Our readers may recollect, that, at the close of that part of our tale
which appeared in the preceding number, Dandy Duffy and Ned M'Cormick
exchanged significant glances at each other, upon Flanagan's having
admitted unawares that the female he designed to take away on the
following night was “the purtiest girl in the parish.” The truth was, he
imagined at the moment that his designs were fully matured, and in the
secret vanity, or rather, we should say, in the triumphant villainy of
his heart, he allowed an expression' to incautiously pass his lips which
was nearly tantamount to an admission of Una's name. The truth of this
he instantly felt. But even had he not, by his own natural sagacity,
perceived it, the look of mutual intelligence which his quick and
suspicious eye observed to pass between Duffy and Ned M'Cormick would at
once have convinced him. Una was not merely entitled to the compliment
so covertly bestowed upon her extraordinary personal attractions, but
in addition it might have been truly affirmed that neither that nor any
adjoining parish could produce a female, in any rank, who could stand on
a level with her in the character of a rival beauty. This was admitted
by all who had ever seen the _colleen dhan dhun_, or “the purty brown
girl,” as she was called, and it followed as a matter of course, that
Flanagan's words could imply no other than the Bodagh's daughter.
It is unnecessary to say, that Flanagan,--knowing this as he did, could
almost have bit a portion of his own tongue off as a punishment for its
indiscretion. It was then too late, however, to efface the impression
which the words were calculated to make, and he felt besides that he
would only strengthen the suspicion by an over-anxiety to remove it. He,
therefore, repeated his orders respecting the appointed meeting on the
following night, although he had already resolved in his own mind to
change the whole plan of his operations.
Such was the precaution with which this cowardly but accomplished
miscreant proceeded towards the accomplishment of his purposes, and such
was his apprehension lest the premature suspicion of a single individual
might by contingent treachery defeat his design, or affect his personal
safety. He had made up his mind to communicate the secret of his
enterprise to none until the moment of its execution; and this being
accomplished, his ultimate plans were laid, as he thought, with
sufficient skill to baffle pursuit and defeat either the malice of his
enemies or the vengeance of the law.
No sooner had they left the schoolhouse than the Dandy and M'Cormick
immediately separated from the rest, in order to talk over the
proceedings of the night, with a view to their suspicions of the
“Captain.” They had not gone far, however, when they were overtaken by
two others, who came up to them at a quick, or, if I may be allowed the
expression, an earnest pace. The two latter were Rousin Redhead and his
son, Corney.
“So, boys,” said the Rouser, “what do you think of our business
to-night? Didn't I get well out of his clutches?”
“Be me troth, Rouser, darlin',” replied the Dandy, “you niver wor
completely in them till this minnit.”
“_Dhar ma lham charth_,” said Corney, “I say he's a black-hearted
villin.”
“But how am I in his clutches, Dandy?” inquired the Rouser.
“Why,” rejoined Duffy, “didn't you see that for all you said about
his throwin' the post of danger on other people, he's givin' it to you
to-morrow night?”
Rousin Redhead stood still for nearly half a minute without uttering a
syllable; at length he seized Dandy by the arm, which he pressed with
the gripe of Hercules, for he was a man of huge size and strength.
“_Chorp ad dioual_, you giant, is it my arm you're goin' to break?”
“Be the tarnal primmer, Dandy Duffy, but I see it now!” said the Rouser,
struck by Bartle's address, and indignant at the idea of having been
overreached by him. “Eh, Corney,” he continued, addressing the son,
“hasn't he the Rouser set? I see, boys, I see. I'm a marked man wid him,
an' it's likely, for all he said, will be on the black list afore he
sleeps. Well, Corney avic, you an' others know how to act if anything
happens me.”
“I don't think,” said M'Cormick, who was a lad of considerable
penetration, “that you need be afeard of either him or the black list.
Be me sowl, I know the same Bartle well, an' a bigger coward never put a
coat on his back. He got as pale as a sheet, to-night, when Corney there
threatened him; not but he's desateful enough I grant, but he'd be a
greater tyrant only that he's so hen-hearted.”
“But what job,” said the rouser, “has he for us to-morrow night, do you
think? It must be something past the common. Who the _dioual_ can he
have in his eye to run away wid?”
“Who's the the purtiest girl in the parish, Rouser?” asked Ned. “I
thought every one knew that.”
“Why, you don't mane for to say,” replied Redhead, “that he'd have the
spunk in him to run away with Bodagh Buie's daughter? Be the contents o'
the book, if I thought he'd thry it, I stick to him like a Throjan;
the dirty Bodagh, that, as Larry Lawdher said tonight, never backed or
supported us, or gev a single rap to help us, if a penny 'ud save us
from the gallis. To hell's delights wid him an' all belongin' to him,
I say too; an' I'll tell you What it is, boys, if Flanagan has the
manliness to take away his daughter, I'll be the first to sledge the
door to pieces.”
“_Dhar a spiridh_, an' so will I,” said the young beetle-browed tiger
beside him; “thim that can an' won't help on the cause, desarves no
mercy from it.”
Thus spoke from the lips of ignorance and brutality that _esprit de
corps_ of blood, which never scruples to sacrifice all minor resentments
to any opportunity of extending the cause, as it is termed, of that
ideal monster, in the promotion of which the worst principles of our
nature, still most active, are sure to experience the greatest glut of
low and gross gratification. Oh, if reason, virtue, and true religion,
were only as earnest and vigorous in extending their own cause, as
ignorance, persecution, and bigotry, how soon would society present a
different aspect! But, unfortunately, they cannot stoop to call in the
aid of tyranny, and cruelty, and bloodshed, nor of the thousand other
atrocious allies of falsehood and dishonesty, of which ignorance, craft,
and cruelty, never fail to avail themselves, and without which they
could not proceed successfully.
M'Cormick, having heard Rousin Redhead and his son utter such
sentiments, did not feel at all justified in admitting them to any
confidence with himself or Duffy. He accordingly replied with more of
adroitness than of candor to the savage sentiments they expressed.
“Faith, you're right, Rouser; he'd never have spunk, sure enough, to
carry off the Bodagh's daughter. But, in the mane time, who was spakin'
about her? Begor, if I thought he had the heart I'd--but he hasn't.”
“I know he hasn't,” said the Rouser.
“He's nothing but a white-livered dog,” said Duffy.
“I thought, to tell you the truth,” said M'Cormick, “that you might give
a guess as to the girl, but for the Bodagh's daughter, he has not the
mettle for that.”
“If he had,” replied the Rouser, “he might count upon Corney an' myself
as right-hand men. We all have a crow to pluck wid the dirty Bodagh,
an', be me zounds, it'll puzzle him to find a bag to hould the
feathers.”
“One 'ud think he got enough,” observed M'Cormick, “in the loss of his
haggard.”
“But that didn't come from uz,” said the Rouser; “we have our share to
give him yet, an' never fear hell get it. We'll taich him to abuse us,
an' set us at defiance, as he's constantly doin'.”
“Well, Rouser,” said M'Cormick, who now felt anxious to get rid of him,
“we'll be wishin' you a good night; we're goin' to have a while of a
_kailyeah_ (An evening conversational visit) up at my uncle's. Corney,
my boy, good night.”
“Good night kindly, boys,” replied the other, “an' __banaght lath any
how.”
“Rouser, you divil,” said the Dandy, calling after them, “will you an'
blessed Corney there, offer up a Patthernavy for my conversion, for I'm
sure that both your prayers will go far?”
Rousin Redhead and Corney responded to this with a loud laugh, and a
banter.
“Ay, ay, Dandy; but, be me sowl, if they only go as far as your own
goodness sint you before now, it'll be seven years before they come back
again; eh, do you smell anything?--ha, ha, ha!”
