THE SECOND ESCAPE.
For four long hours there he remained, seated on the same stool,
without moving or speaking; and for the same time there sat Andy on
his bed, looking at the fire, and from time to time dragging a few
sods from under the bed to throw them upon the ashes and keep up the
warmth which seemed to be his only comfort. At length Thady thought
it was dark enough, and without saying a word to the old man, he left
the cabin and again descended the hill. He would not return by the
same path by which he had come for fear he should meet Joe or Corney,
or Meg--for he was unwilling that even she should see him escaping
from his hiding-place. By the time that he reached Drumshambo it was
dark, and it continued so till he got to Cashcarrigan, which he did
without meeting any one who either recognised him or spoke to him.
From thence he passed back by the two small lakes and the cabin of
the poor widow who owed her misery to Ussher's energy, and across the
bog of Drumleesh to the lane which would take him by Ballycloran to
Father John's cottage. But before he reached Ballycloran the moon
again rose bright and clear, and as he passed the spot where he more
particularly wished to be shrouded by the darkness, it was so light
that any one passing could not but recognise him.
He pulled his hat far over his forehead, and passed on quickly; but
just as he got to the gateway he met Mary McGovery, who was on the
very point of turning up the avenue to the house. The turn in the
road, exactly at the spot, had prevented him from seeing her before,
and she immediately recognised him.
"Holy Virgin! Mr. Thady," she said; "and is that yerself?"
"Hist, Mary, don't spake so loud--not that I care who spakes now; you
see it's me; and I'm going to the Cottage. Is Father John at home?"
"And what would you do with Father John, now? Don't you know the
police is afther you?"
"What matther? it's not much throuble I'll be giving thim, looking
for me. I'm going to thim myself now."
"An' what for would you do that, Mr. Thady? Don't you know they found
it murdher agin you? We all hoped you were out of the counthry afore
this. What for would you go to the police? Time enough when they
catches you."
This was the first time that Thady had heard that a verdict of murder
had been found against him before the Coroner, and though it was only
what he expected, nevertheless the certainty, now that it reached
him, almost made him change his mind and return to Aughacashel.
The remembrance, however, of that weary day, and the feeling that
even though he were there, he would assuredly be ultimately taken,
strengthened his resolution, and he said,
"No, Mary, I've had enough of running away already. But tell me;
how's Feemy?"
"Why, thin, Mr. Thady, she's nothing much to boast of; since she was
in Carrick, yesterday, she's been very bad intirely."
"What is it ails her? It's--it's that man's death, isn't it, Mary?"
"'Deed, Mr. Thady, I s'pose that war the first on it. Poor young
lady! in course she feels it.--Wouldn't I feel it, av any one was
to knock poor Denis on the head?--not that it's the same thing,
altogether, for the Captain wasn't her lawful wedded husband.--Not
that I'm saying agin you, Mr Thady, for what ye did."
"Never mind about that, Mary; what I've done is my own look out. But
would Feemy see me, do you think?"
"See you, Mr. Thady! How could she see you, an' she in a raging fever
in bed at Mrs. McKeon's? in course she couldn't see you."
"Good God! and is she so bad as that?"
"Faith then, she is, very bad intirely; at laste, Docther Blake says
so."
"It's very well, any way, that she's at Drumsna, instead of here at
Ballycloran. Mrs. McKeon must be a kind woman to take her at such a
time as this. And what's the owld man doing here by himself?"
"He's very quare in his ways, they do be saying; but I didn't see him
meself yet; I'm going down to mind him, meself, this blessed moment."
"Why, isn't the two girls in it still?"
"Yes, they is, Mr. Thady; but they got frighted with the quare ways
the owld man brought back with him from Carrick. He's wake in the
head, they say, Mr. Thady, since he war up afore the gintlemen at
the inquest; an' as the two girls wor frighted with 'im, an' as I
am, maybe, a bit sthronger, an' a thrifle owlder nor they, Father
John said I'd better step down an' mind him a bit; an' when all was
settled, that he would see my expinses war paid."
"Well, Mary, good night! Be kind and gentle with the owld man,
for he's enough on him jist now to unsettle his mind, av it were
sthronger than it iver was; and don't tell him you see me here, for
it would only be making him more onasy."
"Good night, thin, an' God bless you, Mr. Thady," said Mary. "You've
a peck of throubles on yer head, this night," she added to herself,
as she walked up the avenue, "an' it's little you did to desarve 'em,
onless working hard night an' day war a sin. Well, God forgive us!
shure you're betther off still, than the gay man you stretched the
other night;" and she went on to commence her new business--that of
watching and consoling Larry Macdermot in his idiotcy.
