MISS MACDERMOT AT HOME.
At any rate the priest's admonitions had this effect on Thady, that
when he came in to breakfast after his morning avocations, he spoke
to Feemy, whom he had not seen since their stormy interview of
yesterday, with kindness, and, for him, gentleness. But she seemed
only half inclined to accept the proffered olive branch. Thady's
morning salutations couldn't go far towards putting a young girl
in good humour, for even now that he meant to be gracious it was
only--"Well, Feemy, how's yourself this morning; and will you be
ready for Mary Brady's wedding?" But her answer--"Oh, in course;
will you take your breakfast there?" showed him that she had not
forgiven his aspersions against her lover, and the breakfast passed
over in silence, with the exception of Larry's usual growls. Thady,
therefore, when he had swallowed his potatoes and milk, betook
himself again to Pat Brady and the fields. Larry was left alone to
sleep, if he could, over the fire, and Feemy betook herself to her
own parlour, and proceeded to penetrate farther into the mysteries of
the "Mysterious Assassin."
There she sat--a striking contradiction of that proverb which we so
often quote with reference to young ladies, and which so seldom can
be quoted with truth, "Beauty unadorned, adorned the most."
Ussher would not come till the evening, and her hair was therefore in
papers--and the very papers themselves looked soiled and often used.
Her back hair had been hastily fastened up with a bit of old black
ribbon and a comb boasting only two teeth, and the short hairs
round the bottom of her well-turned head were jagged and uneven, as
though bristling with anger at the want of that attention which they
required. She had no collar on, but a tippet of different material
and colour from her frock was thrown over her shoulders. Her dress
itself was the very picture of untidiness; it looked as though it had
never seen a mangle; the sleeves drooped down, hanging despondingly
below her elbows; and the tuck of her frock was all ripped and
torn--she had trod on it, or some one else had done it for her,
and she had not been at the trouble of mending it. It was also too
tight, or else Feemy had not fastened it properly, for a dreadful
gap appeared in the back, showing some article beneath which was by
no means as white as it should be;--"but then, wasn't it only her
morning frock?" In front of it, too, was a streaked mark of grease,
the long since deposited remains of some of her culinary labours.
Her feet were stuffed into slippers--truth compels me to say they
would more properly be called shoes down at heel--her stockings were
wofully dirty, and, horror of all horrors, out at the heels! There
she sat, with her feet on the fender, her face on her hands, and
her elbows on her knees, with her thumb-worn novel lying in her lap
between them.
There she sat; how little like the girl that had eclipsed Mary
Cassidy at the ball at Mohill! Poor though Feemy was, she could make
out a dress, and a handsome dress, for such an occasion as that. Then
every hair on her fine head had been in its place; the curls of her
rich brown hair were enough to win the heart of any man; the collar
round her fair neck had been beautifully washed and ironed, for her
own hands had been at work on it half the morning; her white long
gloves had been new and well fitting, and her only pair of silk
stockings had been scrupulously neat; her dress fitted her fine
person as though made by Carson, and she had walked as though she
knew she need not be ashamed of herself. But now how great was the
contrast!
No girls know better how to dress themselves than Irish girls, or can
do it with less assistance or less expense; but they are too much
given to morning dishevelment. If they would only remember that the
change in a man's opinion and mind respecting a girl will often take
place as quick as the change in her appearance, and that the contrast
will be quite as striking, they would be more particular. And they
never can be sure of themselves, take what precautions they will.
Lovers will drop in at most unseasonable hours; they have messages to
deliver, plans to propose, or leave to take. They can never be kept
out with certainty, and all the good done by a series of brilliant
evenings--satin dresses, new flowers for the hair, expensive
patterns, and tediously finished toilets--may be, and often is,
suddenly counteracted by one untidy head, soiled dress, or dirty
stocking.
I will, however, return to my story. There sat Feemy, apparently
perfectly contented with her appearance and occupation, till a tap at
the door disturbed her, and in walked Mary Brady, the bride elect.