“The big boshthoon hot me fairly, begad,” observed the Dandy.
Aside--“The divil's own tongue he has.”
“Bad cess to you for a walkin' bonfire, an' go home,” replied the Dandy;
“I'm not a match for you wid the tongue, at all at all”
“No, nor wid anything else, barrin' your heels,” replied the Rouser; “or
your hands, if there was a horse in the way. Arrah, Dandy?”
“Well, you graceful youth, well?”
“You ought to be a good workman by this time; you first lamed your
thrade, an' thin you put in your apprenticeship--ha, ha, ha!”
“Faith, an' Rouser I can promise you a merry end, my beatity; you'll be
the only man that'll dance at your own funeral; an' I'll tell you what,
Rouser, it'll be like an egg-hornpipe, wid your eyes covered. That's
what I call an active death, avouchal!”
“Faith, an' if you wor a priest, Dandy, you'd never die with your face
to the congregation. You'll be a rope-dancer yourself yet; only this,
Dandy, that you'll be undher the rope instead of over it, so good
night.”
“Rouser,” exclaimed the other. “Rousin Redhead!”
“Go home,” replied the Rouser. “Good night, I say; you've thravelled a
great deal too far for an ignorant man like me to stand any chance
wid you. Your tongue's lighter than your hands (In Ireland, to be
light--handed signifies to be a thief) even, and that's payin' it a high
compliment.”
“Divil sweep you, Brien,” said Dandy, “you'd beat the divil an' Docthor
Fosther, Good night again!”
“Oh, ma bannaght laht, I say.”
And they accordingly parted.
“Now,” said Ned, “what's to be done Dandy? As sure as gun's iron,
this limb of hell will take away the Bodagh's daughter, if we don't do
something to prevent it.”
“I'm not puttin' it past him,” returned his companion, “but how to
prevent it is the thing. He has the boys all on his side, barrin'
yourself and me, an' a few more.”
“An' you see, Ned, the Bodagh is so much hated, that even some of thim
that don't like Flanagan, won't scruple to join him in this.”
“An' if we were known to let the cat out o' the bag to the Bodagh, we
might as well prepare our coffins at wanst.”
“Faith, sure enough--that's but gospel, Ned,” replied the Dandy; still
it 'ud be the _milliah_ murdher to let the double-faced villin carry off
such a girl.”
“I'll tell you what you'll do, thin, Dandy,” rejoined Ned, “what if
you'd walk down wid me as far as the Bodagh's.”
“For why? Sure they're in bed now, man alive.”
“I know that,” said M'Cormick; “but how--an--ever, if you come down wid
me that far, I'll conthrive to get in somehow, widout wakenin' them.”
“The dickens you will! How, the sarra, man?”
“No matther, I will; an' you see,” he added, pulling out a flask of
spirits, “I'm not goin' impty-handed.”
“Phew!” exclaimed Duffy, “is it there you are?--oh, that indeed! Faith
I got a whisper of it some time ago, but it wint out o' my head. Biddy
Nulty, faix--a nate clane girl she is, too.”
“But that's not the best of it, Dandy. Sure, blood alive, I can tell you
a sacret--may dipind? Honor bright! The Bodagh's daughter, man, is to
give her a portion, in regard to her bein' so thrue to Connor O'Donovan.
Bad luck to the oath she'd swear aginst him if they'd made a queen of
her, but outdone the counsellors and lawyers, an' all the whole bobbery
o' them, whin they wanted her to turn king's evidence. Now, it's not but
I'd do anything to serve the purty Bodagh's daughter widout it; but you
see, Dandy, if white-liver takes her off, I may stand a bad chance for
the portion.”
“Say no more; I'll go wid you; but how will you get in, Ned?”
“Never you mind that; here, take a pull out of this flask before you go
any further. Blood an' flummery! what a night; divil a my finger I can
see before me. Here--where's your hand?--that's it; warm your heart, my
boy.”
“You intind thin, Ned, to give Biddy the hard word about Flanagan?”
“Why, to bid her put them on their guard; sure there can be no harm in
that.”
“They say, Ned, it's not safe to trust a woman; what if you'd ax to see
the Bodagh's son, the young soggarth?”
“I'd trust my life to Biddy--she that was so honest to the Donovans
wouldn't be desateful to her sweetheart that--he--hem--she's far gone in
consate wid--your sowl. Her brother Alick's to meet me at the Bodagh's
on his way from their lodge, for they hould a meetin to-night too.”
“Never say it again. I'll stick to you; so push an, for it's late.
You'll be apt to make up the match before you part, I suppose.”
“That won't be hard to do any time, Dandy.”
Both then proceeded down the same field, which we have already said
was called the Black Park, in consequence of its dark and mossy soil.
Having, with some difficulty, found the stile at the lower end of it,
they passed into a short car track, which they were barely able to
follow.
The night, considering that it was the month of November, was close and
foggy--such as frequently follows a calm day of incessant rain. The
bottoms were plashing, the drams all full, and the small rivulets and
streams about the country were above their hanks, whilst the larger
rivers swept along with the hoarse continuous murmurs of an unusual
flood. The sky was one sheet of blackness--for not a cloud could be
seen, or anything, except the passing gleam of a cottage taper, lessened
by the haziness of the night into a mere point of faint light, and
thrown by the same cause into a distance which appeared to the eye much
more remote than that of reality.
After having threaded their way for nearly a mile, the water spouting
almost at every step up to their knees, they at length came to an old
bridle--way, deeply shaded with hedges on each side. They had not spoken
much since the close of their last dialogue; for, the truth is, each had
enough to do, independently of dialogue, to keep himself out of drains
and quagmires. An occasional “hanamondioul, I'm into the hinches;” “holy
St. Peter, I'm stuck;” “tun--dher an' turf, where are you at all?” or,
“by this an' by that, I dunno where I am,” were the only words that
passed between them, until they reached the little road we are speaking,
of, which, in fact, was one unbroken rut, and on such a night almost
impassable.
“Now,” said M'Cormick, “we musn't keep this devil's gut, for conshumin'
to the shoe or stockin' ever we'd bring out of it; however, do you folly
me, Dandy, and there's no danger.”
“I can do nothing else,” replied the other, “for I know no more where I
am than the man of the moon, who, if all's thrue that's sed of him, is
the biggest blockhead alive.”
M'Cormick, who knew the path well, turned off the road into a pathway
that ran inside the hedge and along the fields, but parallel with the
muddy boreen in question. They now found themselves upon comparatively
clear ground, and, with the exception of an occasional slip or two, in
consequence of the heavy rain, they had little difficulty in advancing.
At this stage of their journey not a light was to be seen nor a sound
of life heard, and it was evident that the whole population of the
neighborhood had sunk to rest.
“Where will this bring us to, Ned?” asked the Dandy--“I hope we'll soon
be at the Bodagh's.”
M'Cormick stood and suddenly pressed his arm, “Whisht!” said he, in an
under-tone, “I think I hard voices.”
“No,” replied the other in the same low tone.
“I'm sure I did,” said Ned, “take my word for it, there's people before
us on the boreen--whisht!”
They both listened, and very distinctly heard a confused but suppressed
murmur of voices, apparently about a hundred yards before them on the
little bridle--way. Without uttering a word they both proceeded as
quietly and quickly as possible, and in a few minutes nothing separated
them but the hedge. The party on the road were wallowing through the
mire with great difficulty, many of them, at the same time, bestowing
very energetic execrations upon it and upon those who suffered it to
remain in such a condition. Even oaths, however, were uttered in so
low and cautious a tone, that neither M'Cormick nor the Dandy could
distinguish their voices so clearly as to recognize those who spoke,
supposing that they had known them. Once or twice they heard the
clashing of arms or of iron instruments of some sort, and it seemed to
them that the noise was occasioned by the accidental jostling together
of those who carried them. At length they heard one voice exclaim rather
testily. “D--n your blood, Bartle Flanagan, will you have patience till
I get my shoe out o' the mud--you don't expect me to lose it, do you?
