then to herself, "hunger's turned the wits of her, poor soul! Take
it--take it, mother," added she aloud: "eat, good mother; sure there's
plenty for us all, and to spare," and she pressed it upon her with all
the kindness of her nature. The old woman eagerly seized it.
"God reward ye," said she, grasping Cathleen's hand, convulsively, and
retiring to a corner, she devoured the food with almost wolfish
voracity.
While they were eating, the two Hogans, father and son, came in. They
had been setting snares for rabbits and game on the neighbouring hills;
and evidently were both startled and displeased to find the house
occupied; which, since Barny Hogan's disgrace with "my lord," had been
entirely shunned by the people round about. The old man gave the pedlar
a sulky welcome. The son, with a muttered curse, went and took his seat
in the chimney, where, turning his back, he set himself to chop a billet
of wood. The father was a lean stooping figure, "bony, and gaunt, and
grim:" he was either deaf, or affected deafness. The son was a short,
brawny, thickset man, with features not naturally ugly, but rendered
worse than ugly by an expression of louring ferocity disgustingly
blended with a sort of stupid drunken leer, the effect of habitual
intoxication.
Halloran stared at them awhile with visible astonishment and indignation,
but pity and sorrow for a change so lamentable, smothered the old man's
wrath; and as the eatables were by this time demolished, he took from
his side pocket a tin flask of whiskey, calling to the old woman to boil
some water "screeching hot," that he might make what he termed "a jug of
stiff punch--enough to make a cat _spake_." He offered to share it with
his hosts, who did not decline drinking; and the noggin went round to all
but Cathleen, who, feverish with travelling, and, besides, disliking
spirits, would not taste it. The old pedlar, reconciled to his old
acquaintances by this show of good fellowship, began to grow merry under
the influence of his whiskey-punch: he boasted of his late success in
trade, showed with exultation his almost empty pack, and taking out the
only two handkerchiefs left in it, threw one to Cathleen, and the other
to the old woman of the house; then slapping his pocket, in which a
quantity of loose money was heard to jingle, he swore he would treat
Cathleen to a good breakfast next morning; and threw a shilling on the
table, desiring the old woman would provide "stirabout for a dozen,"
and have it ready by the first light.
Cathleen listened to this rhodomontade in some alarm; she fancied she
detected certain suspicious glances between the father and son, and
began to feel an indescribable dread of her company. She arose from the
table, urging the pedlar good-humouredly to retire to rest, as they
intended to be up and away so early next morning: then concealing her
apprehensions under an affectation of extreme fatigue and drowsiness,
she desired to be shown where she was to sleep. The old woman lighted
a lanthorn, and led the way up some broken steps into a sort of loft,
where she showed her two beds standing close together; one of these she
intimated was for the pedlar, and the other for herself. Now Cathleen
had been born and bred in an Irish cabin, where the inmates are usually
lodged after a very promiscuous fashion; our readers, therefore, will
not wonder at the arrangement. Cathleen, however, required that, if
possible, some kind of skreen should be placed between the beds. The old
hag at first replied to this request with the most disgusting impudence;
but Cathleen insisting, the beds were moved asunder, leaving a space of
about two feet between them; and after a long search a piece of old
frieze was dragged out from among some rubbish, and hung up to the low
rafters, so as to form a curtain or partition half-way across the room.
Having completed this arrangement, and wished her "a sweet sleep and a
sound, and lucky dreams," the old woman put the lanthorn on the floor,
for there was neither chair nor table, and left her guest to repose.
Cathleen said her prayers, only partly undressed herself, and lifting
up the worn-out coverlet, lay down upon the bed. In a quarter of an hour
afterwards the pedlar staggered into the room, and as he passed the foot
of her bed, bid God bless her, in a low voice. He then threw himself
down on his bed, and in a few minutes, as she judged by his hard and
equal breathing, the old man was in a deep sleep.
All was now still in the house, but Cathleen could not sleep. She was
feverish and restless; her limbs ached, her head throbbed and burned,
undefinable fears beset her fancy; and whenever she tried to compose
herself to slumber, the faces of the two men she had left below flitted
and glared before her eyes. A sense of heat and suffocation, accompanied
by a parching thirst, came over her, caused, perhaps, by the unusual
closeness of the room. This feeling of oppression increased till the
very walls and rafters seemed to approach nearer and close upon her
all around. Unable any longer to endure this intolerable smothering
sensation, she was just about to rise and open the door or window,
when she heard the whispering of voices. She lay still and listened.
The latch was raised cautiously,--the door opened, and the two Hogans
entered: they trod so softly that, though she saw them move before
her, she heard no foot-fall. They approached the bed of Halloran, and
presently she heard a dull heavy blow, and then sounds--appalling
sickening sounds--as of subdued struggles and smothered agony, which
convinced her that they were murdering the unfortunate pedlar.