"Well, Miss Feemy, and how's your beautiful self this morning?"
"And how are you, Mary, now the time is coming so near?"
Mary Brady was a very tall woman, being about the same height as her
brother, thirty or thirty-three years of age, with a plain, though
good-humoured looking face, over which her coarse hair was divided on
the left temple. She had long ungainly limbs, and was very awkward
in the use of them, and though not absolutely disagreeable in her
appearance, she was so nearly so, that she would hardly have got
married without the assistance of the "two small pigs, and thrifle
of change," which had given her charms in the eyes both of Ginty and
Denis McGovery.
"Oh! Miss Feemy, and I'm fretting so these two days, that is, ever
since Denis said it was to be this blessed day,--the Lord help
me!--and I with it all on my shouldhers, and the divil a one to lend
a hand the laste taste in life."
"Why, Mary, what can there be so much to do at all?"
"Och! then, hadn't I my white dress to get made, and the pair of
sheets to get hemmed, for Denis said his'n warn't large enough for
him and I,"--and here the Amazon gave a grin of modesty,--"and you
know it was part of the bargain, I was to have a pair of new sheets"
(Denis had kept this back from Father John in his inventory of his
bride's fortune); "and isn't there the supper to get ready, and the
things, and the house to ready and all!--and then when I'd done that,
it war all for nothing, for the wedding isn't to be at Pat's at all."
"The wedding not to be at Brady's, where is it to be then?"
"Oh, jist at Mrs. Mehan's shop below, at the loch."
"Oh, that's better still, Mary; we won't have so far to go in the
mud."
"That's jist what the boys war saying, Miss; and there be so much
more room, and there be so many to be in it, they couldn't all be in
it, at all at all, at home. So you see we is to be married in the
room inside, where the two beds is, and they is to come out of it,
and the supper is to be there, Miss, you see, and the most of the
dhrinking, and then we'll have the big kitchen comfortable to
oursells for the music and the dancing. And what do you think! Pat
has got Shamus na Pe'bria, all the ways out of County Mayo, him that
makes all the pipes through the counthry, Miss; and did the music
about O'Connell all out of his own head, Miss. Oh, it 'll be the most
illigant wedding intirely, Miss, anywhere through the counthry, this
long time back! When one is to be married, it's as well to do it
dacently as not; arn't it, Miss?"
"Oh! that it is Mary, and yours 'll be quite a dash."
"Yours 'll be the next, you know, Miss Feemy, and that will be the
wedding! But there's one thing that bothers me intirely."
"Well, out with it at once, Mary; I suppose you want to borrow the
plates, and knives, and forks, and things?"
"Oh, that's in course, Miss Feemy; and it's very good in you to be
offering them that way before I axed the loan of them at all; but
that ain't all. You see I'm so bothered intirely with them big
sheets, and they not half finished, and not a taste in life done
to the cap of me yet, and the pratees and vegetables to get ready,
and the things to dress, and not a sowl to lend me a hand at all,
unless jist Mrs. Mehan's bit of a girl, and she's busy readying the
rooms; and so, Miss Feemy, if you'd jist let Biddy slip up for the
afthernoon,--you know Katty could be doing for you down here,--and
then, Miss, I'd be made intirely."
"Well, Mary, I suppose she must go up then; one thing's certain, you
can't be getting married every day."
"Why no, Miss, that is sartain; for even if Denis were to die away
like,--as in course he must one day, for he ain't quite so young
now,--I would have to be waiting a little, Miss, before I got my
second."
Mary Brady had been above thirty years getting one husband; she was,
therefore, probably right as to the delay she might experience in
obtaining a second.
"Well, Mary, Biddy may go with you."
"Long life to you, Miss; and about the things then you know--the
plates, and the knives, and the glasses?"
"Oh! Mary, I'll not have you bringing the glasses down there at all;
sure Mrs. Mehan's glasses enough of her own, and she selling whiskey.