We're not goin' to get a purty wife, whatever you may be.”
The reply to this was short, but pithy--“May all the divils in hell's
fire pull the tongue out o' you, for nothin' but hell itself, you
villin, timpted me to bring you with me.”
This was not intended to be heard, nor was it by the person against
whom it was uttered, he being some distance behind--but as Ned and his
companion were at that moment exactly on the other side of the hedge,
they could hear the words of this precious soliloquy--for such it
was--delivered as they were with a suppressed energy of malignity,
worthy of the heart which suggested them.
M'Cormick immediately pulled Duffy's coat, without speaking a word, as
a hint to follow him with as little noise as possible, which he did,
and ere many minutes they were so far in advance of the others, as to be
enabled to converse without being heard. “_Thar Bheah_ Duffy,” said his
companion, “there's not a minute to be lost.”
“There is not,” replied the other--“but what will you do with me? I'll
lend a hand in any way I can--but remember that if we're seen, or if
it's known that we go against them in this--”
“I know,” said the other, “we're gone men; still we must manage
it somehow, so as to save the girl; God! if it was only on Connor
O'Donovan's account, that's far away this night, I'd do it. Dandy you
wor only a boy when Blannarhasset prosecuted you, and people pitied you
at the time, and now they don't think much the worse of you for it; an'
you know it was proved since, that what you sed then was thrue, that
other rogues made you do it, an' thin lift you in the lurch. But
d--n it, where's the use of all this? give me your hand, it's life or
death--can I thrust you?”
“You may,” said the other, “you may, Ned; do whatever you wish with me.”
“Then,” continued Ned, “I'll go into the house, and do you keep near to
them without bein' seen; watch their motions; but above all things, if
they take her off--folly on till you see where they'll bring her; after
that they can get back enough--the sogers, if they're a wantin'.”
“Depind an me, Ned; to the core depind an me.”
They had now reached the Bodagh's house, upon which, as upon every other
object around them, the deep shadows of night rested heavily. The Dandy
took up his position behind one of the porches of the gate that divided
the little grass--plot before the hall--door and the farmyard, as being
the most central spot, and from which he could with more ease hear, or
as far as might be observe, the plan and nature of their proceedings.
It was at least fifteen minutes before they reached the little avenue
that led up to the Bodagh's residence; for we ought to have told our
readers, that M'Cormick and Duffy, having taken a short path, left
the others--who, being ignorant of it, were forced to keep to the
road--considerable behind them. Ned was consequently from ten to
fifteen minutes in the house previous to their arrival. At length they
approached silently, and with that creeping pace which betokens either
fear or caution, as the case may be, and stood outside the gate which
led to the grass-plot before the hall-door, not more than three or
four yards from the porch of the farm-yard gate where the Dandy stood
concealed. And here he had an opportunity of witnessing the extreme
skill with which Flanagan conducted this nefarious exploit. After
listening for about a minute, he found that their worthy leader was not
present, but he almost immediately discovered that he was engaged in
placing guards upon all the back windows of the dwelling-house and
kitchen. During his absence the following short consultation took
place among those whom he left behind him, for the purpose of taking a
personal part in the enterprise:
“It was too thrue what Rousin Redhead said to-night,” observed one of
them, “he always takes care to throw the post of danger on some one
else. Nowit's not that I'm afeared, but as he's to have the girl
himself, it's but fair that his own neck should run the first danger,
an' not mine.”
They all assented to this.
“Well, then, boys,” he proceeded, “if yez support me, well make him head
this business himself. It's his own consarn, not ours; an' besides, as
he houlds the Articles, it's his duty to lead us in everything. So I for
wan, won't take away his girl, an' himself keepin' back. If there's any
one here that'll take my place for his, let him now say so.”
They were all silent as to that point; but most of them said, they
wished, at all events, to give “the dirty Bodagh,” for so they usually
called him, something to remember them by, in consequence of his having,
on all occasions, stood out against the system.
“Still it's fair,” said several of them, “that in takin' away the
colleen, Bartle should go foremost, as she's for himself an' 'not for
huz.”
“Well, then, you'll all agree to this?”
“We do, but whist--here he is.”
Deeply mortified was their leader on finding that they had come
unanimously to this determination. It was too late now, however, to
reason with them, and the crime, to the perpetration of which he brought
them, too dangerous in its consequences, to render a quarrel with them
safe or prudent. He felt himself, therefore, in a position which, of all
others, he did not wish. Still his address was too perfect to allow any
symptoms of chagrin or disappointment to be perceptible in his voice
or manner, although, the truth is, he cursed them in his heart at the
moment, and vowed in some shape or other to visit their insubordination
with vengeance.
Such, indeed, is the nature of these secret confederacies that are
opposed to the laws of the land, and the spirit of religion. It matters
little how open and apparently honest the conduct of such men may be
among each other; there is, notwithstanding this, a distrust, a fear,
a suspicion, lurking at every heart, that renders personal security
unsafe, and life miserable. But how, indeed, can they repose confidence
in each other, when they know that in consequence of their connection
with such systems, many of the civil duties of life cannot be performed
without perjury on the one hand, or risk of life on the other, and that
the whole principle of the combination is founded upon hatred, revenge,
and a violation of all moral obligation?
“Well, then,” said their leader, “as your minds is made up, boys, follow
me as quickly as you can, an' don't spake a word in your own voices.”
They approached the hall-door, with the exception of six, who stood
guarding the front windows of the dwelling-house and kitchen; and, to
the Dandy's astonishment, the whole party, amounting to about eighteen,
entered the house without either noise or obstruction of any kind.
“By Japurs,” thought he to himself, “there's thraichery there, any how.”
This now to the Dandy was a moment of intense interest. Though by no
means a coward, or a young fellow of delicate nerves, yet his heart beat
furiously against his ribs, and his whole frame shook with excitement.
He would, in truth, much rather have been engaged in the outrage, than
forced as he was, merely to look on without an opportunity of taking
a part in it, one way or the other. Such, at least, were his own
impressions, when the report of a gun was heard inside the house.
_Dhar an Iffrin_, thought he again, I'll bolt in an' see what's
goin' an--oh _ma shaght millia mattach orth_, Flanagan, if you spill
blood--Jasus above! Well, any how, come or go what may, we can hang him
for this--glory be to God!
These reflections were very near breaking-forth into words.
“I don't like that,” said one of the guards to another; “he may take
the girl away, but it's not the thing to murdher any one belongin' to a
dacent family, an' of our own religion.”
“If it's only the Bodagh got it,” replied his comrade, who was no other
than Micky Malvathra, “blaizes to the hair I care. When my brother
Barney, that suffered for _Caam Beal_ (crooked mouth) Grime's business,
was before his thrial, hell resave the taisther the same Bodagh would
give to defind him.”
“Damn it,” rejoined the other, “but to murdher a man in his bed! Why,
now, if it was only comin' home from a fair or market, but at midnight,
an' in his bed, begorra it is not the thing, Mickey.”
There was now a pause in the conversation for some minutes; at length,
screams were heard, and the noise of men's feet, as if engaged in a
scuffle upon the stairs, for the hall-door lay open. A light, too, was
seen, but it appeared to have been blown out; the same noise of feet
tramping, as if still in a tumult, approached the door, and almost
immediately afterwards Flanagan's party approached, bearing in their
arms a female, who panted and struggled as if she had been too weak
to shriek or call for assistance. The hall-door was then pulled to and
locked by those who were outside.