Cathleen listened, almost congealed with horror, but she did not
swoon: her turn, she thought, must come next, though in the same instant
she felt instinctively that her only chance of preservation was to
counterfeit profound sleep. The murderers, having done their work on the
poor Pedlar, approached her bed, and threw the gleam of their lanthorn
full on her face; she lay quite still, breathing calmly and regularly.
They brought the light to her eye-lids, but they did not wink or
move;--there was a pause, a terrible pause, and then a whispering;--and
presently Cathleen thought she could distinguish a third voice, as of
expostulation, but all in so very low a tone that though the voices
were close to her she could not hear a word that was uttered. After
some moments, which appeared an age of agonising suspense, the wretches
withdrew, and Cathleen was left alone, and in darkness. Then, indeed,
she felt as one ready to die: to use her own affecting language, "the
heart within me," said she, "melted away like water, but I was resolute
not to swoon, and I _did not_. I knew that if I would preserve my life,
I must keep the sense in me, and _I did_."
Now and then she fancied she heard the murdered man move, and creep
about in his bed, and this horrible conceit almost maddened her with
terror: but she set herself to listen fixedly, and convinced her reason
that all was still--that all was over.
She then turned her thoughts to the possibility of escape. The window
first suggested itself: the faint moon-light was just struggling
through its dirty and cobwebbed panes: it was very small, and Cathleen
reflected, that besides the difficulty, and, perhaps, impossibility of
getting through, it must be some height from the ground: neither could
she tell on which side of the house it was situated, nor in what direction
to turn, supposing she reached the ground: and, above all, she was aware
that the slightest noise must cause her instant destruction. She thus
resolved upon remaining quiet.
It was most fortunate that Cathleen came to this determination, for
without the slightest previous sound the door again opened, and in the
faint light, to which her eyes were now accustomed, she saw the head of
the old woman bent forward in a listening attitude: in a few minutes
the door closed, and then followed a whispering outside. She could not
at first distinguish a word until the woman's sharper tones broke out,
though in suppressed vehemence, with "If ye touch her life, Barny, a
mother's curse go with ye! enough's done."
"She'll live, then, to hang us all," said the miscreant son.
"Sooner than that, I'd draw this knife across her throat with my own
hands; and I'd do it again and again, sooner than they should touch your
life, Barny, jewel: but no fear, the creature's asleep or dead already,
with the fright of it."
The son then said something which Cathleen could not hear; the old woman
replied,
"Hisht! I tell ye, no,--no; the ship's now in the Cove of Cork that's to
carry her over the salt seas far enough out of the way: and haven't we
all she has in the world? and more, didn't she take the bit out of her
own mouth to put into mine?"
The son again spoke inaudibly; and then the voices ceased, leaving
Cathleen uncertain as to her fate.
Shortly after the door opened, and the father and son again entered, and
carried out the body of the wretched pedlar. They seemed to have the art
of treading without noise, for though Cathleen saw them move, she could
not hear a sound of a footstep. The old woman was all this time standing
by her bed, and every now and then casting the light full upon her eyes;
but as she remained quite still, and apparently in a deep calm sleep,
they left her undisturbed, and she neither saw nor heard any more of
them that night.
It ended at length--that long, long night of horror. Cathleen lay quiet
till she thought the morning sufficiently advanced. She then rose, and
went down into the kitchen: the old woman was lifting a pot off the
fire, and nearly let it fall as Cathleen suddenly addressed her, and
with an appearance of surprise and concern, asked for her friend the
pedlar, saying she had just looked into his bed, supposing he was still
asleep, and to her great amazement had found it empty. The old woman
replied, that he had set out at early daylight for Mallow, having only
just remembered that his business called him that way before he went to
Cork. Cathleen affected great wonder and perplexity, and reminded the
woman that he had promised to pay for her breakfast.
"An' so he did, sure enough," she replied, "and paid for it too; and by
the same token didn't I go down to Balgowna myself for the milk and the
_male_ before the sun was over the tree tops; and here it is for ye, ma
colleen:" so saying, she placed a bowl of stirabout and some milk before
Cathleen, and then sat down on the stool opposite to her, watching her
intently.
Poor Cathleen! she had but little inclination to eat, and felt as if
every bit would choke her: yet she continued to force down her breakfast,
and apparently with the utmost ease and appetite, even to the last
morsel set before her. While eating, she inquired about the husband and
son, and the old woman replied, that they had started at the first burst
of light to cut turf in a bog, about five miles distant.
