On the second morning after the night described in the last chapter,
Bryan M'Mahon had just returned to his father's house from his farm in
Ahadarra, for the purpose of accompanying him to an Emigration auction
in the neighborhood. The two farms of Carriglass and Ahadarra had been
in the family of the M'Mahon's for generations, and were the property
of the same landlord. About three years previous to the period of our
narrative, Toal M'Mahon, Bryan's uncle, died of an inflammatory attack,
leaving to his eldest nephew and favorite the stock farm of Ahadarra.
Toal had been a bachelor who lived wildly and extravagantly, and when he
died Bryan suceeeded to the farm, then as wild, by the way, and as much
neglected as its owner had been, with an arrear of two years' rent upon
it. In fact the house and offices had gone nearly to wreck, and when
Bryan entered into occupation he found that a large sum of money
should be expended in necessary improvements ere the place could
assume anything like a decent appearance. As a holding, however, it
was reasonable; and we may safely assert that if Toal M'Mahon had been
either industrious or careful he might have lived and died a wealthy
man upon it. As Ahadarra lay in the mountain district, it necessarily
covered a large space; in fact it constituted a townland in itself. The
greater portion of it, no doubt, was barren mountain, but then there
were about three hundred acres of strong rough land that was either
reclaimed or capable of being so. Bryan, who had not only energy and
activity, but capital to support both, felt, on becoming master of a
separate farm, that peculiar degree of pride which was only natural to
a young and enterprising man. He had now a fair opportunity, he thought,
of letting his friends see what skill and persevering exertion could
do. Accordingly he commenced his improvements in a spirit which at
least deserved success. He proceeded upon the best system then known to
intelligent agriculturalists, and nothing was left undone that he deemed
necessary to work out his purposes. He drained, reclaimed, made fences,
roads, and enclosures. Nor did he stop here. We said that the house and
offices were in a ruinous state when they came into his possession, and
the consequence was that he found it necessary to build a new dwelling
house and suitable offices, which he did on a more commodious and
eligible site. Altogether his expenditure on the farm could not have
been less than eight hundred pounds at the period of the landlord's
death, which, as the reader knows is that at which we have commenced our
narrative.
Thomas M'Mahon's family consisted of--first, his father, a grey-haired
patriarch, who, though a very old man, was healthy and in the full
possession of all his faculties; next, himself; then his wife; Bryan,
the proprietor of Ahadarra; two other sons, both younger, and two
daughters, the eldest twenty, and the youngest about eighteen. The name
of the latter was Dora, a sweet and gentle girl, with beautiful auburn
hair, dark, brilliant eyes, full of intellect and feeling, an exquisite
mouth, and a figure which was remarkable for natural grace and great
symmetry.
“Well, Bryan,” said the father, “what news from Ahadarra?”
“Nothing particular from Ahadarra,” replied the son, “but our
good-natured friend, Jemmy Burke, had his house broken open and robbed
the night before last.”
“Wurrah deheelish” exclaimed his mother, “no, he hadn't!”
“Well, mother,” replied Bryan, laughing, “maybe not. I'm afeard it's too
true though.”
“An' how much did he lose?” asked his father.
“Between seventy and eighty pounds,” said Bryan.
“It's too much,” observed the other; “still I'm glad it's no more; an'
since the villains did take it, it's well they tuck it from a man that
can afford to lose it.”
“By all accounts,” said Arthur, or, as he was called, Art, “Hycy, the
sportheen, has pulled him down a bit. He's not so rich now, they say, as
he was three or four years ago.”
“He's rich enough still,” observed his father; “but at any rate, upon
my sowl I'm sorry for him; he's the crame of an honest, kind-hearted
neighbor; an' I believe in my conscience if there's a man alive that
hasn't an ill-wisher, he is.”
“Is it known who robbed him?” asked the grandfather, “or does he suspect
anybody?”
“It's not known, of course, grandfather,” replied Bryan, “or I suppose
they would be in limbo before now; but there's quare talk about it. The
Hogans is suspected, it seems. Philip was caught examinin' the hall-door
the night before; an' that does look suspicious.”
“Ay,” said the old man, “an' very likely they're the men. I remember
them this many a long day; it's forty years since Andy Hogan--he was
lame--Andy Boccah they called him--was hanged for the murdher of your
great-granduncle, Billy Shevlin, of Frughmore, so that they don't like
a bone in our bodies. That was the only murdher I remember of them, but
many a robbery was laid to their charge; an' every now and then
there was always sure to be an odd one transported for thievin', an'
house-breakin', and sich villainy.”
“I wouldn't be surprised,” said Mrs. M'Mahon, “but it was some o' them
tuck our two brave geese the night before last.”
“Very likely, in throth, Bridget,” said her husband; “however, as the
ould proverb has it, 'honesty's the best policy.' Let them see which of
us I'll be the best off at the end of the year.”
“There's an odd whisper here an' there about another robber,” continued
Bryan; “but I don't believe a word about it. No, no;--he's wild, and not
scrupulous in many things, but I always thought him generous, an' indeed
rather careless about money.”
“You mane the sportheen?” said his brother Art.
“The Hogans,” said the old man, recurring to the subject, as associated
with them, “would rob anybody barrin' the Cavanaghs; but I won't listen
to it, Bryan, that Hycy Burke, or the son of any honest man that ever
had an opportunity of hearin' the Word o' God, or livin' in a Christian
counthry, could ever think of robbin' his own father--his own father! I
won't listen to that.”