The Dandy could see, by the passing gleam of light which fell upon
those who watched beside him, that their faces were blackened, and their
clothes covered by a shirt, as was usual with the Whiteboys of old,
and for the same object--that of preventing--themselves from being
recognized by their apparel.
“So far so good,” said Flanagan, who cared not now whether his voice was
known or not; “the prize is mine, boys, an' how to bring ma colleen dhas
dhun to a snug place, an' a friendly priest that I have to put the knot
on us for life.”
“By ---,” thought Duffy, “I'll put a different kind of a knot on you for
that, if I should swing myself for it.”
They hurried onwards with as much speed as possible, bearing the
fainting female in a seat formed by clasping their hands together. Duffy
still stood in his place of concealment, waiting to let them get so far
in advance as that he might dog them without danger of being heard.
Just then a man cautiously approached, and in a whisper asked, “Is that
Dandy?”
“It is--Saver above, Ned, how is this? all's lost!”
“No, no--I hope not--but go an' watch them; we'll folly as soon as we
get help. My curse on Alick Nulty, he disappointed me an' didn't come;
if he had, some of the Bodagh's sarvant boys would be up wid us in the
kitchen, an' we could bate them back aisy; for Flanagan, as I tould you,
is a dam-coward.”
“Well, thin, I'll trace them,” replied the other; “but you know that
in sich darkness as this you haven't a minute to lose, otherwise you'll
miss them.”
“Go an; but afore you go listen, be the light of day, not that we have
much of it now any way--by the vestment, Biddy Nulty's worth her weight
in Bank of Ireland notes; now pelt and afther them; I'll tell you
again.”
Flanagan's party were necessarily forced to retrace their steps along
the sludgy boreen we have mentioned, and we need scarcely say, that,
in consequence of the charge with which they were encumbered, their
progress was proportionally slow; to cross the fields on such a night
was out of the question.
The first thing Flanagan did, when he found his prize safe, was to tie
a handkerchief about her mouth that she might not scream, and to secure
her hands together by the wrists. Indeed, the first of these precautions
seemed to be scarcely necessary, for what with the terror occasioned by
such unexpected and frightful violence, and the extreme delicacy of her
health, it was evident that she could not utter even a shriek. Yet, did
she, on the other hand, lapse into fits of such spasmodic violence as,
wrought up as she was by the horror of her situation, called forth all
her physical energies, and literally give her the strength of three
women.
“Well, well,” observed one of the fellows, who had assisted in holding
her down during these wild fits, “you may talk of jinteel people, but
be the piper o' Moses, that same sick daughter of the Bodagh's is the
hardiest sprout I've laid my hands on this month o' Sundays.”
“May be you'd make as hard a battle yourself,” replied he to whom he
spoke, “if you wor forced to a thing you hate as much as she hates
Bartle.”
“May be so,” rejoined the other, with an incredulous shrug, that seemed
to say he was by no means satisfied by the reasoning of his companion.
Bartle now addressed his charge with a hope of reconciling her, if
possible, to the fate of becoming united to him.
“Don't be at all alarmed, Miss Oona, for indeed you may take my word for
it, that I'll make as good and as lovin' a husband as ever had a purty
wife. It's two or three years since I fell in consate wid you, an' I
needn't tell you, darlin', how happy I'm now, that you're mine. I have
two horses waitin' for us at the end of this vile road, an', plase
Providence, we'll ride onwards a bit, to a friend's house o' mine, where
I've a priest ready to tie the knot; an' to-morrow, if you're willin',
we'll start for America; but if you don't like that, we'll live together
till you'll be willin' enough, I hope, to go any where I wish. So take
heart, darlin', take heart. As for the money I made free wid out o' your
desk, it'll help to keep us comfortable; it was your own, you know, an'
who has a betther right to be at the spendin' of it?”
This, which was meant for consolation, utterly failed, or rather
aggravated the sufferings of the affrighted girl they bore, who once
more struggled with a power that resembled the intense muscular strength
of epilepsy, more than anything else. It literally required four of them
to hold her down, so dreadfully spasmodic were her efforts to be free.
The delay caused by those occasional workings of terror, at a moment
when Flanagan expected every sound to be the noise of pursuit, wrought
up his own bad passions to a furious height. His own companions could
actually hear him grinding his teeth with vexation and venom, whenever
anything on her part occurred to retard their flight. All this, however,
he kept to himself, owing to the singular command he possessed over his
passions. Nay, he undertook, once more, the task of reconciling her to
the agreeable prospect, as he termed it, that life presented her.
“We'll be as happy as the day's long,” said he, “espichilly when
heaven sends us a family; an' upon my troth a purty mother you'll make?
suppose, darlin' love, you wondher how I got in to-night, but I tell
you I've my wits about me; you don't know that it was I encouraged Biddy
Nulty to go to live wid you, but I know what I was about then; Biddy it
was that left the door open for me, an' that tould me the room you lay
in, an' the place you keep your hard goold an' notes; I mintion these
things to show you how I have you hemmed in, and that your wisest way is
to submit without makin' a rout about it. You know that if you wor taken
from me this minit, there 'ud be a stain upon your name that 'ud never
lave it, an' it wouldn't be my business, you know, to clear up your
character, but the conthrary. As for Biddy, the poor fool, I did all in
my power to prevint her bein' fond o' me, but ever since we two lived
with the ould miser, somehow she couldn't.”
For some time before he had proceeded thus far, there was felt, by
those who carried their fair charge, a slight working of her whole body,
especially of the arms, and in a moment Flanagan, who walked a little in
advance of her, with his head bent down, that he might not be put to the
necessity of speaking loud, suddenly received, right upon his nose, such
an incredible facer as made the blood spin a yard out of it.
“May all the curses of heaven an' hell blast you, for a cowardly,
thraicherous, parjured stag! Why, you black-hearted informer, see
now what you've made by your cunnin'. Well, we hope you'll keep your
word--won't I make a purty mother, an' won't we be happy as the day's
long, espichilly when Heaven sends us a family? Why, you rap of hell,
aren't you a laughing-stock this minute? An' to go to take my name
too--an' to leave the guilt of some other body's thraichery on me, that
you knew in your burnin' sowl to be innocent--me, a poor girl that has
only my name an' good character to carry me through the world. Oh, you
mane-sphirted, revengeful dog, for you're not a man, or you'd not go to
take sich revenge upon a woman, an' all for sayin' an' puttin' it out
on you, what I ever an' always will do, that struv to hang Connor
O'Donovan, knowin' that it was yourself did the crime the poor boy is
now sufferin' for. Ha! may the sweetest an' bitterest of bad luck both
meet upon you, you villin! Amin I pray this night!”
The scene that followed this discovery, and the unexpected act which
produced it, could not, we think, be properly described by either pen or
pencil. Flanagan stood with his hands alternately kept to his nose,
from which he flung away the blood, as it sprung out in a most copious
stream. Two-thirds, indeed we might say three-fourths of his party, were
convulsed with suppressed laughter, nor could they prevent an occasional
cackle from being heard, when forcibly drawing in their breath, in an
effort not to offend their leader. The discovery of the mistake was, in
itself, extremely ludicrous, but when the home truths uttered by Biddy,
and the indescribable bitterness'caused by the disappointment, joined to
the home blow, were all put together, it might be said that the darkness
of hell itself was not so black as the rage, hatred, and thirst of
vengeance, which at this moment consumed Bartle Flanagan's heart. He who
had laid his plans so artfully that he thought failure in securing
his prize impossible, now not only to feel that he was baffled by the
superior cunning of a girl, and made the laughing-stock of his own
party, who valued him principally upon his ability in such matters; but,
in addition to this, to have his heart and feelings torn, as it were,
out of his body, and flung down before him and his confreres in all
their monstrous deformity, and to be jeered at, moreover, and despised,
and literally cuffed by the female who outreached him--this was too
much; all the worst passions within him were fired, and he swore in his
own heart a deep and blasphemous oath, that Biddy Nulty never should
part from him unless as a degraded girl.