When Cathleen had finished her breakfast, she returned the old woman many
thanks for her kind treatment, and then desired to know the nearest way
to Cork. The woman Hogan informed her that the distance was about seven
miles, and though the usual road was by the high-way from which they
had turned the preceding evening, there was a much shorter way across
some fields which she pointed out. Cathleen listened attentively to
her directions, and then bidding farewell with many demonstrations of
gratitude, she proceeded on her fearful journey. The cool morning air,
the cheerful song of the early birds, the dewy freshness of the turf,
were all unnoticed and unfelt: the sense of danger was paramount, while
her faculties were all alive and awake to meet it, for a feverish and
unnatural strength seemed to animate her limbs. She stepped on, shortly
debating with herself whether to follow the directions given by the old
woman. The high-road appeared the safest; on the other hand, she was
aware that the slightest betrayal of mistrust would perhaps be followed
by her destruction; and thus rendered brave even by the excess of her
fears, she determined to take the cross path. Just as she had come to
this resolution, she reached the gate which she had been directed to
pass through; and without the slightest apparent hesitation, she turned
in, and pursued the lonely way through the fields. Often did she fancy
she heard footsteps stealthily following her, and never approached a
hedge without expecting to see the murderers start up from behind it;
yet she never once turned her head, nor quickened nor slackened her
pace;
Like one that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
She had proceeded in this manner about three-quarters of a mile, and
approached a thick and dark grove of underwood, when she beheld seated
upon the opposite stile an old woman in a red cloak. The sight of a
human being made her heart throb more quickly for a moment; but on
approaching nearer, with all her faculties sharpened by the sense of
danger, she perceived that it was no old woman, but the younger Hogan,
the murderer of Halloran, who was thus disguised. His face was partly
concealed by a blue handkerchief tied round his head and under his chin,
but she knew him by the peculiar and hideous expression of his eyes: yet
with amazing and almost incredible self-possession, she continued to
advance without manifesting the least alarm, or sign of recognition;
and walking up to the pretended old woman, said in a clear voice, "The
blessing of the morning on ye, good mother! a fine day for travellers
like you and me!"
"A fine day," he replied, coughing and mumbling in a feigned voice, "but
ye see, hugh, ugh! ye see I've walked this morning from the Cove of Cork,
jewel, and troth I'm almost spent, and I've a bad cowld, and a cough on
me, as ye may hear," and he coughed vehemently. Cathleen made a motion
to pass the stile, but the disguised old woman stretching out a great
bony hand, seized her gown. Still Cathleen did not quail. "Musha, then,
have ye nothing to give a poor ould woman?" said the monster, in a
whining, snuffling tone.
"Nothing have I in this wide world," said Cathleen, quietly disengaging
her gown, but without moving. "Sure it's only yesterday I was robbed of
all I had but the little clothes on my back, and if I hadn't met with
charity from others, I had starved by the way-side by this time."
"Och! and is there no place hereby where they would give a potatoe and
a cup of cowld water to a poor old woman ready to drop on her road?"
Cathleen instantly pointed forward to the house she had just left, and
recommended her to apply there. "Sure they're good, honest people,
though poor enough, God help them," she continued, "and I wish ye,
mother, no worse luck than myself had, and that's a good friend to treat
you to a supper--aye, and a breakfast too; there it is, ye may just see
the light smoke rising like a thread over the hill, just fornent ye; and
so God speed ye!"
Cathleen turned to descend the stile as she spoke, expecting to be again
seized with a strong and murderous grasp; but her enemy, secure in his
disguise, and never doubting her perfect unconsciousness, suffered her
to pass unmolested.
Another half-mile brought her to the top of a rising ground, within
sight of the high-road; she could see crowds of people on horseback and
on foot, with cars and carriages passing along in one direction; for it
was, though Cathleen did not then know it, the first day of the Cork
Assizes. As she gazed, she wished for the wings of a bird that she might
in a moment flee over the space which intervened between her and safety;
for though she could clearly see the high-road from the hill on which
she stood, a valley of broken ground at its foot, and two wide fields
still separated her from it; but with the same unfailing spirit, and at
the same steady pace, she proceeded onwards: and now she had reached the
middle of the last field, and a thrill of new-born hope was beginning to
flutter at her heart, when suddenly two men burst through the fence at
the farther side of the field, and advanced towards her. One of these
she thought at the first glance resembled her husband, but that it
_was_ her husband himself was an idea which never entered her mind. Her
imagination was possessed with the one supreme idea of danger and death
by murderous hands; she doubted not that these were the two Hogans in
some new disguise, and silently recommending herself to God, she steeled
her heart to meet this fresh trial of her fortitude; aware, that however
it might end, it _must_ be the last. At this moment one of the men
throwing up his arms, ran forward, shouting her name, in a voice--a dear
and well-known voice, in which she _could_ not be deceived:--it was her
husband!
