"DON'T HATE HIM, ADA."
Among those who had gone as far as Mr. Lambert's, but had not
proceeded further, had been Frank Jones. He had heard and seen what
has been narrated, and was as much impressed as others with the
condition of the country. The populace generally--for so it had
seemed to be--had risen _en masse_ to put down the amusement of the
gentry, and there had been a secret conspiracy, so that they had been
able to do the same thing in different parts of the county. Frank, as
he rode back to Morony Castle, a long way from Mr. Lambert's covert,
was very melancholy in his mind. The persecution of Mahomet M. Moss
and of the Landleaguers together was almost too much for him.
When he got home his father also was melancholy, and the girls were
melancholy. "What sport have you had, Frank?" said the father. But he
asked the question in a melancholy tone, simply as being one which
the son expects on returning from hunting. In this expectation Mr.
Jones gave way. Frank shook his head, but did not utter a word.
"What do you mean by that?" asked the father.
"The whole country is in arms." This, no doubt, was an exaggeration,
as the only arms that had been brought to Moytubber on the occasion
had been the pistol in Tom Daly's pocket.
"In arms?" said Philip Jones.
"Well, yes! I call it so. I call men in arms, when they are prepared
to carry out any illegal purpose by violence, and these men have done
that all through the County Galway."
"What have they done?"
"You know where the meet was; well, they drew Ballytowngal, and found
no fox there. It was not expected, and nothing happened there. The
people did not come into old Nick Bodkin's demesne, but we had heard
by the time that we were there that we should come across a lot of
Landleaguers at Moytubber. There they were as thick as bees round the
covert, and there was one man who had the impudence to tell Tom Daly
that draw where he might, he would draw in vain for a fox to-day in
County Galway."
"Do you mean that there was a crowd?" asked Mr. Jones.
"A crowd! Yes, all Claregalway seemed to have turned out. Claregalway
is not much of a place, but everyone was there from Oranmore and from
Athenry, and half the town from Galway city." This certainly was an
exaggeration on the part of Frank, but was excused by his desire to
impress his father with the real truth in the matter. "I never saw
half such a number of people by a covert side. But the truth was
soon known. They had beat Moytubber, and kicked up such a row as the
foxes in that gorse had never heard before. And they were not slow in
obtaining their object."
"Their object was clear enough."
"They didn't intend that the hounds should hunt that day either at
Moytubber or elsewhere. Daly did not put his hounds into the covert
at all; but rode away as fast as his horse's legs could carry him to
Kilcornan."
"That must be ten miles at least," said his father.
"Twenty, I should think. But we rode away at a hand-gallop, leaving
the crowd behind us." This again was an exaggeration. "But when we
got to the covert at Kilcornan there was just the same sort of crowd,
and just the same work had been on foot. The men there all told us
that we need not expect to find a fox. A rumour had got about the
field by this time that Tom Daly had a loaded pistol in his pocket.
What he meant to do with it I don't know. He could have done no good
without a regular massacre."
"Did he show his pistol?"
"I didn't see it; but I do believe it was there. Some of the old
fogies were awfully solemn about it."
"What was the end of it all?" asked Edith, who together with her
sister was now listening to Frank's narrative.
"You know Mr. Lambert's place on the road towards Gort. It's a long
way off, and I'm a little out of my latitude there. But I went as far
as that, and found a bigger crowd than ever. They said that all Gort
was there; but Tom having drawn the covert, went on, and swore that
he wouldn't leave a place in all County Galway untried. He borrowed
fresh horses, and went on with Barney Smith as grim as death. He is
still drawing his covert somewhere."
It was thus that Frank Jones told the story of that day's hunting.
To his father's ears it sounded as being very ominous. He did not
care much for hunting himself, nor would it much perplex him if the
Landleaguers would confine themselves to this mode of operations. But
as he heard of the crowds surrounding the coverts through the county,
he thought also of his many acres still under water, by the operation
of a man who had taken upon himself to be his enemy. And the whole
morning had been spent in fruitless endeavours to make Florian tell
the truth. The boy had remained surly, sullen, and silent. "He will
tell me at last," Edith had said to her father. But her father had
said, that unless the truth were now told, he must allow the affair
to go by. "The time for dealing with the matter will be gone," he
had said. "Pat Carroll is going about the country as bold as brass,
and says that he will fix his own rent; whereas I know, and all the
tenants know, that he ought to be in Galway jail. There isn't a man
on the estate who isn't certain that it was he, with five or six
others, who let the waters in upon the meadows."
"Then why on earth cannot you make them tell?"
"They say that they only think it," said Edith.
"The very best of them only think it," said Ada.
"And there is not one of them," said Mr. Jones, "whom you could trust
to put into a witness-box. To tell the truth, I do not see what
right I have to ask them to go there. If I was to select a man,--or
two, how can I say to them, 'forget yourself, forget your wife and
children, encounter possible murder, and probable ruin, in order that
I may get my revenge on this man'?"
"It is not revenge but justice," said Frank.
"It would be revenge to their minds. And if it came to pass that
there was a man who would thus sacrifice himself to me, what must I
do with him afterwards? Were I to send him to America with money, and
take his land into my own hand, see what horrible things would be
said of me. The sort of witness I want to back up others, who would
then be made to come, is Florian."
"What would they do to him?" asked Edith.
"I could send him to an English school for a couple of years, till
all this should have passed by. I have thought of that."
"That, too, would cost money," said Ada.
"Of course it would cost money, but it would be forthcoming, rather
than that the boy should be in danger. But the feeling, to me, as
to the boy himself, comes uppermost. It is that he himself should
have such a secret in his bosom, and keep it there, locked fast, in
opposition to his own father. I want to get it out of him while he
is yet a boy, so that his name shall not go abroad as one who, by
such manifest falsehood, took part against his own father. It is the
injury done to him, rather than the injury done to me."