The incident that we have just related happened so quickly that
Flanagan' had not time to reply a single word, and Biddy followed up her
imprecation by a powerful effort to release herself.
“Let me home this minnit, you villin,” she continued; “now that you find
yourself on the wrong scent--boys, don't hould me, nor back that ruffin
in his villany.”
“Hould her like hell,” said Bartle, “an' tie her up wanst more; we'll
gag you, too, my lady--ay, will we. Take away your name--I'll take care
you'll carry shame upon your face from this night to the hour of your
death. Characther indeed!--ho, by the crass I'll lave you that little of
that will go far wid you.”
“May be not,” replied Biddy; “the same God that disappointed you in
hangin' Connor O'Donovan--”
“Damn you,” said he, “take that;” and as he spoke he struck the poor girl
a heavy blow in the cheek, which cut her deeply, and for a short time
rendered her speechless.
“Bartle,” said more than one of them, “that's unmanly, an' it's
conthrary to the regulations.'
“To perdition wid the regulations! Hasn't the vagabone drawn a pint of
blood from my nose already?--look at that!” he exclaimed, throwing away
a handful of the warm gore “hell seize her! look at that--Ho be the--”
He made another onset at the yet unconscious girl as he spoke, and would
have still inflicted further punishment upon her, were it not that he
was prevented.
“Stop,” said several of them, “if you wor over us fifty times you won't
lay another finger on her; that's wanst for all, so be quiet.”
“Are yez threatenin' me?” he asked, furiously, but in an instant
he changed his tone--“Boys dear,” continued the wily but unmanly
villain--“boys dear, can you blame me? disappointed as I am by this--by
this--_ha anhien na sthreepa_--I'll----” but again he checked himself,
and at length burst out into a bitter fit of weeping. “Look at' this,”
he proceeded, throwing away another handful of blood, “I've lost a quart
of it by her.”
“Be the hand af my body,” said one of them in a whisper, “he's like
every coward, it's at his own blood he's cryin'; be the vartue of my
oath, that man's not the thing to depind on.”
“Is she tied an' gagged?” he then inquired.
“She is,” replied those who tied her. “It was very asy done, Bartle,
afther the blow you hot her.”
“It wasn't altogether out of ill--will I hot her aither,” he replied,
“although, boys dear, you know how she vexed me, but you see, the thruth
is, she'd a' given us a great dale o' throuble in gettin' her quiet.”
“An' you tuck the right way to do that,” they replied ironically; and
they added, “Bartle Flanagan, you may thank the oaths we tuck, or be the
crass, a single man of us wouldn't assist you in this consarn, afther
your cowardly behaver to this poor girl. Takin' away the Bodagh's
daughter was another thing; you had betther let the girl go home.”
Biddy had now recovered, and heard this suggestion with joy, for the
poor girl began to entertain serious apprehensions of Flanagan's revenge
and violence, if left alone with him; she could not speak, however, and
those who bore her, quickened their pace at his desire, as much as they
could.
“No,” said Bartle, artfully, “I'll keep her prisoner anyhow for
this night. I had once a notion of marryin' her--an' may be--as I am
disappointed in the other--but we'll think of it. Now we're at the
horses and we'll get an faster.”
This was indeed true.
After the journey we have just described, they at length got out of
the boreen, where, in the corner of a field, a little to the right, two
horses, each saddled, were tied to the branch of a tree. They now made
a slight delay until their charge should be got mounted, and were
collected in a group on the road, when a voice called out, “Who goes
there?”
“A friend to the guard.”
“Good morrow!”
“Good morrow mornin' to you!”
“What Age are you in?”
“The end of the fifth.”
“All right,” said Bartle, aloud; “now, boys,” he whispered to his own
party, “we must tell them good-humoredly to pass on--that this is a
runaway--jist a girl we're bringin' aff wid us, an' to hould a hard
cheek (*To keep it secret) about it. You know we'd do as much for them.”
Both parties now met, the strangers consisting of about twenty men.
“Well, boys,” said the latter, “what's the fun?”
“Devil a thing but a girl we're helpin' a boy to take away. What's your
own sport?”
“Begorra, we wor in luck to-night; we got as party a double-barrelled
gun as ever you seen, an' a case of murdherin' fine--pistols.”
“Success, ould heart! that's right; we'll be able to stand a tug whin
the 'Day' comes.”
“Which of you is takin' away the girl, boys?” inquired one of the
strangers.
“Begad, Bartle Flanagan, since there's no use in hidin' it, when we're
all as we ought to be.”
“Bartle Flanagan!” said a voice--“Bartle Flanagan, is it? An' who's the
girl?”
“Blur an' agres, Alick Nulty, don't be too curious, she comes from
Bodagh Buie's.”
Biddy, on hearing the voice of her brother, made another violent
effort, and succeeded in partially working the gag out of her mouth--she
screamed faintly, and struggled with such energy that her hands again
became loose, and in an instant the gag was wholly I removed.
“Oh Alick, Alick, for the love o' God save me from Flanagan! it's me,
your sisther Biddy, that's in it; save me, Alick, or I'll be lost; he
has cut me to the bone wid a blow, an' the blood's pourin' from me.”
Her brother flew to her. “Whisht, Biddy, don't be afeard!” he exclaimed.
“Boys,” said he, “let my party stand by me; this is the way Bartle
Flanagan keeps his oath!” (* One of the clauses of the Ribbon oath was,
not to injure or maltreat the wife or sister of a brother Ribbonman.)
“Secure Bartle,” said Biddy. “He robbed Bodagh Buie's house, an' has the
money about him.”
The horses were already on the road, but, in consequence of both parties
filling up the passage in the direction which Bartle and nis followers
intended taking, the animals could not be brought through them without
delay and trouble, even had there been no resistance offered to their
progress.
“A robber too!” exclaimed Nulty, “that's more of his parjury to'ards uz.
Bartle Flanagan, you're a thraitor, and you'll get a thraitor's death
afore you're much oulder. He's not fit to be among us,” added Alick,
addressing himself to both parties, “an' the truth is, if we don't hang
or settle him, he'll some day hang us.”
“Bartle's no thraitor,” said Mulvather, “but he's a thraitor that says
he is.”
The coming reply was interrupted by “Boys, good night to yez;” and
immediately the clatter of a horse's feet was heard stumbling and
floundering back along the deep stony boreen. “Be the vestment he's
aff,” said one of his party; “the cowardly villin's aff wid himself the
minit he seen the approach of danger.”
“Sure enough, the bad dhrop's in him,” exclaimed several on both sides.
“But what the h--l does he mane now, I dunna?”
“It'll be only a good joke to-morrow wid him,” observed one of
them--“but, boys, we must think how to manage him; I can't forgive him
for the cowardly blow he hot the poor colleen here, an' for the same
rason I didn't dhraw the knot so tight upon her as I could a' done.”
“Was it you that nipped my arm?” asked Biddy.
“Faix, you may say that, an' it was to let you know that, let him say as
he would, after what we seen of him to-night, we wouldn't allow him to
thrate you badly without marryin' you first.”
The night having been now pretty far advanced, the two parties separated
in order to go to their respective homes--Alick taking Biddy under his
protection to her master's. As the way of many belonging to each lodge
lay in the same direction, they were accompanied, of course, to the turn
that led up to the Bodagh's house. Biddy, notwithstanding the severe
blow she had got, related the night's adventure with much humor,
dwelling upon her own part in the transaction with singular glee.