You may take the knives, and the forks, and the plates; though you
must leave us enough for ourselves--and there an't so many of them in
it after all."
"Well, Miss Feemy, that's very good of you now. And you'll be
bringing your own sweetheart with you, won't you, dear?--and it's I'd
be sorry you'd be at my wedding, and no one fit to dance with your
father's daughter."
"Oh! if you mean Captain Ussher, he told me Pat asked him himself,
and he'd sure be there."
"And who else should I main, alanna; sure isn't he your own beau, and
ain't you to be married to him, Miss Feemy?"
"Nonsense, Mary."
"Well, now, but sure you wouldn't be ashamed of telling me--isn't you
going to have him, Miss?"
"But musn't I wait to be asked, like another?--Sure, Mary, you didn't
go asking Denis McGovery, did you?"
"No, then, indeed I didn't, darling; and glad enough he was to be
axing me."
"Well, and musn't I be the same?"
"Oh! in course; but, Miss Feemy, the Captain's been up here coorting
at Ballycloran now these six months; sure he axed you before this,
Miss Feemy?"
Feemy was rather puzzled; she didn't like to say she was not engaged;
she had a presentiment Mary Brady was fishing to find out if the
report about the Captain's inconstancy was true, and as matters stood
she did not exactly like to say that the affair was arranged.
"Well, Mary, then I'll tell you exactly how it is--but mind, I don't
want it talked about yet for rasons; so you won't say anything about
it if I tell you?"
"Och then! is it I? Sorrow a word in life shall any one be the better
av me, and you know, Miss Feemy, I wouldn't tell you a lie for
worlds."
"Well, then, it's jist this way--I and the Captain is engaged, but
there's rasons for him why we couldn't be married just immediately;
so you see that's why I don't want it talked about."
"Ah! well dear, I knew there was something av that in it, and a nice
handsome gentleman like the Captain wouldn't be trating the likes of
you that way."
"What way, Mary?"
"Why they do be saying--"
"Who do be saying?"
"Why, jist through the counthry,--people you know, Miss, who must
always have their gag; they do be saying--that's only some of them
you know, Miss, who don't be quite frindly to Ballycloran--that the
Captain don't main to be married at all, and is only playing his
tricks with you, and that he's a schamer. But I knew you wouldn't be
letting him go on that way, and so I said to Pat."
Feemy didn't quite like all this--it was a corroboration of what her
brother had said; for though the Captain had certainly promised to
marry her, he had never thought it necessary to ask her. She knew the
matter did not rest on a proper footing; and though she was hardly
aware of it, she felt the indignity of the probability of being
jilted being talked over by such persons as Pat Brady.
"Your brother, Mary, might have saved himself the throuble of telling
lies about either the Captain or me; not of course that I care."
"Oh! it warn't Pat, Miss, said it, only he heard it you know, Miss,
through the counthry."
"Well, it don't signify who said it, but don't you be repeating what
I told you."
"Is it I, Miss? Sorrow a word, Miss, will any one hear from me av it.
Would I tell a lie about it? But I'll be glad to see the day you're
married, for that'll be the great wedding through the counthry.--Oh
laws!"
This exclamation was not a part of the last speech, but was a kind of
long-drawn, melancholy sigh, which did not take place for some minute
or two after she had done speaking, during which time Feemy had been
thinking of her own affairs, quite forgetful of Mary Brady and her
wedding.
"My! Mary, what are you sighing about?"
"Well then, Miss Feemy, and isn't it a dreadful thing to be laving
one's home, and one's frinds like, and to be going right away into
another house intirely, Miss; and altogether the thoughts of what is
the married life at all frets me greatly."
"Why, you needn't be married unless you like it, Mary."
"Oh! Miss Feemy, that's in course too; but then a young woman is
behove to do something for her family."
"But you haven't a family, you know, Mary, now."
"No, but Miss Feemy alanna, you know the chances is I shall have now
I'm to be married; and it's for them, the little innocents, I does
it."