Thady pursued his road to the Cottage, without meeting anyone else,
and with some hesitation knocked at the priest's door. His heart
palpitated violently within him as he waited some little time for
an answer. It was about eleven, and he knew that at that hour
Father John would still be up, if he were at home, though Judy
would probably have retired to her slumbers. He was right in his
calculation; for in a short time he heard the heavy step of Father
John in the hall, and then the rusty door-key grated in the lock.
Thady's knees shook beneath him as he listened to the rising latch.
How should he meet Father John's eyes after what he had done? How
should he find words to tell him that he had broken the solemn vow
that he had taken on the holy scriptures, and had, in his first
difficulty, flown to the disreputable security to be found in the
haunts of such men as Joe Reynolds and Dan Kennedy. However, this he
would have to tell him; for the door was now open, and there stood
the priest, with his eyes fixed on Thady's sad face and soiled
appearance.
Thady had not had his clothes off for the last two nights, and they
now bore all the soil and stains of his two midnight walks; his
countenance was pale in the extreme, and, never full or healthy,
now seemed more thin and wan, than forty-eight hours' sorrow could
possibly have made it. He was much fatigued, for his shoes had
become soaked with water in the moist grounds through which he had
passed and repassed, and his feet were blistered with his long and
unaccustomed walks.
When Father John saw him, his heart melted within him at the sight of
the young man's sad and melancholy figure. We already know that from
the moment he had first heard of the catastrophe, he had made excuses
in his own heart for Thady; and when he had heard, as he did at
the inquest, that his sister had been with Ussher when he lifted
his stick against him, he had not only acquitted him in his own
estimation, from anything like the crime of murder, but he also
felt certain that had he been in the same situation, he would most
assuredly have done the same as Thady had done. He had been much
surprised at the Coroner's verdict; he could not think how twelve men
on their oath could call Ussher's death murder, when it so evidently
appeared to him that the man stigmatised by that verdict as a
murderer, had only been actuated by the praiseworthy purpose of
defending his sister from disgrace and violence; and when, moreover,
it was so plain that Thady's presence on the scene at the moment was
accidental, and that the attack could not have been premeditated.
The jurors, however, had not been Thady's friends, as Father John
was, nor were they inclined to look upon such a deed with the same
lenient eyes. It appeared to them that Ussher was not using any
violence to the young lady, who had herself admitted in her evidence,
that she was a willing party to Ussher's proceedings. Doubtless,
there might be circumstances, which at the prisoner's trial would be
properly put forward in palliation of the murder, by his counsel; but
with that the jury before the Coroner could have nothing to do; and
on these considerations, the jurors with very little delay had come
to the conclusion which had so surprised and grieved Father John.
Still, however, he looked forward with almost absolute certainty to
Thady's acquittal at his trial, and was by far more angry with the
young man himself, at his folly in attempting to fly from justice,
than he was at the deed which had put him under its power. Now,
however, when he saw him pale, fatigued, harassed, and in sorrow at
his door, his anger all turned to pity, and the only feeling left in
his bosom led him to think how he could assuage his sufferings and
comfort him in his afflictions.
Thady was the first to speak,--"Father John," he said, "I've come to
give myself up; I thought I'd tell you, as I passed the door."
"Oh my son, my son!" said Father John. "Come in though, Thady, come
in--till we think what's best to do in this sad time;" and they went
again into the little parlour, where so short a time ago Thady had
made the promise which he now had to confess he had broken.
He then gave the priest, by degrees, the whole history of the affair;
he told how the different events had happened; he explained how
Feemy's appearance as she lay fainting in Ussher's arms, and that
man's words to her, when he declared that she must come with him,
had at the moment made him think that she was being dragged away by
violence; and that he had had this conviction on his mind when he
raised his stick to strike. He then told Father John exactly what
he had done since the occurrence, the precautions which he took
respecting the body--the visit which he paid to his father and his
sister, and lastly, how he had fled for the sake of security, and
passed two miserable days among the mountains in Aughacashel.
"Ah! my poor boy," said Father John, "that's what I have to blame
you for. What made you fly there? what made you fly anywhere? why
did you not with an honest face at once place yourself in the hands
of the police, from whom you must know you couldn't have remained
concealed?"
"Oh, Father John, av you could feel all I felt when I first knew the
man was dead--when my own sisther spurned me--and when my father told
me I was a murdherer, you wouldn't wonder at my flying, av it were
only for an hour."
"That's true, my boy--that's very true; and I won't ask you now where
you were, or who were with you--or what folly you may have done
whilst there; for I haven't the heart to blame you for what you've
done in the extremity of your misery. But now, Thady, we must think
of the future; of course you know, that having come to my house, and
having seen me, you must at once place yourself in the hands of the
police."
"In course, Father John; I was only on my way to Carrick when I
called here. In truth, I wanted a kind word from you before they put
me in that horrid place."