“There's some thraicherous villin in the Bodagh's,” said she, “be it
man or woman; for what 'id you think but the hall-door was left lying to
only--neither locked nor boulted. But, indeed, anyhow, it's the start
was taken out o' me whin Ned M'Cormick--that _you_ wor to meet in our
kitchen, Alick--throth, I won't let _Kitty Lowry_ wait up for _you_ so
long another time.” She added this to throw the onus of the assignation
off her own shoulders, and to lay it upon those of Alick and Kitty.
“But, anyhow, I had just time to throw her clothes upon me and get into
her bed. Be me sowl, but I acted the fright an' sickness in style. I
wasn't able to spake a word, you persave, till we got far enough from
the house to give Miss Oona time to hide herself. Oh, thin, the robbin'
villin how he put the muzzle of his gun to the lock of Miss Oona's desk,
when he couldn't get the key, an' blewn it to pieces, an' thin he took
every fardin' he could lay his hands upon.”
She then detailed her own feelings during the abduction, in terms so
ludicrously abusive of Flanagan, that those who accompanied her were
exceedingly amused; for what she said was strongly provocative of mirth,
yet the chief cause of laughter lay in the vehement sincerity with which
she spoke, and in the utter unconsciousness of uttering anything that
was calculated to excite a smile. There is, however, a class of such
persons, whose power of provoking laughter consists in the utter
absence of humor. Those I speak of never laugh either at what they say
themselves, or what any one else may say; but they drive on right ahead
with an inverted originality that is perfectly irresistible.
We must now beg the reader to accompany them to the Bodagh's, where a
scene awaited them for which they were scarcely prepared. On approaching
the house they could perceive, by the light glittering from the window
chinks, that the family were in a state of alarm; but at this they
were not surprised; for such a commotion in the house, after what had
occurred, was but natural. They went directly to the kitchen door and
rapped.
“Who is there?” said a voice within.
“It's Biddy; for the love o' God make haste, Kitty, an' open.”
“What Biddy are you? I won't open.”
“Biddy Nulty. You know me well enough, Kitty; so make haste an' open,
Alick, mark my words,” said she in a low voice to her brother, “Kitty's
the very one that practised the desate this night--that left the
hall-door open. Make haste, Kitty, I say.”
“I'll do no such thing indeed,” replied the other; “it was you left the
hall-door open to-night, an' I heard you spakin' to fellows outside. I
have too much regard for my masther's house an' family to let you or any
one else in to-night. Come in the mornin'.”
“Folly me, Alick,” said Biddy, “folly me.”
She went immediately to the hall-door, and gave such a single rap with
the knocker, as brought more than Kitty to the door.
“Who's there?” inquired a voice, which she and her brother at once knew
to be Ned M'Cormick's.
“Ned, for the love o' God, let me an' Alick in!” she replied; “we got
away from that netarnal villin.”
Instantly the door was opened, and the first thing Ned did was to put
his arms about Biddy's neck, and--we were going to say kiss her.
“Saints above!” said he, “what's this?” on seeing that her face was
dreadfully disfigured with blood.
“Nothin' to signify,” she replied; “but thanks be to God, we got clane
away from the villin, or be the Padheren Partha, the villin it was that
got clane away from hus. How is Miss Oona?”
“She went over to a neighbor's house for safety,” replied Ned, smiling,
“an' will be back in a few minutes; but who do you think, above all men
in the five quarters o' the earth, we have got widin? Guess now.”
“Who?” said Biddy; “why, I dunna, save--but no, it couldn't.”
“Faix but it could, though,” said Ned, mistaking her, as the matter
turned out.
“Why, vick na hoiah, no! Connor O'Donovan back! Oh! no, no, Ned; that
'ud be too good news to be thrue.”
The honest lad shook his head with an expression of regret that could
not be mistaken as the exponent of a sterling heart. And yet, that the
reader may perceive how near akin that one circumstance was to the other
in his mind, we have only to say, that whilst the regret for Connor was
deeply engraven on his features, yet the expression of triumph was as
clearly legible as if his name had not been at all mentioned.
“Who, then, Ned?” said Alick. “Who the dickens is it?”
“Why, divil resave the other than Bartle Flanagan himself--secured--and
the constables sent for--an' plaze the Saver he'll be in the stone jug
afore his head gets gray any how, the black-hearted villin!”
It was even so; and the circumstances accounting for it are very simple.
Flanagan, having mounted one of the horses, made the best of his way
from what he apprehended was likely to become a scene of deadly strife.
Such was the nature of the road, however, that anything like a rapid
pace was out of the question. When he had got over about half the boreen
he was accosted in the significant terms of the Ribbon password of that
day.
“Good morrow!”
“Good morrow mornin' to you!”
“Arrah what Age may you be, neighbor?”
Now the correct words were, “What Age are we in?” (* This order or
throng of the Ages is taken from Pastorini) but they were often slightly
changed, sometimes through ignorance and sometimes from design, as in
the latter case less liable to remark when addressed to persons not
_up_.
“In the end of the Fifth,” was the reply.
“An' if you wor shakin' hands wid a friend, how would you do it? Or
stay--all's right so far--but give us a grip of your cham ahas (right
hand).”
Flanagan, who apprehended pursuit, was too cautious to trust himself
within reach of any one coming from the direction in which the Bodagh
lived. He made no reply, therefore, to this, but urged his horse
forward, and attempted to get clear of his catechist.
“Dhar Dhegh! it's Flanagan,” said a voice which was that of Alick Nulty;
and the next moment the equestrian was stretched in the mud, by a heavy
blow from the but of a carbine. Nearly a score of men were immediately
about him; for the party he met on his return were the Bodagh's son, his
servants, and such of the cottiers as lived near enough to be called up
to the rescue. On finding himself secured, he lost all presence of mind,
and almost all consciousness of his situation.
“I'm gone,” said he; “I'm a lost man; all Europe can't save my life.
Don't kill me, boys; don't kill me; I'll go wid yez quietly--only, if I
am to die, let me die by the laws of the land.”
“The laws of the land?” said John O'Brien; “oh, little, Bartle Flanagan,
you respected them. You needn' be alarmed now--you are safe here--to the
laws of the land we will leave you; and by them you must stand or fall.”
Bartle Flanagan, we need scarcely say, was well guarded until a posse
of constables should arrive to take him into custody. But, in the mean
time, a large and increasing party sat up in the house of the worthy
Bodagh; for the neighbors had been alarmed, and came flocking to his
aid. 'Tis true, the danger was now over; but the kind Bodagh, thankful
in his heart to the Almighty for the escape of his daughter, would not
let them go without first partaking of his hospitality. His wife, too,
for the same reason, was in a flutter of delight; and as her heart was
as Irish as her husband's, and consequently as hospitable, so did
she stir about, and work, and order right and left until abundant
refreshments were smoking on the table. Nor was the gentle and
melancholy Una herself, now that the snake was at all events scotched,
averse to show herself among them--for so they would have it. Biddy
Nulty had washed her face; and, notwithstanding the poultice of
stirabout which her mistress with her own hands applied to her wound,
she really was the most interesting person present, in consequence of
her heroism during the recent outrage. After a glass of punch had gone
round, she waxed inveterately eloquent, indeed, so much so that the
mourner, the colleen dhas dhun, herself was more than once forced to
smile, and in some instances fairly to laugh at the odd grotesque spirit
of her descriptions.
“The rascal was quick!” said the Bodagh, “but upon my credit, Biddy,
you wor a pop afore him for all that. Divil a thing I, or John, or
the others, could do wid only one gun an' a case o' pistols against so
many--still we would have fought life or death for poor Una anyhow.