The strength of this argument did not exactly strike Feemy, but she
thought it was all right, and said nothing.
"And then the throubles of a married life, darling,--supposing them
is too many for me, what'll I do at all? I wonder, Miss Feemy, will I
get any sleep at all?"
"Indeed, Mary, I was never married; but why shouldn't you sleep?"
"'Deed then, Miss, I don't jist know, but they do be saying that
Denis is so noisy at nights, a-shoeing all the cattle over again as
he shod in the day, and counting the money; and you see, av he was
hammering away the blessed live-long night that way, maybe I'd be
hurted."
"It's too late for you to think of that now; but he'll be quieter
than that, I should think, when you're with him."
"Maybe he will, Miss; and as you say, I couldn't dacently be off it
now. But thin--oh laws!--I'm thinking what will poor Pat be doing
without me, and no one in it at all to bile the pratees and feed the
pigs--the craturs!"
"That's nonsense, Mary--you and he was always fighting; he'll have
more peace in it when you're gone."
"That's thrue for you, Miss, sartanly, and that's what breaks the
heart of me intirely. Too much pace isn't good for Pat, no how; he'll
never do no good, you'll see, when he comes to have so much of his
own way. 'Deed then, the heart's low within me, to be laving Pat this
way!" And Miss Brady put the tail of her gown into the corner of her
eye.
"But Mary, you'll have to be caring more for your husband now. I
suppose you love Denis McGovery, don't you? I'd never marry a man
unless I loved him."
"Oh! that's in course--I do love him; why wouldn't I? for he has a
nice little room all dacently furnished for any young woman to go
into--besides the shop; and he never has the horses at all into the
one we sleeps in, as is to be. And he's a handful of money, and can
make any woman comfortable; and in course I love him--so I do. But
what's the use of loving a man, if he's to be hammering away at a
horseshoe all night?"
"Oh, they're making game of you--they are, Mary; depend upon it, when
he's tired working all day, he'll sleep sound enough."
"Well, I s'poses he will; but now, Miss Feemy, I wonder is he a quiet
sort of man? will he be fighting at all, do you think?"
"Really then, I can't tell; but even if he does, they say you can
take your own part pretty well, when it's necessary."
"For the matter of that, so I can; and I don't mind a scrimmage jist
now and again--sich as I and Pat have--av it's only to show I won't
be put under; but they do say Denis is very sthrong. I don't think
I'd ever have had him, av' I'd known afore he'd been so mortial
sthrong."
"Well, that's all too late now for you to be talking of; and take my
advice, Mary, don't be fighting with him at all if you can help it;
for from what people say of him I think your husband, as will be,
sticks mostly to his own way, and I don't think he'll let his wife
interfere. But he's a hard-working man, and it'll be a great comfort
to you that you'll never see your children wanting."
"Oh, the childhren, the little dears! it's of them I'm thinking. God
he knows, it's chiefly along of them as makes me do it; but--oh laws!
Miss, it's a dreadful thing to come over one all at once. But it's
a great comfort anyway your letting Biddy come down to ready the
mutton and pratees, and things; and so, Miss, as I've so much to do,
you'll excuse my waiting any longer; and you and Mr. Thady and the
Captain,--for I'm thinking the Masther won't be coming,--'ll not be
down later than sivin, for Father John's to be in it at sivin exact."
"And who's to get the kiss, Mary?"
"Oh, Miss!"
"The Captain says he'll have a try for it anyway."
"Oh that'd be too much honor intirely, Miss. But av here isn't Father
John coming up the avenue!"
And Mary hurried off into the realms under ground to secure the
willing assistance of Biddy, and Father John's ponderous foot up the
hall steps gave Feemy anything but a pleasant sensation. She was very
fond of Father John too, but somehow, just at present she did not
feel quite pleased to see him.
The doors were all open, and Father John walked into Feemy's boudoir.