“No, nor I, grandfather,” said Bryan, “putting everything else out of
the question, its too unnatural an act. What makes you shake your head,
Art?”
“I never liked a bone in his body, somehow,” replied Art.
“Ay, but my goodness, Art,” said Dora, “sure nobody would think of
robbin' their own father?”
“He has been doin' little else these three years, Dora, by all
accounts,” replied Art.
“Ay, but his father,” continued the innocent girl; “to break into the
house at night an' rob him like a robber!”
“Well, I say, it's reported that he has been robbin' him these three
years in one shape or other,” continued Art; “but here's Shibby, let's
hear what she'll say. What do you think, shibby?”
“About what, Art?”
“That Hycy Burke would rob his father!”
“Hut, tut! Art, what puts that into your head? Oh, no, Art--not at
all--to rob his father, an' him has been so indulgent to him!”
“Indeed, I agree with you, Shibby,” said Bryan; “for although my opinion
of Hycy is changed very much for the worse of late, still I can't and
won't give in to that.”
“An what has changed it for the worse?” asked his mother. “You an' he
wor very thick together always--eh? What has changed it, Bryan?”
Bryan began to rub his hand down the sleeve of his coat, as if freeing
it from dust, or perhaps admiring its fabric, but made no reply.
“Eh, Bryan,” she continued, “what has changed your opinion of him?”
“Oh, nothing of much consequence, mother,” replied her son; “but
sometimes a feather will toll one how the wind blows.”
As he spoke, it might have been observed that he looked around upon the
family with an appearance of awakened consciousness that was very nearly
allied to shame. He recovered his composure, however, on perceiving
that none among them gave, either by look or manner, any indication of
understanding what he felt. This relieved him: but he soon found that
the sense of relief experienced from it was not permitted to last long.
Dora, his favorite sister, glided over to his side and gently taking
his hand in hers began to play with his fingers, whilst a roguish
laugh, that spoke a full consciousness of his secret, broke her pale but
beautiful features into that mingled expression of smiles and blushes
which, in one of her years, gives a look of almost angelic purity
and grace. After about a minute or two, during which she paused, and
laughed, and blushed, and commenced to whisper, and again stopped,
she at last put her lips to his ear and whispered:--“Bryan, I know the
reason you don't like Hycy.”
“You do?” he said, laughing, but yet evidently confused in his
turn;--“well--an'--ha!--ha!--no, you fool, you don't.”
“May I never stir if I don't!”
“Well, an' what is it?”
“Why, bekaise he's coortin' Kathleen Cavanagh--now!”
“An' what do I care about that?” said her brother.
“Oh, you thief!” she replied; “don't think you can play upon me. I know
your saycret.”
“An' maybe, Dora,” he replied, “I have my saycrets. Do you know who was
inquirin' for you to-day?”
“No,” she returned, “nor I don't care either--sorra bit.”
“I met James Cavanagh there below”--he proceeded, still in a whisper,
and he fixed his eyes upon her countenance as he spoke. The words,
however, produced a most extraordinary effect. A deep blush crimsoned
her whole neck and face, until the rush of blood seemed absolutely to
become expressive of pain. Her eye, however, did not droop, but turned
upon him with a firm and peculiar sparkle. She had been stooping with
her mouth near his ear, as the reader knows, but she now stood up
quickly, shook back her hair, that had been hanging in natural and
silken curls about her blushing cheeks, and exclaimed: “No--no. Let
me alone Bryan;” and on uttering these words she hurried into another
room.”
“Bryan, you've vexed Dora some way,” observed her sister. “What did you
say to her?”
“Nothing that vexed her, I'll go bail,” he replied, laughing; “however,
as to what I said to her, Shibby, ax me no questions an' I'll tell you
no lies.”
“Becaise I thought she looked as if she was angry,” continued Shibby,
“an', you know, it must be a strong provocation that would anger her.”
“Ah, you're fishin' now, Shibby,” he replied, “and many thanks for your
good intentions. It's a saycret, an' that's all you're going to know
about it. But it's as much as 'll keep you on the look out this month
to come; and now you're punished for your curiosity--ha!--ha!--ha! Come,
father, if we're to go to Sam Wallace's auction it's time we should
think of movin'. Art, go an' help Tom Droogan to bring out the horses.
Rise your foot here, father, an' I'll put on your spur for you. We
may as well spake to Mr. Fethertonge, the agent, about the leases. I
promised we'd call on Gerald Cavanagh, to--an' he'll be waitin' for
us--hem!”
His eye here glanced about, but Dora was not visible, and he accordingly
seemed to be more at his ease. “I think, father,” he added, “I must
trate you to a pair of spurs some of these days. This one, it's clear,
has been a long time in the family.”
“Throth, an' on that account,” replied M'Mahon, “I'm not goin' to part
wid it for the best pair that ever were made. No, no, Bryan; I like
everything that I've known long. When my heart gets accustomed to
anything or to anybody”--here he glanced affectionately at his wife--“I
can't bear to part wid them, or to think of partin' wid them.”
The horses were now ready, and in a brief space he and his son were
decently mounted, the latter smartly but not inappropriately dressed;
and M'Mahon himself, with his right spur, in a sober but comfortable
suit, over which was a huge Jock, his inseparable companion in every
fair, market, and other public place, during the whole year. Indeed, it
would not be easy to find two better representatives of that respectable
and independent class of Irish yeomanry of which our unfortunate country
stands so much in need, as was this man of high integrity and his
excellent son.
