. Jonas Brown’s name?”
“D’ye think I do be counting my words that way; how am I to say all the names I mintioned four or five months back?”
“On your solemn oath don’t you remember mentioning that gentleman’s name to the prisoner with reference to his visit to Mrs. Mulready’s?”
“What, Jonas Brown’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Faix I may.”
“Don’t you know you did?”
“Faix I don’t.”
“Didn’t you threaten your master, that if he did not attend the meeting, some of the boys would swear against him, before Mr. Brown, for having joined the party and taken the oath at the wedding?”
“What av I did?”
“But did you?”
“Maybe I did — maybe I didn’t; I disremember thim little things.”
The cross-examination continued for a considerable time; but nothing further that was material could be drawn from Brady. He seemed even more unwilling to answer Mr. O’Malley, than he had been in replying to Mr. Allewinde, and at last he was sent off the table.
The next witness called was McGovery, who had been summoned on behalf of the prosecution. He was asked whether he had not suspected that some foul play was intended against Ussher, and he stated in what manner he had, in the first place, cautioned Ussher himself — then that he had told the same thing to Father John — and that after overhearing a portion of the conversation at Mrs. Mehan’s, he had gone to Father Cullen, for the purpose of informing him that he feared there was a conspiracy against Mr. Keegan. Little, however, could be learnt from him, for he owned that he had no substantial grounds for his suspicions in the first case, and that he had chiefly been led to fear an attack upon Ussher, from knowing his unpopularity and the bad character of many of the guests expected at the wedding. Mr. O’Laugher tried to make him say that the conversation at Mrs. Mehan’s had been confined to Keegan, and the threats which he had heard uttered against him; but McGovery would not say as much as this; he stated positively that he had never heard Ussher’s name mentioned, but that during a considerable portion of the evening he had been entirely unable to hear a word that the men said; he declared, however, positively that Thady was drunk when he left the room, and that it appeared to him that he, Thady, had taken very little part in the conversation before he was drunk.
When this witness went off the table, Mr. Allewinde declared that the case for the prosecution was finished — stating at the same time that he abstained from feelings of delicacy and respect from putting the prisoner’s sister into the witness box; and that he should trouble her with no questions unless she were placed there by the counsel for the defence.
Mr. O’Malley then rose to address the jury on behalf of the prisoner, and spoke to the following effect:—
“Gentlemen of the jury, it now becomes my duty to address to you such words as may best suit to point out to you the weakness of the evidence against the prisoner — to explain to you the different objects we had in our lengthened cross-examination of the witnesses — to inform you what we intend to prove on behalf of the prisoner from further witnesses — and, in fact, to put the case before you in a light, and point of view, differing as widely as I can make it do from that in which my learned friend has presented it to you. This you are aware is the general duty and constant object of a counsel endeavouring to obtain a verdict of acquittal from a jury. It is a duty in which long practice has made me familiar, if not skilful; and I never undertook that duty with the same assurance of its facility, as that which I now feel, after having heard the evidence which has been brought forward on the prosecution. I knew beforehand, as surely as one can trust to human knowledge, that the evidence would fail; but knowing the acute legal abilities of my learned friend, and the extraordinary avidity which exists among a large class of men for a verdict against the prisoner in this case — remembering, I say, these things, I did not expect such a total break down, such an exposure of weakness as that which has been just made before you. Were my object merely to rescue the prisoner from an ignominious death — had it been my mere duty on this occasion to obtain an acquittal, I should feel no hesitation in requesting his lordship at once to send the case before you, with such remarks as the evidence would call forth from him; and I should consider that I was only wasting the time of the court in pointing out to you the insufficiency of the evidence, in which each of you must perceive that nothing whatever is proved against the prisoner; but I have been employed with another object; and I must own to you that so great is my own personal anxiety — so terrible and so undeserved the present position of that unfortunate young man, and so essentially necessary is it for his future happiness, that I should effect my present object; — I must own to you, I say, for these reasons, that from the time when I first found myself standing in a crowded court to address a jury, up to the present moment, I have never felt so little self-confidence, or experienced so total a prostration of that assurance, which is a lawyer’s first requisite, as I do at present.
“I have said my object in addressing you is not merely that of obtaining an acquittal; and I said so because a mere acquittal will serve that unfortunate young man but little. Unless he can walk out of this court with such a verdict as, damning as it may be to others, will altogether cleanse his name from the stain of guilt in this matter; unless he can, not only save his neck from the halter, but also entirely clear his character from the gross charges which have been brought against him — he would as lief go back to the cell whence he has come, as return to his father’s house acquitted by the voice of law, but condemned by that of opinion.