However, he was only Father John, and it wasn't her dress therefore
that annoyed her; any dress would do for a priest.
After the common greetings were over, and Father John had asked after
the family, and Feemy had surmised that it was either her father or
her brother that he wished to see, the priest began his task.
"No, Feemy, my dear, it's not your father or your brother I want to
see this turn, but just your own self." And Father John sat himself
down by the fire. "I'm come just to have a little chat with you, and
you musn't be angry with me for meddling with what, perhaps, you'll
say was no business of mine."
This exordium made Feemy's heart palpitate, for she knew it must be
about Captain Ussher, but she only said,
"Oh! no, Father John, I won't be angry with you."
"That's my darling, for you know it's only out of love for you and
Thady that I'm speaking, and a real friend to you can't do you any
harm, if after all you shouldn't take his advice."
"Oh! no, Father John, and I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you."
Father John himself hardly knew how to take the sting from the
rebuke, which he was aware his mission could not but convey; and he
was no less aware, that unless the dose had a little sugar in it, at
any rate to hide its unprepossessing appearance even if it did not
render it palatable, his patient would never take it.
"Thady, you know, was dining with me yesterday, and we were talking
over Ballycloran and old Flannelly's money matters; and I was, you
see, just making a bad tenant's excuses to him, and so on from one
thing to another, till we got talking about you, Feemy;--in short, he
didn't seem quite happy about you."
"I don't know I ever did anything to make him unhappy."
"No, it wasn't anything you had done to make him unhappy, but he is
afraid you ain't happy in yourself; and Feemy, my dear, you should
always remember, that though Thady is rough in his manners, and
perhaps not at all times so gentle in his words as he should be, his
heart is in the right place,--at any rate where you are concerned.
Though maybe he doesn't say so as often as others might, he's a very
fond brother to you."
"And I'm sure I'm always very fond of him--but then he's so queer;
but, Father John, if I've offended Thady, I'll beg his pardon, for
I'm sure I don't want to be out with him."
"I'm sure you don't, Feemy; but that's not exactly it either. Thady's
not the least in life offended with you; he's not at all easy to take
offence, at least not with you; but he doesn't think you are just at
ease with yourself; and to come to the truth at once, he was telling
me what passed between you yesterday."
Feemy blushed up to her paper curls, but she said nothing.
"Now, I'm thinking Thady didn't go about saying what he wanted to say
yesterday, quite the way he should have done, and I am not sure I
shall do it any better myself. But I thought it as well to step up,
as I was certain you'd hear whatever your priest had to say to you."
"I don't think the better of Thady, though, for going and talking
about me. If he'd only let me alone by myself I'd do well enough;
it's all that talking does the harm, Father John."
Father John didn't exactly like to tell Feemy that girls in her
situation were just the people that ought not to be left alone by
themselves,--which probably means being left alone with some one of
their own choosing; and that he was of opinion that she would not
do very well if left alone in that way. That, however, was what he
wished to convey to her.
"Oh, but, my dear, you must think better of Thady for wishing to
protect you as well as he can, and you left alone so much yourself
here. So you know,"--and Father John even blushed a little as he said
it,--"it's about this fine lover of yours we are speaking. Now, my
dear, I've nothing whatever to say against Captain Ussher, for you
know he and I are great cronies; indeed, it's only last night he was
taking his punch with your brother and Cullen down at the cottage--"
"You weren't saying anything to Captain Ussher about me, Father
John?"
"You may take your oath of that, my dear. I respect a lady's secret
a great deal too much for that. No; I was only saying that he was
down at the cottage last night, to prove that he and I are friends,
and it's not out of any prejudice I'm speaking--about his being a
Protestant, and all that; not but that I'd sooner be marrying you to
a good Catholic, Feemy--but that's neither here nor there. But you've
known him now a long time; it's now four months since we all heard
for certain it was to be a match; and, to tell you the truth, my
dear, people are saying that Captain Ussher doesn't mean anything
serious."