On arriving at Gerald Cavanagh's, which was on their way to the auction,
it appeared that in order to have his company it was necessary they
should wait for a little, as he was not yet ready. That worthy man they
found in the act of shaving himself, seated very upright upon a chair
in the kitchen, his eyes fixed with great steadiness upon the opposite
wall, whilst lying between his legs upon the ground was a wooden dish
half filled with water, and on a chair beside him a small looking-glass,
with its backup, which, after feeling his face from time to time in an
experimental manner, he occasionally peeped into, and again laid down to
resume the operation.
In the mean time, Mrs. Cavanagh set forward a chair for Tom M'Mahon, and
desired her daughter Hannah to place one for Bryan, which she did. The
two girls were spinning, and it might have been observed that Kathleen
appeared to apply herself to that becoming and feminine employment with
double industry after the appearance of the M'Mahons. Kate Hogan was
sitting in the chimney corner, smoking a pipe, and as she took it out
of her mouth to whiff away the smoke from time to time, she turned her
black piercing eyes alternately from Bryan M'Mahon to Kathleen with a
peculiar keenness of scrutiny.
“An' how are you all up at Carriglass?” asked Mrs. Cavanagh.
“Indeed we can't complain, thank God, as the times goes,” replied
M'Mahon.
“An' the ould grandfather?--musha, but I was glad to see him look so
well on Sunday last!”
“Troth he's as stout as e'er a one of us.”
“The Lord continue it to him! I suppose you hard o' this robbery that
was done at honest Jemmy Burke's?”
“I did, indeed, an' I was sorry to hear it.”
“A hundre' an' fifty pounds is a terrible loss to anybody in such
times.”
“A hundre' an' fifty!” exclaimed M'Mahon--“hut, tut!--no; I thought it
was only seventy or eighty. He did not lose so much, did he?”
“So I'm tould.”
“It was two--um--it was two--urn--urn--it was--um--um--it was two
hundre' itself,” observed Cavanagh, after he had finished a portion of
the operation, and given himself an opportunity of speaking--“it war
two hundre' itself, I'm tould, an' that's too much, by a hundre' and
ninety-nine pounds nineteen shillings an' eleven pence three fardens, to
be robbed of.”
“Troth it is, Gerald,” replied M'Mahon; “but any way there's nothin'
but thievin' and robbin' goin'. You didn't hear that we came in for a
visit?”
“You!” exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh--“is it robbed? My goodness, no!”
“Why,” he proceeded, “we'll be able to get over it afore we die, I hope.
On ere last night we had two of our fattest geese stolen.”
“Two!” exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh--“an' at this saison of the! year, too.
Well, that same's a loss.”
“Honest woman,” said M'Mahon, addressing Kate Hogan, “maybe you'd give
me a draw o' the pipe?”
“Maybe so,” she replied; “an' why wouldn't I? Shough! that is here!”
“Long life to you, Katy. Well,” proceeded the worthy man, “if it was a
poor person that wanted them an' that took them from hardship, why God
forgive them as heartily as I do: but if they wor stole by a thief, for
thievin's sake, I hope I'll always be able to afford the loss of a pair
betther than the thief will to do without them; although God mend his or
her heart, whichever it was, in the mane time.”
During this chat Bryan and Hanna Cavanagh were engaged in that
good-humored badinage that is common to persons of their age and
position.
“I didn't see you at Mass last Sunday, Bryan?” said she, laughing; “an'
that's the way you attend to your devotions. Upon my word you promise
well!”
“I seen you, then,” replied Bryan, “so it seems if I haven't betther
eyes I have betther eyesight.”
“Indeed I suppose,” she replied, “you see everything but what you go to
see.”
“Don't be too sure of that,” he replied, with an involuntary glance at
Kathleen, who seemed to enjoy her sister's liveliness, as was evident
from the sweet and complacent smile which beamed upon her features.
“Indeed I suppose you're right,” she replied; “I suppose you go to say
everything but your prayers.”
“An' is it in conversation with Jemmy Kelly,” asked Bryan, jocularly,
alluding to her supposed admirer, “that you perform your own devotions,
Miss Hanna?”
“Hanna, achora,” said the father, “I think you're playin' the second
fiddle there--ha! ha! ha!”
The laugh was now general against Hanna, who laughed as loudly, however,
as any of them.
“Throth, Kathleen,” she exclaimed, “you're not worth knot's o' straws
or you'd help me against this fellow here; have you nothing,” she
proceeded, addressing Bryan, and nodding towards her sister, “to say
to her? Is everything to fall on my poor shoulders? Come, now,” with
another nod in the same direction, “she desarves it for not assistin'
me. Who does she say her devotions with?”
“Hem--a--is it Kathleen you mane?” he inquired, with rather an
embarrassed look.
“Not at all,” she replied ironically, “but my mother there--ha! ha! ha!
Come, now, we're waitin' for you.”
“Come, now?” he repeated, purposely misunderstanding her--“oh, begad,
that's a fair challenge;” and he accordingly rose to approach her with
the felonious intent of getting a kiss; but Hanna started from her wheel
and ran out of the house to avoid him.
“Throth, you're a madcap, Hanna,” exclaimed her mother, placidly--“an
antick crather, dear knows--her heart's in her mouth every minute of
the day; an' if she gets through the world wid it always as light, poor
girl, it'll be well for her.”