"He has promised his priest that he will not tell," said Edith,
making what excuse she could for her brother.
"He has not promised his priest," said Mr. Jones. "He has made no
promise to Father Malachi, of Ballintubber. If he has promised at all
it is to that pestilent fellow at Headford. The curate at Headford is
not his priest, and why should a promise made to any priest be more
sacred than one made to another, unless it were made in confession? I
cannot understand Florian. It seems as though he were anxious to take
part with these wretches against his country, against his religion,
and against his father. It is unintelligible to me that a boy of his
age should, at the same time, be so precocious and so stupid. I have
told him that I know him to be a liar, and that until he will tell
the truth he shall not come into my presence." Having so spoken the
father sat silent, while Frank went off to dress.
It was felt by them all that a terrible decision had been come to in
the family. A verdict had gone out and had pronounced Florian guilty.
They had all gradually come to think that it was so. But now the
judge had pronounced the doom. The lad was not to be allowed into his
presence during the continuance of the present state of things. In
the first place, how was he to be kept out of his father's presence?
And the boy was one who would turn mutinous in spirit under such a
command. The meaning of it was that he should not sit at table with
his father. But, in accordance with the ways of the family, he had
always done so. A separate breakfast must be provided for him, and
a separate dinner. Then would there not be danger that he should be
driven to look for his friends elsewhere? Would he not associate with
Father Brosnan, or, worse again, with Pat Carroll? "Ada," said Edith
that night as they sat together, "Florian must be made to confess."
"How make him?"
"You and I must do it."
"That's all very well," said Ada, "but how? You have been at him now
for nine months, and have not moved him. He's the most obstinate boy,
I think, that ever lived."
"Do you know, there is something in it all that makes me love him the
better?" said Edith.
"Is there? There is something in it that almost makes me hate him."
"Don't hate him, Ada--if you can help it. He has got some religious
idea into his head. It is all stupid."
"It is beastly," said Ada.
"You may call it as you please," said the other, "it is stupid and
beastly. He is travelling altogether in a wrong direction, and is
putting everybody concerned with him in immense trouble. It may be
quite right that a person should be a Roman Catholic--or that he
should be a Protestant; but before one turns from one to the other,
one should be old enough to know something about it. It is very
vexatious; but with Flory there is, I think, some idea of an idea. He
has got it into his head that the Catholics are a downtrodden people,
and therefore he will be one of them."
"That is such bosh," said Ada.
"It is so, to your thinking, but not to his. In loving him or hating
him you've got to love him or hate him as a boy. Of course it's
wicked that a boy should lie,--or a man, or a woman, or a girl; but
they do. I don't see why we are to turn against a boy of our own,
when we know that other boys lie. He has got a notion into his head
that he is doing quite right, because the priest has told him."
"He is doing quite wrong," said Ada.
"And now what are we to do about his breakfast? Papa says that he is
not to be allowed to come into the room, and papa means it. You and I
will have to breakfast with him and dine with him, first one and then
the other."
"But papa will miss us."
"We must go through the ceremony of a second breakfast and a second
dinner." This was the beginning of Edith's scheme. "Of course it's a
bore; all things are bores. This about the flood is the most terrible
bore I ever knew. But I'm not going to let Flory go to the devil
without making an effort to save him. It would be going to the devil,
if he were left alone in his present position."
"Papa will see that we don't eat anything."
"Of course he must be told. There never ought to be any secrets in
anything. Of course he'll grow used to it, and won't expect us to sit
there always and eat nothing. He thinks he's right, and perhaps he
is. Flory will feel the weight of his displeasure; and if we talk to
him we may persuade him."
This state of things at Morony Castle was allowed to go on with few
other words said upon the subject. The father became more and more
gloomy, as the floods held their own upon the broad meadows. Pat
Carroll had been before the magistrates at Headford, and had been
discharged, as all evidence was lacking to connect him with the
occurrence. Further effort none was made, and Pat Carroll went on in
his course, swearing that not a shilling of rent should be paid by
him in next March. "The floods had done him a great injury," he said
laughingly among his companions, "so that it was unreasonable to
expect that he should pay." It was true he had owed a half-year's
rent last November; but then it had become customary with Mr. Jones's
tenants to be allowed the indulgence of six months. No more at any
rate would be said about rent till March should come.
And now, superinduced upon this cause of misery, had come the tidings
which had been spread everywhere through the county in regard to the
Galway hunt. Tom Daly had gone on regularly with his meets, and had
not indeed been stopped everywhere. His heart had been gladdened by
a wonderful run which he had had from Carnlough. The people had not
interfered there, and the day had been altogether propitious. Tom had
for the moment been in high good humour; but the interruption had
come again, and had been so repeated as to make him feel that his
occupation was in truth gone. The gentry of the county had then held
a meeting at Ballinasloe, and had decided that the hounds should be
withdrawn for the remainder of the season. No one who has not ridden
with the hounds regularly can understand the effect of such an order.
There was no old woman with a turkey in her possession who did not
feel herself thereby entitled to destroy the fox who came lurking
about her poultry-yard. Nor was there a gentleman who owned a
pheasant who did not feel himself animated in some degree by the same
feeling. "As there's to be an end of fox-hunting in County Galway,
we can do what we like with our own coverts." "I shall go in for
shooting," Sir Nicholas Bodkin had been heard to say.
But Black Tom Daly sat alone gloomily in his room at Ahaseragh, where
it suited him still to be present and look after the hounds, and told
himself that the occupation of his life was gone. Who would want to
buy a horse even, now that the chief object for horses was at an end?