“On this account I am debarred from many of the usual resources of counsel pleading for a prisoner; I am forbidden to make use of legal points in his favour; I am forbidden to effect an escape by the numerous weak points in the enemy’s plan of attack; I am desired to meet him face to face in the open field — to fight under no banner but that of truth, and not to strike my adversary below the belt. You are aware that this is a line of conduct as rare as it is difficult in a criminal court — when an advocate has to contend for his client against the law — where every possible means of success which legal ingenuity can devise is taken in the prosecution, and where you are accustomed to hear every legal technicality used in the defence.
“Had I not received instructions of so peculiar a nature, I should point out to the jury that no proof has been given direct or circumstantial, that the prisoner was the person by whose hands Ussher fell; instead of doing so I am to declare that he did, as he is supposed to have done, kill the deceased in the avenue of Ballycloran, by striking him twice with his stick. I am to justify that deed, and disprove the charge of his having entered into a conspiracy to murder the man, whom he did kill.
“The prisoner, you have been told, and are probably all aware, is above the rank of men whom you are mostly accustomed to see placed in that dock. He is the only son of a gentleman, living on his own small estate, and has for some years past acted as his father’s sole agent and manager.
“I must now tell you a few particulars respecting that estate; and though, of course, you cannot receive as evidence what I tell you, still this course will be necessary, as I shall thereby be enabled to explain to you my object in obtaining answers to certain questions which I have asked, or shall ask, the answers to which you will take as evidence.
“In the time of the prisoner’s grandfather, a house was built on this estate by a Mr. Flannelly, of this town, and the price of the building not having been paid, this man, the builder, obtained a mortgage on the estate for the amount of the debt. This is still due, though the house, as you have heard, is falling to the ground; and it has so been increased by interest not paid up and by legal charges, that it has completely embarrassed the present proprietor, who is even now unable to leave his house for fear of arrest. Mr. Keegan, whose name has often come before you in the evidence, and who, by and by, will be examined himself, is the son-in-law of this Mr. Flannelly, and owns, as I have no doubt I shall be able to prove to you, the whole interest in the estate of Ballycloran arising from this mortgage.
“The prisoner’s time, since he ceased to be a boy, has been employed in futile endeavours to satisfy the legal claims of this man; and I shall prove to you by most undoubtable evidence that his industry in this object has been unceasing, and that his conduct as a son and a brother has been beyond all praise. But he has failed — times have been against him — legal costs have so swelled the legal interest as to consume the whole rents — those rents he has been unable to collect, and his life has been one manful struggle against poverty and Mr. Keegan; — and I could not wish my worst foe two more inveterate enemies.
“Some few days before Ussher’s death — and now I am going to confine myself to that which I am in a position to prove — Mr. Keegan called on the Macdermots for the purpose of proposing certain terms for the adjustment of the debt, which were neither more nor less than that he should have the whole estate, paying a small weekly stipend for life to the prisoner’s father. The prisoner was willing to agree, providing some provision should be made for his sister; but the father indignantly spurned the offer, and turned Mr. Keegan out of the house in no very gentle manner. The prisoner followed him into the avenue — still wishing to come to some arrangement; but the attorney was so enraged at the conduct of the father, that instead of listening to the son, he began abusing the whole family, and, as you have heard, applied the most shameful epithet to the sister with which the tongue of a man can defile the name of a woman. He afterwards struck the prisoner, who was unarmed, heavily with his stick; and I have no hesitation in telling you, that that quarrel, in which no blame appears to have been attributable to the young man, placed him in that dock.
“Brady, the confidential servant of the prisoner, both saw and overheard what took place at this interview, as he has told you, and he afterwards — as he will not deny, though he will not confess it — incited his master, during the period of his natural irritation, to go down to the wedding party, to meet a number of his tenants who would be willing to assist him in revenging himself against his enemy Keegan, the attorney, if he would assist them against their enemy, Ussher, the Revenue officer. And here my client made the one false step — and the only one which I can trace to him — and committed that folly from which this bitter foe has thought to ruin him. Irritated by the blow — his ear still ringing with the infamous name applied to his loved sister — full of his father’s wrong, and his own hard condition, he consented to meet men whose object he knew was illegal; though what their plans were he was entirely ignorant.