“Kathleen, will you get me a towel or praskeen of some sort to wipe my
face wid,” said her father, looking about for the article he wanted.
“I left one,” she replied, “on the back of your chair--an' there it is,
sure.”
“Ay, achora, it's you that laves nothing undone that ought to be done;
an' so it is here, sure enough.”
“Why, then, Gerald,” asked Tom M'Mahon, “in the name o' wonder what
makes you stick to the meal instead o' the soap when you're washin'
yourself?”
“Throth, an' I ever will, Tom, an' for a good raison--becaise it's best
for the complexion.”
The unconscious simplicity with which Cavanagh uttered this occasioned
loud laughter, from which Kathleen herself was unable to refrain.
“By the piper, Gerald,” said M'Mahon, “that's the best thing I h'ard
this month o' Sundays. Why, it would be enough for one o' your daughters
to talk about complexion. Maybe you paint too--ha! ha! ha!”
Hanna now put in her head, and asked “what is the fun?” but immediately
added, “Kathleen, here's a message for you.”
“For me!” said Kathleen; “what is it?”
“Here's Peety Dhu's daughter, an' she says she has something to say to
you.”
“An' so Rosha Burke,” said Mrs. Cavanagh, “has taken her to live wid
them; I hope it'll turn out well for the poor thing.”
“Will you come out, Kathleen,” said Hanna, again peeping in; “she
mustn't tell it to anyone but yourself.”
“If she doesn't she may keep it, then,” replied Kathleen. “Tell her I
have no secrets,” she added, “nor I won't have any of her keeping.”
“You must go in,” said Hanna, turning aside and addressing the
girl--“you must go in an' spake to her in the house.”
“She can tell us all about the robbery, anyway,” observed Mr. Cavanagh.
“Come in, a-colleen--what are you afeard of?”
“I have a word to say to her,” said the girl--“a message to deliver; but
it must be to nobody but herself. Whisper,” she proceeded, approaching
Kathleen, and about to address her.
Kathleen immediately rose, and, looking on the messenger, said, “Who is
it from, Nanny?”
“I mustn't let _them_ know,” replied the girl, looking at the rest.
“Whatever it is, Or whoever it's from, you must spake it out then,
Nanny,” continued Kathleen.
“It's from Hycy Burke, then,” replied the girl; “he wants to know if you
have any answer for him?”
“Tell Hycy Burke,” replied Kathleen, “that I have no answer for him; an'
that I'll thank him to send me no more messages.”
“Hut tut! you foolish girl,” exclaimed her mother, rising up and
approaching her daughter; “are you mad, Kathleen?”
“What's come over you,” said the father, equally alarmed; “are you
beside yourself, sure enough, to send Hycy Burke sich a message as
that? Sit down, ma colleen, sit down, an' never mind her--don't think of
bringin' him back sich a message. Why, then,” he added, “in the name o'
mercy, Kathleen, what has come over you, to trate a respectable young
man like. Hycy Burke in that style?”
“Simply, father, because I don't wish to receive any messages at all
from him.”
“But your mother an' I is of a different opinion, Kathleen. We wish you
to resave messages from him; an' you know you're bound both by the laws
of God an' man to obey us an' be guided by us.”
“I know I am, father,” she replied; “an' I hope I haven't been an
undutiful child to either of you for so far.”
“That's true, Kathleen--God sees it's truth itself.”
“What message do you expect to bring back, Nanny?” said the mother,
addressing the girl.
“An answer,” replied the girl, seeing that everything must be and was
above board--“an answer to the letther he sent her.”
“Did he send you a letther?” asked her father, seriously; “an' you never
let us know a word about it?--did he send you a letther?”
Kathleen paused a moment and seemed to consult Hanna's looks, who had
now joined them. At length she replied, slowly, and as if in doubt
whether she ought to speak in the affirmative or not--“no, he sent me no
letter.”
“Well now, take care, Kathleen,” said her mother; “I seen a letther in
your hands this very mornin'.”
Kathleen blushed deeply; but as if anxious to give the conversation
another turn, and so to relieve herself, she replied, “I can't prevent
you, mother, or my father either, from sending back whatever answer you
wish; but this I say that, except the one I gave already, Hycy Burke
will never receive any message or any answer to a message from me; an'
now for the present let us drop it.”
“Very well,” said her mother; “in the mane time, my good girsha, sit
down. Is it thrue that Jemmy Burke's house was robbed a couple o' nights
ago?”
“True enough,” said the girl.
“And how much did he lose?” asked M'Mahon; “for there's disputes about
it--some say more and some say less.”
“Between seventy and eighty pounds,” replied Nanny; “the masther isn't
sure to a pound or so; but he knows it was near eighty, any way.”
“That's just like him,” said Cavanagh; “his careless way of managin'.
Many a time I wondher at him;--he slobbers everything about that you'd
think he'd beggar himself, an' yet the luck and prosperity flows to him.
I declare to my goodness I think the very dirt under his feet turns to
money. Well, girsha, an' have they any suspicion of the robbers?”
“Why,” said the girl, “they talk about”--she paused, and it was
quite evident from her manner that she felt not only embarrassed, but
distressed by the question. Indeed this was no matter of surprise; for
ever since the subject was alluded to, Kate Hogan's black piercing eyes
had not once been removed from hers, nor did the girl utter a single
word in reply to the questions asked of her without first, as it were,
consulting Kate's looks.