"I think they'll dhrive me mad with their talk! And what good will it
do for you and Thady to be coming telling me what they say?"
"This good, Feemy; if what they say is false and unfounded, as I am
sure I hope it is,--and if you're so fond of Captain Ussher,--don't
you think it would be as well to put an end to the report by telling
your father and brother of your being engaged, and settling something
about your marriage, and all that?"
"I did tell my brother I was engaged, Father John; what would you
have?"
"I'll tell you what I'd have. I'd have Captain Ussher ask your father
or brother's consent: there's no doubt, we all know, but he'd get it;
but it's customary, and, in my mind, it would only be decent."
"So he will, I dare say; but mayn't there be rasons why he don't wish
to have it talked about yet?"
"Then, Feemy, in your situation, do you think a long clandestine
engagement is quite the thing for you; is quite prudent?"
"And how can it be clandestine, Father John, when you and Thady, and
every one else almost, knows all about it?"
Feemy's sharpness was too much for Father John, so he had to put it
on another tack.
"Well, Feemy, now just look at the matter this way, one moment:
supposing now--only just for supposition--this lover of yours was not
the sort of man we all take him to be, and that he was to turn out
false, or inconstant; suppose now it turned out he had another wife
somewhere else--"
"Oh, that's nonsense, you know, Father John."
"Yes, but just supposing it,--or that he took some vagary into his
head, and changed his mind! You must have heard of men doing such
things, and why shouldn't your lover as well as another girl's? We're
all likely to be deceived in people, and why mayn't we be as well
deceived in Captain Ussher, as others have been in those they loved
as well? We'll all hope, and think, and believe it's not so; but
isn't it as well to be on the safe side, particularly in so important
a thing as your happiness, Feemy? You wouldn't like it to be said
through the country that you'd been jilted by the handsome captain,
and that you'd been thrown off by your lover as soon as he was tired
of you?"
"And that's thrue for you, Father John; but Myles isn't tired of me,
else why should he be coming up here to see me oftener than ever?"
"But it's that he never may be tired of you, Feemy; take my word for
it, he'll respect you a great deal more if you'll show more respect
to yourself."
"Well, Father John, and what is it you'd have me be doing?"
"Why, then, I'd just ask him to speak a word to Thady--just to
propose himself in the regular way."
"But Thady hates him so."
"No; Thady don't hate him: he's only jealous lest Captain Ussher
isn't treating you quite as he ought to do."
"But Thady is so queer in his manners; and I know Myles wouldn't like
to be asking leave and permission to be courting me."
"But, Feemy, he must like it; and you shouldn't like your lover the
more for thinking so little of your brother, or, for the matter of
that, of yourself either."
"You know, Father John, I can't help what he thinks of Thady. As to
his thinking of me, I'm quite satisfied with that, and I suppose
that's enough."
Father John was beginning to wax wroth, partly because he was
displeased with Feemy himself, and partly because Feemy answered him
too knowingly.
"Well, then, Feemy, it'll be one of the two: either Captain Ussher
will have to speak to Thady, and settle something about the marriage
in a proper and decent way; or else Thady will be speaking to him.
And now, which do you think will be the best?"
"It's not like you, Father John, to be making Thady quarrel with
Captain Ussher. You know it'd come to a quarrel if Thady was to be
spaking to Myles that way; and he would never think of doing so av
you didn't be putting him up to it."
"And that's little like you, Feemy, to be saying that to your priest;
telling me I put the young men up to be quarrelling: it's to save
you many a heart-ache, and many a sting of sorrow and remorse; it's
to prevent all the evil of unlawful love--bad blood, and false
looks--that I've come here on a most disagreeable and thankless
errand; and now you tell me I'd be putting the young men up to
fight!"
Feemy had, by this time, become sullen, but she didn't dare go
farther with her priest.
"I didn't say you'd be making them fight, Father John. I only said,
if you told Thady not to be meddling with Myles, why, in course, they
wouldn't be quarrelling."