“With reference to what took place at the wedding, I have, in the first place, to remark that from the character of this man Brady, I could confidently call upon you to reject every word of his evidence; and I shall presently show you in what respects and why you are bound to do so. But, in the present instance, I am satisfied to tell you that my client did attend that meeting. But mind, that was no illegal meeting — it was not secret; the door was not locked, nor even closed; it was a party of men met at the wedding of one of their own station. The woman to be married was a sister of the prisoner’s servant, and it was natural that he should be present. He directs me positively to tell you that he did attend that meeting; though I also tell you, with confidence, that he committed no crime in doing so, and his lordship will corroborate what I tell you.
“It was, however, a part of the plan organised against the prisoner that he should be induced to commit an illegal act, and he was, as you have heard, brought when drunk to promise that he would go down to Mrs. Mulready’s, to take upon himself illegal oaths and obligations.
“On the following day he was invited by this same Brady to come on a certain evening; but Macdermot was no longer drunk; he was no longer infuriated by the gross outrages he had received; and what did he do then? Did he go to Mrs. Mulready’s to settle the particulars of this murder which he is said to have premeditated? Did he join these outlaws of whom he is represented to have been the leader? Did he even send them an encouraging message — a word of fellowship? No! Even by the testimony of this man, now so anxious to hang his benefactor — this man, who by his own showing was at the same time in the pay of the prisoner and of his enemy Keegan — he indignantly repudiated the idea; he at once informed this wretch — equally a traitor to his confederates and to his master — that he would have nothing in common with them or their schemes; and although threatened with the vengeance of the party, and with the authority of a magistrate, steadily refused even to enter the house in which they were accustomed to assemble. Why, from what I can learn of the young man and of his daily habits, I do not conceive that there is one of yourselves who would not be as likely to join an illegal society as he would. Patient under poverty — industrious under accumulated sufferings — he has led a life which would not have disgraced a priest; he has been ever found sincere in his thoughts, moral in his conduct, and most unselfish in his actions. Is this the man to join a set of senseless rioters, furious at the imprisonment of their relatives, and anxious only to protect their illicit stills? And this is no empty praise. That what I have said of the prisoner is no more than is his due, will be proved to you by evidence which I defy you to doubt. Well, he did not go to Mrs. Mulready’s; but he did go to his friend and priest, Mr. Magrath; and not as a penitent to his confessor, but as a friend to a friend, told him exactly what had passed, lamented his indiscretion, and declared his determination never to put himself in the way of repeating it.
“Up to this time my chief object has been to show to you the enmity existing between Keegan and the prisoner — the object which the former had in view in ruining the prisoner, and that Brady was a paid spy employed to entrap him.
“I shall now come to the deed itself, and I shall afterwards refer to what absolutely did take place at the meeting at the wedding. I have told you that young Macdermot did kill the deceased. He struck him with the stick which has been shown to you in court, and as he was rising from the blow he struck him again; and no doubt the medical witness was right in his opinion that the second blow occasioned instant death.
“You are, however, aware that circumstances might exist which would justify any man in taking the life of another. If a man were violently to attack you, and you were to strike him on the head and kill him, you would be justified. If you were to kill a man in a fray, in fair defence of a third party, you would be justified. If you were to kill a man by a blow in the quarrel of a moment, you would not be guilty of murder. But I can fancy no case in which death, however much it may be lamented, can lay less of the murderer’s stain upon the hand that inflicts it, than one in which a brother interferes to rescue a sister from the violent grasp of a seducer. Such was precisely the case in the instance now before us. My learned friend on the other side has truly told you that Miss Macdermot, the prisoner’s sister, had consented to elope with Captain Ussher on the evening on which that man was killed. You have learnt, from evidence which you have no reason to doubt, that she had prepared to do so. In fact, you cannot doubt that she left the house of Ballycloran for that purpose; this has been proved — but there are circumstances beyond this on which it is essentially necessary that you should have evidence, and this evidence can only be given by the young lady herself. I shall therefore have to bring her before you. When my learned friend told you that he would not call upon her, nor question her unless placed in that chair by me, he forgot his usual candour, and assumed to himself credit for humanity to which he has no title. He himself has nothing to learn from her, as he will prove to you if he attempts to cross-examine her. Moreover, he was as fully aware as I am myself, that the prisoner must rely on her alone for anything like a true account of the affray.
“The brother and the sister are the only living witnesses of that scene. He has within him that high consciousness of innocence and rectitude of intention which has enabled him to bear his sufferings, his imprisonment, and the misery of his position, with a fortitude which I not only admire, but envy. But that can avail nothing with you; from the sister’s lips you must hear the only account which you can receive, and if we find that she has been unable to recall the dreadful circumstances of that night, that fact will bear me out in the history of the occurrence which I am now going to give you.”