The poor woman, who had hitherto supported her spirits and her
self-possession, stood as if rooted to the ground, weak, motionless, and
gasping for breath. A cold dew burst from every pore; her ears tingled,
her heart fluttered as though it would burst from her bosom. When she
attempted to call out, and raise her hand in token of recognition, the
sounds died away, rattling in her throat; her arm dropped powerless at
her side; and when her husband came up, and she made a last effort to
spring towards him, she sank down at his feet in strong convulsions.
Reilly, much shocked at what he supposed the effect of sudden surprise,
knelt down and chafed his wife's temples; his comrade ran to a
neighbouring spring for water, which they sprinkled plentifully over
her: when, however, she returned to life, her intellects appeared to
have fled for ever, and she uttered such wild shrieks and exclamations,
and talked so incoherently, that the men became exceedingly terrified,
and poor Reilly himself almost as distracted as his wife. After vainly
attempting to soothe and recover her, they at length forcibly carried
her down to the inn at Balgowna, a hamlet about a mile farther on,
where she remained for several hours in a state of delirium, one fit
succeeding another with little intermission.
Towards evening she became more composed, and was able to give some
account of the horrible events of the preceding night. It happened,
opportunely, that a gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood, and a
magistrate, was riding by late that evening on his return from the
Assizes at Cork, and stopped at the inn to refresh his horse. Hearing
that something unusual and frightful had occurred, he alighted, and
examined the woman himself, in the presence of one or two persons.
Her tale appeared to him so strange and wild from the manner in which
she told it, and her account of her own courage and sufferings so
exceedingly incredible, that he was at first inclined to disbelieve the
whole, and suspected the poor woman either of imposture or insanity.
He did not, however, think proper totally to neglect her testimony, but
immediately sent off information of the murder to Cork. Constables with
a warrant were despatched the same night to the house of the Hogans,
which they found empty, and the inmates already fled: but after a long
search, the body of the wretched Halloran, and part of his property,
were found concealed in a stack of old chimneys among the ruins; and
this proof of guilt was decisive. The country was instantly _up_; the
most active search after the murderers was made by the police, assisted
by all the neighbouring peasantry; and before twelve o'clock the
following night, the three Hogans, father, mother, and son, had been
apprehended in different places of concealment, and placed in safe
custody. Meantime the Coroner's inquest having sat on the body, brought
in a verdict of wilful murder.
As the judges were then at Cork, the trial came on immediately; and from
its extraordinary circumstances, excited the most intense and general
interest. Among the property of poor Halloran discovered in the house,
were a pair of shoes and a cap which Cathleen at once identified as
belonging to herself, and Reilly's silver watch was found on the younger
Hogan. When questioned how they came into his possession, he sullenly
refused to answer. His mother eagerly, and as if to shield her son,
confessed that she was the person who had robbed Cathleen in the former
part of the day, that she had gone out on the Carrick road to beg, having
been left by her husband and son for two days without the means of
support; and finding Cathleen asleep, she had taken away the bundle,
supposing it to contain food; and did not recognize her as the same
person she had robbed, till Cathleen offered her part of her supper.
The surgeon, who had been called to examine the body of Halloran,
deposed to the cause of his death;--that the old man had been first
stunned by a heavy blow on the temple, and then strangled. Other
witnesses deposed to the finding of the body: the previous character of
the Hogans, and the circumstances attending their apprehension; but the
principal witness was Cathleen. She appeared, leaning on her husband,
her face was ashy pale, and her limbs too weak for support; yet she,
however, was perfectly collected, and gave her testimony with that
precision, simplicity, and modesty, peculiar to her character. When she
had occasion to allude to her own feelings, it was with such natural
and heart-felt eloquence that the whole court was affected; and when
she described her rencontre at the stile, there was a general pressure
and a breathless suspense: and then a loud murmur of astonishment and
admiration fully participated by even the bench of magistrates. The
evidence was clear and conclusive; and the jury, without retiring,
gave their verdict, guilty--Death.
When the miserable wretches were asked, in the usual forms, if they had
any thing to say why the awful sentence should not be passed upon them,
the old man replied by a look of idiotic vacancy, and was mute--the
younger Hogan answered sullenly, "Nothing:" the old woman, staring wildly
on her son, tried to speak; her lips moved, but without a sound--and she
fell forward on the bar in strong fits.
At this moment Cathleen rushed from the arms of her husband, and throwing
herself on her knees, with clasped hands, and cheeks streaming with
tears, begged for mercy for the old woman. "Mercy, my lord judge!" she
exclaimed. "Gentlemen, your honours, have mercy on her. She had mercy
on me! She only did _their_ bidding. As for the bundle, and all in it,
I give it to her with all my soul, so it's no robbery. The grip of
hunger's hard to bear; and if she hadn't taken it then, where would I
have been now? Sure they would have killed me for the sake of the watch,
and I would have been a corpse before your honours this moment. O mercy!
mercy for her! or never will I sleep asy on this side of the grave!"