"And how could I tell a brother not to meddle with his sister's
honour, and reputation, and happiness? But now, Feemy, I'll propose
another plan to you. If you don't think my advice on such a subject
likely to be good--and very likely it isn't, for you see I never had
a lover of my own--what do you say to your speaking to your friend,
Mrs. McKeon, about it? Or, if you like, I'll speak to her; and then,
perhaps, you won't be against taking her advice on the subject.
Supposing, now, she was to speak to Captain Ussher--from herself, you
know, as your friend--do you think he'd love the girl that's to be
his wife worse for having a friend that was willing to stand in the
place of a mother to her, when she'd none of her own?"
"Why, I do think it would look odd, Mrs. McKeon meddling with it."
"Well, then, Feemy, what in the blessed name do you mean to do, if
you won't let any of your friends act for you? I think you must be
very much afraid of this lover of yours, when you won't allow any one
speak to him about you. Are you afraid of him, Feemy?"
"Afraid of him?--no, of course I'm not afraid of him; but men don't
like to be bothered about such things."
"That's very true; men, when they're false, and try to deceive young
girls, and are playing their own wicked game with them, do not like
to be bothered about such things. But I never heard of an honest man,
who really wanted to marry a young woman, being bothered by getting
her friends' consent. And you think, then, things should go on just
as they are?"
"Now, Father John, only you've been scolding me so much, I'd have
told you before. I mane to spake to Myles myself to-night, just to
arrange things; and then I won't have Mrs. McKeon cocking over me
that she made up the match."
"There's little danger of that kind, I fear, Feemy, nor would she be
doing so; but if you are actually going to speak to Captain Ussher
yourself to-night, I'll say no more about it now; but I hope you'll
tell Thady to-morrow what passes."
"Oh, Father John, I won't promise that."
"Will you tell me, then, or Mrs. McKeon?"
"Oh, perhaps I'll be telling you, you know, when I come down to
confession at Christmas; but indeed I shan't be telling Mrs. McKeon
anything about it, to go talking over the counthry."
"Then, Feemy, I may as well tell you at once--if you will not trust
to me, to your brother, or any friend who may be able to protect you
from insult--nor prevail on your lover to come forward in a decent
and respectable way, and avow his purpose--it will become your
brother's duty to tell him that his visits can no longer be allowed
at Ballycloran."
"Ballycloran doesn't belong to Thady, and he can't tell him not to
come."
"That's not well said of you, Feemy; for you know your father is
not capable of interfering in this business; but if, as under those
circumstances he will do, Thady quietly and firmly desires Captain
Ussher to stay away from Ballycloran, I think he'll not venture to
come here. If he does, there are those who will still interfere to
prevent him."
"And if among you all, that are so set up against him because he's
not one of your own set, you dhrive him out of Ballycloran, I can
tell you, I'll not remain in it!"
"Then your sins and your sorrows must be on your own head!"
And without saying anything further, Father John took his hat, and
walked off. Feemy snatched her novel into her lap, to show how little
what was said impressed her, and resumed her attitude over the fire.
But she didn't read; her spirit was stubborn and wouldn't bend, but
her reason and her conscience were touched by what the priest had
said to her, and the bitter thought for the first time came over
her, that her lover, perhaps, was not so true to her, as she to him.
There she sat, sorrowfully musing; and though she did not repent of
what she thought her own firmness, she was bitterly tormented by
the doubts with which her brother, Mary Brady, and the priest, had
gradually disturbed her happiness.
She loved Ussher as well as ever--yes, almost more than ever, as the
idea that she might perhaps lose him came across her--but she began
to be discontented with herself, and to think that she had not played
her part as well as she might. In fact, she felt herself to be
miserable, and, for the time, hated her brother and Father John for
having made her so.
Father John walked sorrowfully back to his cottage, thinking Miss
Feemy Macdermot the most stiff-necked young lady it had ever been his
hard lot to meet.