Mr. O’Malley then gave as exact an account of the occurrence as he had been able to collect from Thady, from Feemy’s evidence before the coroner, and from such words as Mrs. McKeon had been able to extract from Feemy on the subject. He then continued,
“When the prisoner struck Ussher, he had come to the knowledge of what the burden was which this man was dragging, solely from the words which the man had used. Miss Macdermot was lying senseless in his arms, and, supporting her by her waist, he was forcing her down the avenue. The words he used were, ‘This is damned nonsense — you must come now.’ Then the brother perceived the fate to which this man was — not alluring — but forcing his sister. At that moment — and it was the only one in which the prisoner had to judge of the circumstances of the case — she was not in the act of eloping willingly; she had seen her brother’s form, and had refused, or been unable, to rise from the timber on which she was seated. She was forced from thence by this man, whose death protects him from the language in which his name would otherwise be mentioned. She fainted in his arms, and only came to her senses to find her lover dead, and her brother standing beside her, red with his blood. Yes; he had avenged her! — he had punished the ruffian for his barbarity towards her, and saved his sister from the ignominy to which Mr. Frederick Brown told you with so much flippancy that she had been doomed.
“If this was the young man’s conduct, was there anything in it that you can even blame? Which of you would have done otherwise? Which of you will tell me that in avenging the wrongs of a sister, or of a daughter, he would pause to measure the weight of his stick, or the number of his blows. Fancy each of you that you see the form of her you love best in the rough grasp of a violent seducer! Endeavour to bring home to yourselves the feelings to which such a sight would give rise within you! and then, if you can, find that young man guilty of murder, because his heart was warm to feel his sister’s wrongs and his hand was strong to avenge them.
“But you have been told that as the prisoner had met certain persons for the purpose of entering into a conspiracy of murdering Ussher — and that that fact would be proved to you — you are bound to consider that his coming across Ussher was not accidental, and that the manner in which he attacked that man whilst carrying off his sister was a part of his preconcerted plan. I first of all deny that any credible evidence, any evidence worthy of the slightest belief, has been brought before you to induce you to suppose that the prisoner had even joined any such conspiracy; instead of which you have strong circumstantial evidence that he had never done so.
“You have most of you, no doubt, heard, on various occasions, from different learned judges seated on that bench, that a crown approver’s evidence is to be taken with the greatest caution, and only to be believed in detail, when corroborated by other evidence or by circumstances. Now this man, Brady, on whose sole evidence you are desired to convict the prisoner, has shown himself an approver of the very worst description. You are aware that he was the prisoner’s servant; that he is now Mr. Keegan’s; that there has been long enmity between these men; that the former has been an oppressed debtor — the latter a most oppressive creditor. Mr. Keegan’s spirit towards the prisoner’s family you may learn from the scandalous and unwarrantable language which has been proved to you to have been used by him towards them. Mr. Keegan’s acerbity has been increased by the mutilation he has undergone, and which he conceives he owes to his interference with the Ballycloran property. This man and the witness Brady have, as you have heard, constantly been talking over this trial, and the attorney, it seems, has repeatedly expressed to his servant his ardent wish that the prisoner might be hung. This is his expressed eager desire; and then this new servant, but long-used spy, comes forward boldly to swear away the prisoner’s life! Why it would be ridiculing you to suppose you could believe him. Then look at the man’s character. He was a constant attendant at that scene of villany into which he vainly endeavoured to seduce the prisoner at Mrs. Mulready’s. It is plain enough that Ussher’s death was a constant theme of discourse at that haunt; it is plain enough that a project did exist there to accomplish his murder; and is it not plain enough that this man was one of the conspirators — one of the murderers? Would he have been admitted to their counsels — to their dangerous secrets — unless he had been an active participator in their plans? Would they have taken in his presence a solemn oath to put this unfortunate Revenue officer under the sod, unless he had joined in that oath? Of course they would not! And this is the man whom they expect you to believe with such confidence, that on his unsupported evidence you should condemn the prisoner! What I have said to you respecting this respectable witness, and his not less respectable master, will perhaps be made somewhat plainer to you when you shall have heard the evidence which I hope to extract from the latter. Now, as to the meeting at Mrs. Mehan’s, even were you to believe Brady, I maintain that nothing whatever has been proved against the prisoner. Brady states that at Mrs. Mulready’s certain men swore together that at a certain period Captain Ussher should be under the sod. This phrase brings to the mind of every one the conviction that they meant to express murder. The man could not be under the sod unless he were dead.