A moment's reflection made Cavanagh feel that the question must be a
painful one to the girl, not only on her own account, but on that of
Kate herself; for even then it was pretty well known that Burke's family
entertained the strongest suspicion that the burglary had been committed
by these notorious vagabonds.
“Well, ahagur,” said Cavanagh, “no matter now--it's all over unless they
catch the robbers. Come now,” he added, addressing M'Mahon and his son,
“if you're for the road I'm ready.”
“Is it true, Mrs. Burke,” asked Bryan, “that you're goin' to have a Kemp
in your barn some o' these days?”
“True enough, indeed,” replied the good woman, “an' that's true, too,
tell the girls, Bryan, and that they must come.”
“Not I,” said the other, laughing; “if the girls here--wishes them to
come, let them go up and ask them.”
“So we will, then,” replied Hanna, “an' little thanks to you for your
civility.”
“I wish I knew the evenin',” said Bryan, “that I might be at
Carriglass.”
“When will we go, Kathleen,” asked her sister, turning slyly to her.
“Why, you're sich a light-brained cracked creature,” replied Kathleen,
“that I can't tell whether you're joking or not.”
“The sorra joke I'm jokin',” she replied, striving suddenly to form
her features into a serious expression. “Well, then, I have it,” she
proceeded. “Some Thursday, Bryan, in the middle o' next week--now you
know I'm not jokin', Kathleen.”
“Will you come, Kathleen?” inquired Bryan.
“Why, if Hanna goes, I suppose I must,” she replied, but without looking
up.
“Well then I'll have a sharp look-out on Thursday.”
“Come now,” said Gerald, “let us move. Give the girsha something to ate
among you, for the credit of the house, before she goes back,” he added.
“Paddy Toole, girth that horse tighter, I tell you; I never can get you
to girth him as he ought to be girthed.”
On bidding the women good-bye, Bryan looked towards Kathleen for a
moment, and her eye in return glanced on him as he was about to go. But
that simple glance, how significant was its import, and how clearly did
it convey the whole history of as pure a heart as ever beat within a
female bosom!
CHAPTEE VI.--Nanny Peety looks mysterious
--Hycy proves himself a good Judge of Horse-Flesh.
The day was all light, and life, and animation. The crops were going
down fast in every direction, and the fields were alive and cheerful
with the voice of mirth and labor. As they got into the vicinity of
Wallace's house they overtook or were over-taken by several of their
neighbors, among whom was seen our old friend, Jemmy, or as I his
acquaintances generally called him, honest Jemmy Burke, mounted upon a
brood mare with a foal at her heels, all his other horses having been
engaged in the labor of the season.
After having sympathized with him upon the loss he had sustained,
they soon allowed the subject to drop; for it was quite clear from the
expression of care, if not of sorrow, that was legible in his face, that
the very mention of it only caused him to feel additional anxiety.
At length they reached Wallace's house, where they found a tolerably
large crowd of people waiting for the auction, which was not to commence
until the hour of one o'clock.
Sam Wallace was a respectable Protestant farmer, who finding, as he
said, that there was no proper encouragement given to men who were
anxious and disposed to improve their property, had deemed it a wiser
step to dispose of his stock and furniture than to remain as he was--not
merely with no certain prospect of being able to maintain even his
present position, but with the chances against him of becoming every day
a poorer and more embarrassed man. His brother, who like himself, after
having been on the decline for a considerable period, had emigrated to
America, where he was prospering, now urged him to follow his example
and leave a country in which he said, in language that has become a
proverb, “everything was going to the bad.” Feeling that his brother's
words were unfortunately too true, Wallace, at all events, came to the
determination of following his example.
The scene at which our friends arrived was indeed a striking and
impressive one. The majority of the crowd consisted of those who
belonged either to the Protestant or Presbyterian forms of worship; and
it might be with truth asserted, that nothing could surpass the clear
unquestionable character of independent intelligence which prevailed
among them. Along with this, however, there was an obvious spirit
of dissatisfaction, partial, it is true, as to numbers, but yet
sufficiently marked as to satisfy an observer that such a people, if
united upon any particular subject or occasion, were not for a moment to
be trifled with or cajoled. Their feelings upon the day in question were
stirred into more than usual warmth. A friend, a neighbor, a man of
an old and respectable family, frugal, industrious, and loyal, as
they said, both to king and country, was now forced from want of due
encouragement from his landlord, to disturb all his old associations
of friendship and kindred, and at rather an advanced state of life
to encounter the perils of a long voyage, and subject himself and his
family to the changes and chances which he must encounter in a new
world, and in a different state of society. Indeed, the feeling which
prompted the expression of these sentiments might be easily gathered
from the character that pervaded the crowd. Not to such an extent,
however, with respect to Wallace himself or any portion of his family,
There might be observed upon him and them a quiet but resolute spirit,
firm, collected, and cheerful; but still, while there were visible no
traces of dejection or grief, it was easy to perceive that under this
decent composure there existed a calm consciousness of strong stern
feeling, whose dignity, if not so touching, was quite as impressive as
the exhibition of louder and more clamorous grief.
“Bryan,” said M'Mahon to his son, as the auction was proceeding, “I'll
slip up to the agent's, and do you see if them sheep goes for a fair
value--if they do, give a bid or two any how. I'm speakin' of that lot
we wor lookin' at, next the wall there.”
“I'll pay attention to it,” said Bryan; “I know you'll find the agent at
home now, for I seen him goin' in a while ago; so hurry up, an' ax him
if he can say how soon we may expect the leases.”