"My poor, dear boy, it's little comfort I can give you, except to
tell you that we all think,--that is McKeon and I, and the rest of
us,--that when the trial comes on they must acquit you--any jury must
acquit you; and that till that time comes, you may be sure whatever
can be done for you by the warmest friends, shall be done by us. But
you know, Thady, till that time does come--till the trial is over,
you must remain in prison."
"But, Father John, do you think they'll acquit me? do you think--does
Mr. McKeon think, they'll not find it murder?"
"Indeed he does, Thady, and so do I; and so I'm sure does the
Coroner, by what he said to the jury. I'm sure he didn't expect them
to find it murder at the inquest."
"That's great comfort, Father John; but you always had comfort for
me. But tell me, what's this I hear about Feemy and my father; is it
thrue they're both ill?"
"I've little comfort for you in that quarter, I'm afraid; but though
Feemy's ill, I don't think she's dangerously so. She will want time
to bring her round; but I've no doubt time will bring her round. She
has had a great deal to try her too; she was very fond of that man,
though he was so unworthy of her; and it isn't easy for a girl like
Feemy to get over at once the loss of him she loved so dearly."
"God send she may recover! I did it all for the best. Larry was long
ailing; I fear this has knocked him up intirely; what'll the tinants
do now at all? they'll have no one over thim but Keegan, I suppose:
he'll be resaving the rints now, Father John; won't he?"
"Don't mind that now, my boy; you've enough on your heart now without
troubling yourself about that."
"Well, then, I'll be wishing you good bye; I'll go on to Carrick."
"No, Thady, not to-night; stay here to-night. I would not have you go
in and give yourself up under cover of the dark. Early to-morrow--as
soon as Counsellor Webb will be up, you shall go with me to him.
He'll no doubt commit you; indeed he must do so; but that will be
better for you than lying all night in the guard-room at the police
station, and being dragged out in the morning, cold, comfortless, and
hungry."
Father John then got him supper and had a bed prepared for him, and
early in the morning he sent down to Ballycloran for his linen and
clothes that he might appear in a more respectable manner before the
magistrate; he had his horse and car ready for them after breakfast,
and at about ten they started for Counsellor Webb's.
They found the magistrate at home, and Father John sent in word
to him that Mr. Macdermot having heard the verdict which had been
returned at the Coroner's inquest, had come to surrender himself. Mr.
Webb received the two into his study, and having explained to Thady
that it was of course his duty immediately to commit him, sent to
Carrick for police, in whose charge it would be necessary that the
prisoner should be sent from thence.
"I'm very sorry," said Webb, "that this should be my principal duty,
and that I should be obliged to hand you over to the constables; but
you must have been aware that I should do so, when you came to me."
Father John then took Mr. Webb aside, and explained to him all the
particulars of the case, which had not come out at the inquest; and
at last it was agreed that he, Mr. Webb, should go with them into
Carrick--that they would call at the police-office to inform the
sergeant there that the prisoner was in custody, and that they should
go direct to the gaol, and that Thady should be immediately handed
over to the custody of the gaoler. This was accordingly done, and he
avoided the disgrace, which he so feared, of being led through the
town with handcuffs on his wrists.
Father John did not leave him until he had seen him settled with
whatever comfort a prison could afford; but of these things, now that
he was there, he seemed to think much less than the priest himself.
When Father John was kindly petitioning with the Governor to allow
the prisoner a light in his cell, he said, "What matters? a light
won't make the time pass over quicker."
The next assizes would not take place till April, six months after
the present time; and it was finally agreed that Father John should
take on himself all the cares connected with his defence, and
should from time to time visit him in his confinement, and give him
such news respecting his father, his sister, and the affairs at
Ballycloran, as he might have to bring;--and then he took his leave.
When he was gone Thady was once more alone and in solitude; moreover,
he felt strongly the gloom of the big cold walls around him--of the
huge locks which kept him--the austerity and discomforts of prison
discipline, and all the miseries of confinement; but yet even there,
in gaol and committed to take his trial for life--though doomed
to the monotony of that dull cell for six months--still he felt
infinitely less wretched than he had done whilst sitting in Andy
McEvoy's cabin, wondering at the torpidity of its owner. The feeling
of suspense, of inactivity, the dread of being found and dragged
away, joined to the horror he felt at remaining in so desolate a
place, would have driven him mad. Now he knew that he had no daily
accident to fear--no new misfortune to dread--and he nerved himself
to bear the six long coming months with fortitude and patience.
Though the time was long, and his weary days generally unbroken by
anything that could interest or enliven them, still, from the hour
when Father John first spoke to him at his hall-door, to that in
which he was led into the Court-house dock as a prisoner to take
his trial for his life, he never once repented that he had quitted
Aughacashel and his mountain security, to give himself up as a
prisoner to the authorities of Carrick.