“But at the wedding, when young Macdermot was present, even by the showing of Brady himself, the men were afraid to use any such phrase. They implored their landlord’s assistance to help them to rid the country of him; to frighten him off; to make the place too hot to hold him. As I told that wretched reptile, whilst in the chair, they would have no more dared to propose a scheme of murder to young Macdermot, even in his drunkenness, than they would have to you or to me.
“Now as to the probability of the prisoner’s having been aware of his sister’s project for eloping, and having made use of that opportunity for the safe execution of a scheme of murder — and this perhaps is the most material point of all; for were there good grounds to suppose that he knew that this elopement was to take place — that he took no precautionary steps to prevent it — but that having this previous knowledge, he rushed out at the time, and killed the man, I should be very far from telling you that he was perfectly justified, as I do now. But I must positively maintain that you cannot come to such a conclusion. It has, to a degree, been proved to you, and will be so more clearly, that the prisoner had all along shown himself averse to the intimacy which existed between Ussher and his sister; it is therefore to be presumed that both of them took every means in their power to prevent the prisoner from learning their intention; and there is every reason to suppose they were successful.
“Two persons appear to have been told, as their services were required, both of whom have been examined before you — the servant girl and Mr. Frederick Brown. The former has sworn that she mentioned it to no one, and there is no reason to disbelieve her. The latter proved himself not so trustworthy. It seems that with that foolish flippancy which distinguishes him he told his friend’s secret to other friends of his as a good joke. But you must remember that Mr. Brown’s friends were not the prisoner’s friends — that they rather were in such different circles, that what was said in one, would be very little likely to find its way into the other; and above all, that those to whom Mr. Brown or his friends communicated it, would think that the brother was the last person who should be told of it. Again, had the prisoner known the projected elopement, and intended to make use of it for the perpetration of a preconcerted murder, would he — could he have acted as he did? Could he have waited for such an unexpected accident as his sister’s fainting before he drew near to his victim. His sister had walked down the avenue, and after waiting some time in the road, returned and sat down upon a fallen tree; it was whilst so seated that she heard the brother open the hall-door; had she, as she expected, met her lover at the hour appointed, they would have been far beyond the prisoner’s reach before he had left the house; — would he have allowed this to be the case, had it been his intention to take advantage of the opportunity? It is absurd to argue on such a point. It is unnecessary almost to call your attention to things which must so manifestly present themselves to you. The whole of this case has received additional weight and importance from official authority. It has been considered worthy of especial government interference. My learned friend has come express from the metropolis for the purpose of conducting it; — a rumour has been spread abroad that most conclusive evidence would be produced to prove that a prisoner from the better orders of society had joined, and headed one of those illegal bodies of men whose existence is supposed to be the cause of the troubles of this distracted country; and that he had, in unison with these schemes, committed a foul and deliberate murder; and my learned friend has not hesitated to tell you that it is essentially necessary to use the utmost extent of legal severity, that an end may be put to the agrarian outrages which are now becoming so frightfully prevalent in the country. Has anything been proved to warrant this official zeal — this government interference? No, nothing; not one iota; but still these paraphernalia of office, this more than ordinary anxiety to obtain a verdict, may have an effect upon your minds most prejudicial to my client. I have no doubt as to your actual verdict. I have no doubt that you will — nay, I know that you must — acquit that young man of murder. But I beseech you to remember that, though in the indictment he has been charged with murder only, he has been by the servant of government, by my learned friend on the other side, accused of other grievous crimes; and I implore you by your verdict, to purge his character of the stain which has been so unjustly attached to it, if you find, on examination of the evidence, no cause to suppose that he had been a participator in the councils of such societies. I beseech you to do him that justice, which can now only be done by the strong expression of your unanimous assurance of absolute innocence. I beseech you to reject from your minds those preconceived opinions so injurious to the prisoner, with which the present unfortunate state of your country may so naturally have influenced you, and to remember that it is your duty, as jurors, to confine yourself to the individual case before you; and that the doctrine laid down by my learned friend, that you should make an example in one case for the sake of prevention of crimes in others, is most unconstitutional, and would imply, that whilst the solemn oath you have taken is still vibrating in your ears, your object should be far wide from that for which you have been assembled — that of making a fair and true trial between your sovereign and the prisoner. I shall now call a few witnesses, and then leave the case, with confidence, in your hands.”