“Never fear, I will.”
On entering Fethertonge's Hall, M'Mahon was treated with very marked
respect by the servant, who told him to walk into the parlor, and he
would let his master know.
“He entertains a high opinion of you, Mister M'Mahon,” said he; “and I
heard him speak strongly about you the other day to some gentlemen that
dined with us--friends of the landlord's. Walk into the parlor.”
In a few minutes M'Mahon was shown into Fethertonge's office, the walls
of which were, to a considerable height, lined with tin boxes, labelled
with the names of those whose title-deeds and other valuable papers they
contained.
Fethertonge was a tall, pale, placid looking man, with rather a
benevolent cast of countenance, and eyes that were mild, but very
small in proportion to the other features of his face. His voice was
exceedingly low, and still more musical and sweet than low; in fact
it was such a voice as, one would imagine, ought to have seldom been
otherwise employed than in breathing hope and, consolation to despairing
sinners on their bed of death. Yet he had nothing of either the parson
or the preacher in his appearance. So far from that he was seldom known
to wear a black coat, unless when dressed for dinner, and not very
frequently even then, for he mostly wore blue.
“M'Mahon,” said he, “take a seat. I am glad to see you. How are your
family?”
“Both I an' they is well, I'm thankful to you, sir,” replied the farmer.
“I hope you got safe home from the metropolis. How did you travel?”
“Troth, I walked it, sir, every inch of the way, an' a long stretch it
is. I got safe, sir, an' many thanks to you.”
“That was a sudden call poor Mr. Chevydale got, but not more so than
might, at his time of life, have been expected; at all events I hope he
was prepared for it, and indeed I have reason to think he was.”
“I trust in God he was, sir,” replied M'Mahon; “so far as I and mine
is consarned, we have raison to wish it; he didn't forget us, Mr.
Fethertonge.”
“No,” said the other, after some pause, “he did not indeed forget you,
M'Mahon.”
“I tuck the liberty of callin' down, sir,” proceeded M'Mahon, “about
the leases he spoke of, an' to know how soon we may expect to have them
filled.”
“That is for your son Bryan and yourself. How is Bryan proceeding with
Ahadarra, by the way? I spoke to him some time ago about his system of
cropping that farm, and some other matters of the kind; I must ride up
one of these days to see how he is doing. As to the leases, there is no
difficulty in the way, M'Mahon, except to get our young landlord to sign
them. That we will easily do, of course; in the meantime, do you go
on, improve your land, and strive to do something for your children,
M'Mahon; for, in this world, he that won't assist himself will find
very few that will. The leases are in Dublin; if you wish, I'll send for
them, and have them ready for the landlord's signature whenever he comes
down here; or I'll leave them in town, where I shall be more likely to
see him.”
“Very well, sir,” replied M'Mahon, “I lave it all in your own hands, for
I know that if you won't be my friend, you won't be my enemy.”
“Well--certainly--I hope not. Will you take anything? Here, James, bring
in some brandy.”
M'Mahon's protest against the brandy was anything but invincible.
Fethertonge's manner was so kind, so familiar, and his interest in the
success of himself and his family so unaffectedly warm and sincere,
that, after drinking his health, he took his leave with a light and.
happy heart.
Their journey home was a little more lively than the depression of Jemmy
Burke's mind had allowed it to be on their way to the auction. Yet
each had his own peculiar feelings, independently of those which were
elicited by the conversation. Jemmy Burke, who had tasted some of
Wallace's liquor, as indeed, with the exception of Bryan, they all did,
was consequently in a better and more loquacious humor than he had been
during the day. On this occasion his usual good fortune attended him for
it was the opinion of every one there, that he had got the best bargain
disposed of during the day--a lot of twenty-five wethers in prime
condition. Gerald Cavanagh, who had also tasted the poteen, stuck as
closely as possible to his skirts, moved thereto by a principle of
adhesion, with which our readers are already acquainted; and Bryan,
who saw and understood his motives, felt by no means comfortable at
witnessing such strong symptoms of excessive attachment. Old M'Mahon
did not speak much, for, in truth, he could not overcome the depressing
effects of the scene he had witnessed, nor of the words uttered by
Wallace, as they bade each other farewell.
Burke, however, and his companion, Cavanagh, looked like men between
whom a warm friendship was about to grow up. Whenever they came to a
public-house or a shebeen, they either dismounted and had a cordial drop
together, or took it in the saddle after touching each other's glasses
in token of love and amity. It is true some slight interruption
occurred, that disturbed the growing confidence and familiarity of their
dialogue, which interruption consisted in the endless whinnying of the
mare whenever her foal delayed a moment behind her, or in the sudden and
abrupt manner in which she wheeled about with a strong disposition to
return and look for it.
On the discovery of Burke's robbery an investigation was set on foot,
but with no prospect of success, and without in any way involving the
Hogans, who were strongly suspected. It was clearly proved that Philip
and one of his brothers slept in their usual residence--Cavanagh's
corn-kiln--on that night, but it was admitted that Batt Hogan and his
wife Kate were both abroad the greater portion of it. On them suspicion
might, indeed, very naturally have rested, were it not for the evidence
of Hycy himself, who at once admitted that he could exonerate them from
any suspicion, as he knew both how and where they had passed the night
in question. So far, therefore, the Hogans, dishonest as they were
unquestionably reputed to be, now stood perfectly exonerated from all
suspicion.