But Biddy, here, good girl, by her cleverness and invention saved us the
danger, an' maybe was the manes of savin' some of our lives or theirs.
God knows I'd have no relish to be shot myself,” said the pacific
Bodagh, “nor would I ever have a day or night's pace if I had the blood
of a fellow-crathur on my sowl--upon my sowl I wouldn't.”
“But, blood alive, masther, what could I 'a' done only for Ned
M'Cormick, that gave us the hard word?” said Biddy, anxious to transfer
the merit of the transaction to her lover.
“Well, well, Bid,” replied the Bodagh, “maybe neither Ned nor yourself
will be a loser by it. If you're bent on layin' your heads together
we'll find you a weddin' present, anyway.”
“Bedad, sir, I'm puzzled to know how they got in so aisy,” said Ned.
“That matter remains to be cleared up yet,” said John. “There is
certainly treachery in the camp somewhere.”
“I am cock sure the hall--door was not latched,” said Duffy; “for they
had neither stop nor stay at it.”
“There is a villing among us sartainly,” observed Mrs. O'Brien; “for
as heaving is above me, I locked it wid my own two hands this blessed
night.”
“I thought it might be wid the kay, Bridget,” said the Bodagh, laughing
at his own easy joke; “for you see, doors is ginerally locked wid
kays--ha! ha! ha!”
“Faix, but had Oona been tuck away tonight wid that vag o' the world,
it's not laughin' you'd be.”
“God, He sees, that's only thruth, too, Bridget,” he replied; “but
still there's some rogue about the place that opened the door for the
villins.”
“_Dar ma chuirp_, I'll hould goold I put the saddle on the right horse
in no time,” said Biddy. “Misthress, will you call Kitty Lowry, ma'am,
i' you plase? Ill do everything above boord; no behind backs for me;
blazes to the one alive hates foul play more nor I do.”
We ought to have observed that one of Biddy's peculiarities was a more
than usual readiness at letting fly, and not unfrequently at giving an
oath; and as her character presented a strange compound of simplicity
and cleverness, honesty and adroitness, her master and mistress, and
fellow-servants, were frequently amused by this unfeminine propensity.
For instance, if Una happened to ask her, “Biddy, did you iron the
linen?” her usual reply was, “No, blast the iron, miss, I hadn't time.”
Of course the family did everything in their power to discourage such
a practice; but on this point they found it impossible to reform her.
Kitty Lowry's countenance, when she appeared, certainly presented strong
indications of guilt; but still there was a hardness of outline about
it which gave promise at the same time of the most intrepid assurance.
Biddy, on the. other hand, was brimful of consequence, and a sense
of authority, on finding that the judicial power was on this occasion
entrusted chiefly to her hands. She rose up when Kitty entered, and
stuck a pair of red formidable fists with great energy into her sides.
“Pray ma'am,” said she, “what's the raisin' you refused to let me in
to-night, afther gettin' away wid my life from that netarnal blackguard,
Bartle Flanagan--what's the raisin I say, ma'am, that you kep' me out
afther you knewn who was in it?”
There was here visible a slight vibration of the head, rather gentle
at the beginning, but clearly prophetic of ultimate energy, and an
unequivocal determination to enforce whatever she might say with
suitable action even in its widest sense.
“An' pray, ma'am,” said the other, for however paradoxical it may
appear, it is an established case that in all such displays between
women, politeness usually keeps pace with scurrility; “An' pray, ma'am,”
replied Kitty, “is it to the likes o' you we're to say our catechize?”
Biddy was resolved not to be outdone in politeness, and replied--
“Af you plaise, ma'am,” with a courtesy.
“Lord protect us! what will we hear next, I wondher? Well, ma'am?” Here
her antagonist stood, evidently waiting for the onset.
“You'll hear more than'll go down your back pleasant afore I've done wid
you, ma'am.”
“Don't be makin' us long for it in the mane time, Miss Biddy.”
“You didn't answer my question, Miss Kitty. Why did you refuse to let me
in tonight?”
“For good raisons--bekase I--hard you cologgin' an' whisperin' wid a
pack of fellows without.”
“An' have you the brass to say so, knowin' that it's false an' a lie
into the bargain?” (Head energetically shaken.)
“Have I the brass, is it? I keep my brass in my pocket, ma'am, not in
my face, like some of our friends.” (Head shaken in reply to the action
displayed by Kitty.)
This was a sharp retort; but it was very well returned.
“Thank you, ma'am,” replied Biddy, “if it's faces you're spakin' about,
I know you're able to outface me any day; but whatever's in my face
there's no desate in my heart, Miss Lowry. Put that in your pocket.”
(One triumphant shake of the head at the conclusion.)
“There's as much in your heart as'll shame your face, yet, Miss Nulty.
Put that in yours.” (Another triumphant shake of the head.)
“Thank God,” retorted Biddy, “none o' my friends ever knewn what a
shamed face is. I say, madam, none o' _my_ family iver wore a shamed
face. _Thiguthu shin?_” (Do you understand that? )
This, indeed, was a bitter hit; for the reader must know that a sister
of Lowry's had not passed through the world without the breath of
slander tarnishing her fair fame.
“Oh, it's well known your tongue's no slander, Biddy.”
“Thin that's more than can be said of yours, Kitty.”
“If my sisther met with a misfortune, it was many a betther woman's case
than ever you'll be. Don't shout till you get out of the wood, ma'am.
You dunna what's afore yourself. Any how, it's not be lettin' fellows
into the masther's kitchen whiff the family's in bed, an' dhrinkin'
whiskey wid them, that'll get you through the world wid your character
safe. * * * An' you're nothin' but a barge, or you'd not dhraw down
my sisther's name that never did you an ill turn, whatever she did to
herself, poor girl!”
“An' do you dar' for to call me a barge? * * * * Blast your insurance!
be this an' be that, for a farden I'd malivogue the devil out o' you.”
“We're not puttin' it past you, madam, you're blaggard enough to fight
like a man; but we're not goin' to make a blaggard an' a bully of
ourselves, in the mane time.”
[The conversation, of which we are giving a very imperfect report, was
garnished by both ladies with sundry vituperative epithets, which it
would be inconsistent with the dignity of our history to record.]
“That's bekase you haven't the blood of a hen in you * * * sure we know
what you are! But howld! be me sowl, you're doin' me for all that. Ah,
ha! I see where you're ladin' me; but it won't do, Miss Kitty Lowry.
I'll bring you back to the catechize agin. You'd light the straw to get
away in the smoke; but you're worth two gone people yet, dhough.”
“Worth half a dozen o' you, any day.”
“Well, as we're both to the fore, we'll soon see that. How did you know,
my lady, that the masther's hall door was left open to-night? Answer me
that, on the nail!”
This was what might be very properly called a knock-down blow; for if
the reader but reflects a moment he will see that Kitty, on taxing her
antagonist, after her rescue, with leaving it open, directly betrayed
herself, as there was and could have been no one in the house cognizant
of the fact at the time unless the guilty person. With this latter
exception, Alick Nulty was the, only individual aware of it, and
from whom the knowledge of it could come. Kitty, therefore, by her
over-anxiety to exculpate herself from a charge which had not been made,
became the unconscious instrument I of disclosing the fact of her having
left the door open.
This trying query, coming upon her unexpectedly as it did, threw her
into palpable confusion. Her face became at once suffused with a deep
scarlet hue, occasioned by mingled shame and resentment, as was at once
evident from the malignant and fiery glare which she turned upon her
querist.
“Get out,” she replied; “do you think I'd think it worth my while to
answer the likes o' you? I'd see you farther than I could look first.
You, indeed! faugh! musha bad luck to your impidence!”