The lapse of a very few days generally cools down the ferment occasioned
by matters of this kind, especially when public curiosity is found to be
at fault in developing the whole train of circumstances connected with
them. All the in-door servants, it is true, were rigorously examined,
yet it somehow happened that Hycy could not divest himself of a
suspicion that Nanny Peety was in some way privy to the disappearance
of the money. In about three or four days he happened to see her thrust
something into her father's bag, which he carried as a mendicant, and he
could not avoid remarking that there was in her whole manner, which was
furtive and hurried, an obvious consciousness of something that was not
right. He resolved, however, to follow up the impression which he
felt, and accordingly in a few minutes after her father had taken his
departure, he brought her aside, and without giving her a moment to
concoct a reply, he asked what it was that he saw her thrusting in such
a hurried manner into his bag. She reddened like scarlet, and, after
pausing a moment, replied, “Nothing, sir, but an ould pair of shoes.”
“Was that all?” he asked.
“That was all, sir,” she replied.
The blush and hesitation, however, with which she answered him were
far from satisfactory; and without more ado he walked briskly down the
avenue, and overtook her father near the gate at its entrance.
“Peety,” said he, “what was that your daughter Nanny put into your bag a
while ago? I wish to know?”
“Deed an its scarcely worth your while, Master Hycy,” replied the
mendicant; “but since you'd like to know, it was a pair of ould brogues,
and here they are,” he added, “if you wish to see them.”
He laid down the bag as he spoke, and was proceeding to pull them out,
when Hycy, who felt angry with himself as well as ashamed at being
detected in such a beggarly and unbecoming act of espionage, turned
instantly back, after having vented several hearty curses upon the
unfortunate mendicant and his bags.
As he approached the hall-door, however, he met Nanny crossing into the
kitchen-yard, and from the timid and hesitating glance she cast at
him, some vague suspicion again occurred, and he resolved to enter into
further conversation with her. It struck him that she had been watching
his interview with her father, and could not avoid yielding to the
impression which had returned so strongly upon him.
“I saw your father, Nanny,” he said, in as significant and dry a tone as
possible.
“Did you, sir?” said she; and he remarked that while uttering the words,
she again colored deeply and did not raise her eyes to his face.
“Yes,” he replied; “but he did not bear out what you said--he had no
pair of shoes in his bag.”
“Did you see what he had in it, Master Hycy?”
“Why,” said he, “a--hem--a--a--I didn't look--but I'll tell you what,
Nanny, I think you look as if you were in possession of some secret. I
say so, and don't imagine you can for a moment impose upon me. I know
what your father had in his bag.”
“Well then, if you do, sir,” she replied, “you know the saycrit.”
“So there is a secret, then?”
“So you say, Masther Hycy.”
“Nanny,” he proceeded, “it occurs to me now that you never underwent a
formal examination about this robbery that took place in our house.”
“That wasn't my fault,” she replied; “I mostly happened to be out.”
“Well, but do you know anything about it?”
“Not a thing--no more than yourself, Mr. Hycy.”
Her interrogator turned upon her a hard scrutinizing glance, in which
it was easy to see that she read a spirit of strong and dissatisfied
suspicion. She was evidently conscious of this; for as Hycy stood gazing
upon her, she reddened, and betrayed unequivocal symptons of confusion.
“Because, Nanny,” he proceeded, “if you knew anything about it, and
didn't mention it at once to the family, you would be considered as one
of the robbers.”
“An' wouldn't I be nearly as bad if I didn't?” she replied; “surely the
first thing I'd do would be to tell.”
“It's very strange,” observed Hycy, “that such a robbery could be
committed in a house where there are so many servants, without any clue
whatsoever to a discovery.”
“Well, I don't agree with you there, Mr. Hycy--if what your father and
mother an' all o' them say is true--that it wasn't often the hall-door
was bolted at night; and that they can't say whether it was fastened on
that night or not. Sure if it wasn't, there was nothing to prevent any
one from comin' in.”
“Very true, Nanny,” he replied, “very true; and we have paid severely
for our negligence.”
This closed the conversation, but Hycy felt that, proceed from whatever
source it might, it was impossible to dismiss certain vague suspicions
as connected with the mendicant's daughter. He determined, however,
to watch her narrowly; and somehow he could not divest himself of the
impression that she saw through his design. This incident occurred a few
days after the robbery.
Jemmy Burke, though in many respects a man of easy and indolent
character, was nevertheless a person who, as is familiarly! said,
“always keep an eye to the main chance.” He was by no means over-tidy
either in his dress or farming; but it mattered little in what light you
contemplated him, you were always certain to find him a man not affected
by trifles, nor rigidly systematic in anything; but at the same time you
could not help observing that he was a man of strong points, whose life
was marked by a course of high prosperity, that seemed to flow in
upon him, as it were, by some peculiar run of good fortune. This luck,
however, was little less than the natural result of shrewd mother-wit,
happily applied to the: ordinary transactions of life, and assuming the
appearance of good fortune rather than of sound judgment, in consequence
of the simplicity of character under which it acted. Ever since the
night of the robbery, he had devoted himself more to the pipe than he
had ever been known to do before; he spoke little, too; but what he did
say was: ironical, though not by any means without a tinge of quiet but
caustic humor.
Hycy, on entering the parlor, found him! seated in an arm-chair, smoking
as usual, whilst his mother, who soon came down stairs, appeared dressed
in more than her usual finery.
“What keeps Patsy Dolan wid the car?” she inquired. “Hycy, do you see
any appearance of him?”
“No, ma'am,” replied the son; “I didn't know you wanted him.”
Jemmy looked at her with a good deal of surprise, and, after whiffing
away the smoke, asked--“And well, Rosha--begs pardon--Mrs. Burke--is it
a fair question to ax where you are bound for?”
“Fair enough, Mr. Burke,” she replied; “but I'm not goin' to answer it.”
“You're bound for a journey, ma'am, I think?”
“I'm bound for a journey, sir.”
“Is it a long journey, Mrs. Burke?”
“No, indeed; it's a short journey, Mister Burke.”
“Ah!” replied her husband, uttering a very significant groan; “I'm
afraid it is.”
“Why do you groan, Mr. Burke?”
“Oh it doesn't signify,” he replied, dryly; “it's no novelty, I believe,
to hear a man--a married man--groan in this world; only if you wor for
a long journey, I'd be glad to give you every assistance in my power.”
“You hear that, Hycy; there's affection?” she exclaimed--“wishin' me to
go my long journey!”
“Would you marry again, Mr. Burke?” asked the worthy son.
“I think not,” replied Jemmy. “There's gintlemen enough o' the name--I'm
afraid one too many.”
“Well,” exclaimed his wife, assuming something as near to her conception
of the look of a martyr as possible, “I'm sufferin' at all events; but
I know my crown's before me.”
“Sich as it is,” replied her husband, “I dare say it is.”
“I'll not be back for a few hours, Hycy; an'--but here's the car. Come
fardher up, Patsy.”
Hycy politely handed his mother out, and assisted her on the car. “Of
course, he'll discover it all,” said he, laughing.
“I know he will,” she replied; “but when it's over, it's over, and
that's all.”
Jemmy now met his son at the hall-door, and asked him if he knew where
his mother had gone.
“I really cannot undertake to say,” replied the other. “Mrs. Burke,
father, is a competent judge of her own notions; but I presume to think
that she may take a drive upon her own car, without being so severely,
if not ungenerously catechised about it. I presume to think so, sir; but
I daresay I am wrong, and that even that is a crime on my part.”
His father made no reply, but proceeded at an easy and thoughtful pace
to join his men in the field where they were at labor.
Hycy, after his mother's return that evening, seemed rather in low
spirits, if one could form any correct estimate of his character by
appearances. He was very silent, and somewhat less given to those broken
snatches of melody than was his wont; and yet a close observer might
have read in his deportment, and especially in the peculiar expression
of his eye, that which seemed to indicate anything rather than
depression or gloom. His silence, to such an observer, might have
appeared rather the silence of satisfaction and triumph, than of
disappointment or vexation.
His father, indeed, saw little of him that night, in consequence of the
honest man having preferred the hob of his wealthy and spacious kitchen
to the society of his wife and son in the parlor. The next morning,
however, they met at breakfast, as usual, when Hycy, after some ironical
compliments to his father's good taste, asked him, “if he would do him
the favor to step towards the stable and see his purchase.”
“You don't mane Crazy Jane?” said the other, coolly.
“I do,” replied Hycy; “and as I set a high value on your opinion,
perhaps you would be kind enough to say what you think of her.”
Now, Hycy never for a moment dreamt that his father would have taken him
at his word, and we need hardly say that he was a good deal disconcerted
at the cool manner in which the other expressed his readiness to do so.
“Well, Mr. Burke,” he proceeded, when they had reached the stable,
“there she is. Pray what do you think of her?”
The old man looked at her from various points, passed his hand down
her limbs, clapped her on the back, felt her in different places, then
looked at her again. “She's a beauty,” said he, “a born beauty like
Billy Neelin's foal; what's this you say you paid for her?”
“Thirty-five pounds.”
“Tare-an-ounty, Hycy, she's dog chape--thirty-five!--why she's value for
double the sum.”
“Nearly,” replied Hycy, quite elevated and; getting into good humor; “is
she not really now, father, a precious bit of flesh?”
“Ah! you may swear that, Hycy; I tell you you won't act the honest man,
if you don't give him fifteen or twenty pounds over an' above what you
paid him. Tom Burton I see's too simple for you. Go and do what I bid
you; don't defraud the poor man; you have got a treasure, I tell you--a
beauty bright--an extraordinary baste--a wonderful animal--oh, dear me!
what a great purchase! Good-bye, Hycy. Bless my sowl! what a judge of
horseflesh you are!”
Having uttered these words in a tone of grave and caustic irony, he left
his worthy son in a state of chagrin almost bordering on resentment, at
the strong contempt for Crazy-Jane, implied by the excessive eulogium
he had passed upon her. This feeling, however, was on reflection
considerably checked by his satisfaction on finding that the matter was
taken by his father so coolly. He had calculated on receiving a very
stormy lecture from him the moment he should become aware of his having
the animal in his possession; and he now felt rather relieved that
he should have escaped so easily. Be this as it may, Hycy was now in
excellent spirits. Not only had Crazy Jane been secured, but there were
strong symptoms of his being in cash. In a few days after the incident
of the stable, he contrived to see Philip Hogan, with whom he appointed
a final meeting in Cavanagh's kiln on the night of the Kemp; at which
meeting, Teddy Phats and the other two Hogans were also to be present,
in order to determine upon the steps which he ultimately proposed to
take, with a view to work out his purposes, whatever those purposes may
have been.