“Oh, i' you plaise, ma'am,” said Biddy, dropping a courtesy, that
might well be termed the very pink of politeness--“we hope you'll show
yourself a betther Christin than to be ignorant o' your catechize. So.
ma'am, if it 'ud be plaisin' to you afore the company maybe you'd answer
it.”
“Who made you my misthress, you blaggard flipe? who gave you authority
to ax me sich a question?” replied the other. “A fellow-servant like
myself! to the devil I pitch you. You, indeed! Faix, it's well come up
wid the likes o' you to ballyrag over me.”
“Well, but ma'am dear, will you answer--that is, i' you plaise, for sure
we can't forget our manners, you know--will you jist answer what I
axed you? Oh, be me cowl, your face condimns you, my lady!” said Biddy,
abruptly changing her tone; “it does, you yolla Mullatty, it does. You
bethrayed the masther's house, an' Miss Oona, too, you villin o' blazes!
If you could see your face now--your guilty face!”
The spirit of her antagonist, being that of a woman, could bear no more.
The last words were scarcely uttered, when Lowry made a spring like a
tigress at her opponent, who, however, received this onset with a skill
and intrepidity worthy of Penthesilea herself. They were immediately
separated, but not until they had twisted and twined about one another
two or three times, after which, each displayed, by way of a trophy, a
copious handful of hair that had changed proprietor-ship during their
brief but energetic conflict.
In addition to this, there were visible on Kitty's face five small
streams of liquid gore, which, no doubt, would have been found to
correspond with the red expanded talons of her antagonist.
John O'Brien then put the question seriously to Lowry, who, now that
her blood was up, or probably feeling that she had betrayed herself,
declined to answer it at all.
“I'll answer nothin' I don't like,” she replied, “an' I'll not be
ballyraged by any one--not even by you, Misther John; an' what's more,
I'll lave the sarvice at the shriek o' day to-morrow. I wouldn't live in
the house wid that one; my life 'udn't be safe undher the wan roof wid
her.”
“Thin you'll get no carrecther from any one here,” said Mrs. O'Brien;
“for, indeed, any way, there was never a minute's peace in the kitchen
since you came into it.”
“Divil cares,” she replied, with a toss of her head; “if I don't, I must
only live widout it, and will, I hope.”
She then flounced out of the room, and kept grumbling in an insolent
tone of voice, until she got to her bed. Alick Nulty then detailed all
the circumstances he had witnessed, by which it appeared unquestionable
that Kitty Lowry had been aware of Flanagan's design, and was
consequently one of his accomplices. This in one sense was true, whilst
in another and the worst they did her injustice. It is true that Bartle
Flanagan pretended affection for her, and contrived on many occasions
within the preceding five months, that several secret meetings should
take place between them, and almost always upon a Sunday, which was
the only day she had any opportunity of seeing him. He had no notion,
however, of entrusting her with his secret. In fact, no man could
possibly lay his plans with deeper design or more ingenious precaution
for his own safety than Flanagan. Having gained a promise from the
credulous girl to elope with him on the night in question, he easily
induced her to leave the hall door open. His exploit, however, having
turned out so different in its issue from that which Kitty expected,
she felt both chagrined and confounded, and knew not at first whether to
ascribe the abduction of Biddy Nulty to mistake or design; for, indeed,
she was not ignorant of Flanagan's treacherous conduct to the sex--no
female having ever repulsed him, whose character he did not injure
whenever he could do so with safety. Biddy's return, however, satisfied
her that Bartle must have made a blunder of some kind, or he would not
have taken away her fellow-servant instead of herself; and it was the
bitterness which weak minds always feel when their own wishes happen to
be disappointed, that prompted her resentment against poor Biddy, who
was unconsciously its object. Flanagan's primary intention was still,
however, in some degree, effected, so far as it regarded the abduction.
The short space of an hour gave him time to cool and collect himself
sufficiently to form the best mode of action under the circumstances.
He resolved, therefore, to plead mistake, and to produce Kitty Lowry
to prove that his visit that night to the Bodagh's house was merely to
fulfil their mutual promise of eloping together.
But there was the robbery staring him in the face; and how was he to
manage that? This, indeed, was the point on which the accomplished
villain felt by the sinking of his heart that he had overshot his mark.
When he looked closely into it, his whole frame became cold and feeble
from despair, the hard paleness of mental suffering settled upon his
face, and his brain was stunned by a stupor which almost destroyed the
power of thinking.
All this, however, availed him not. Before twelve o'clock the next day
informations had been sworn against him, and at the hour of three
he found himself in the very room which had been assigned to Connor
O'Donovan, sinking under the double charge of abduction and robbery.
And now once more did the mutability of public feeling and opinion as
usual become apparent. No sooner had fame spread abroad the report of
Flanagan's two-fold crime, and his imprisonment, than those very people
who had only a day or two before inferred that Connor O'Donovan was
guilty, because his accuser's conduct continued correct and blameless,
now changed their tone, and insisted that the hand of God was visible in
Flanagan's punishment. Again were all the dark traits of his character
dragged forward and exposed; and this man reminded that man, as that man
did some other man, that he had said more than once that Bartle Flanagan
would be hanged for swearing away an innocent young man's life. Such,
however, without reference to truth or justice, is public opinion among
a great body of the people, who are swayed by their feelings only,
instead of their judgment. The lower public will, as a matter of course,
feel at random upon everything, and like a fortuneteller, it will for
that reason, and for that only, sometimes be found on the right side.
From the time which elapsed between the period of Bartle's imprisonment
and that of his trial, many strange circumstances occurred in connection
with it, of which the public at large were completely ignorant. Bartle
was now at the mercy of a man who had been long looked upon with a
spirit of detestation and vengeance by those illegal confederations with
which he had uniformly declined to associate himself. Flanagan's
party, therefore, had now only two methods of serving him, one was
intimidation, and the other a general subscription among the various
lodges of the district, to raise funds for his defence. To both of these
means they were resolved to have recourse.
Many private meetings they held among themselves upon those important
matters, at which Dandy Duff and Ned M'Cormick attended, as was their
duty; and well was it for them the part they took in defeating Bartle
Flanagan, and serving the Bodagh and his family, was unknown to their
confederates. To detail the proceedings of their meetings, and recount
the savage and vindictive ferocity of such men, would be pacing the
taste and humanity of our readers a bad compliment. It is enough to say
that a fund was raised for Flanagan's defence, and a threatening
notice written to be pasted on the Bodagh Buie's door--of which elegant
production the following is a literal copy:--
“Buddha Bee--You 'ave wan iv our boys in for abjection an' rubbry--an'
it seems is resolved to parsequte the poor boy at the nuxt 'Shizers--now
dhis is be way av a dalikit hint to yew an' yoos that aff butt wan spudh
av his blud is spiled in quensequence av yewr parsequtin' im as the
winther's comin' on an' the wether gettin' cowld an' the long nights
settin' in yew may as well prapare yewr caughin an' not that same
remimber you've a praty dother an may no more about her afore you much
shoulder.
“Simon Pettier Staeught.”
This and several others of the same class were served upon the Bodagh,
with the intention of intimidating him from the prosecution of Flanagan.
They had, however, quite mistaken their man. The Bodagh, though
peaceable and placable, had not one atom of the coward in his whole
composition. On the contrary, he was not only resolute in resisting
what he conceived to be oppressive or unjust, but he was also immovably
obstinate in anything wherein he fancied he had right on his side. And
even had his disposition been inclined to timidity or pliancy, his son
John would have used all his influence to induce him to resist a system
which is equally opposed to the laws of God and of man, as well as to
the temporal happiness of those who are slaves to the terrible power
which, like a familiar devil, it exercises over its victims under the
hollow promise of protection.