FEEMY RETURNS TO BALLYCLORAN.
It will be remembered that Father John had promised to take upon
himself all the trouble attendant upon the preparation for Thady's
trial; and with the view of redeeming this promise he went up to
Dublin and spent a week among the lawyers who were to be engaged for
the young man's defence. The chief among these was one Mr. O'Malley,
and the priest strove hard to imbue that gentleman with his own
views of the whole matter. The day after that on which Father John
returned, he saw both Mr. McKeon and the Counsellor, and explained
to them as nearly as he could all that had passed between himself
and O'Malley. Though they were both greatly interested on Thady's
account, they did not feel the same intense, constant anxiety, which
now quite oppressed the priest; and, moreover, trusting more to their
own judgment than he did, they were not so inclined to alter their
pre-conceived opinion. They both, therefore, assured Father John that
they were still quite sanguine as to Thady's acquittal. This raised
his hopes again a little, but nevertheless, from that time till the
trial, he was so absorbed by his strong feeling on the subject,
that he was almost totally unable to attend to the usual duties and
employment of his life. It was decided that Mr. Webb should use all
his endeavours to obtain tidings of Corney Dolan, and ascertain
whether, in the event of his being summoned, he would be able to give
any evidence respecting the meeting at Mrs. Mehan's, which would
be of use to Thady at the trial. In this he was successful, and he
learnt from that respectable individual that he could swear that
Ussher's name was not mentioned at all.
It must be owned that Mr. Dolan's manner was not such as to inspire
the Counsellor with any great admiration for his veracity, and his
opinion in this respect was strengthened when the witness added "that
by Garra, av his honor thought it'd be any use in life to Mr. Thady,
he'd swear as how he was asleep all the time; or for the matther of
that, that he was out along wid de gals dancing the livelong night."
It was with difficulty that Mr. Webb made him understand that he was
only to swear to what he believed to be the truth, and that if he
told a single lie in answer to the numerous questions which would be
asked him, he would only be endangering Mr. Macdermot's life.
Father John undertook the more difficult task of explaining to Feemy
what it was she was expected to do at the trial, and of making her
understand that her brother's life depended on her making an effort
to give her evidence in the court clearly and firmly. On reaching
Drumsna he was much distressed to find that she was no longer
at Mrs. McKeon's. For two days after the conversation which had
passed between that lady and her charge, in which she declared her
suspicions that Feemy was _enceinte_, the latter had made a great
effort to recover her health, or at any rate the appearance of
health. She left her bed earlier in the morning than she had ever
done for the last five months; she dressed herself with great care,
and--for alas, Mrs. McKeon's suspicion was but too true--fastened her
dress with a most dangerous determination to prove that the charge
was unfounded. Patiently she endured all the agonies which this
occasioned her during the first day and during the whole evening,
till the house was at rest and she was secure from being again
visited. On the next morning she went so far as to come down to
breakfast, and to undergo Tony's somewhat rough congratulation as to
her convalescence, without betraying her sufferings. After breakfast,
when he was gone out, she again opened the subject of her return
home, and begged Mrs. McKeon to allow her to have the car to return
to Ballycloran. Mrs. McKeon again put her off, telling her that it
would be necessary first to consult the doctor, and that he would
not be likely to call till the following day. In the afternoon Mrs.
McKeon, with Lyddy and Louey, went out for a drive, and as Feemy was
apparently so much better, they asked her to accompany them, but this
she declined.
"It's as well for her not to go out before the trial," whispered Mrs.
McKeon to her daughters. "Poor girl; she has a great deal, a great
deal, indeed, to go through yet." Indeed she had a very great deal
to go through; a very heavy atonement to pay for her folly and her
crime.
As soon as the car was gone from the door, she hurried up stairs,
put on her bonnet and cloak, took a letter which she had already
prepared, and opening the door of Mrs. McKeon's own room, put it on
the table. She then crept noiselessly down stairs, opened the front
door, and passed into the street, without having been seen or heard
by either of the servants, who were alone left with her in the house.
The following is the letter, which, to her great grief and surprise,
Mrs. McKeon found on her table when she returned:--
DEAR MRS. McKEON,
It is because I know you'd never let me go back to
Ballycloran, that I've now gone away without telling
you what I was going to do. Pray don't be angry with me.
Indeed I'm very unhappy; but I should be worse if you were
to be angry with me. I'm only a bother and a throuble to
you here, and I hav'n't spirits left even to let you see
how very much obliged I am to you for all your throuble;
but indeed I am in my heart, my dear Mrs. McKeon, both to
you and to dear Lyddy and Louey, who have been so very
kind to me. It is a deal better for me to be at home with
my father; my heart's nearly broken with all I've gone
through; but he'll bear with me, for he's used to me. Give
my compliments to Doctor Blake. Pray beg him not to come
to Ballycloran. I am in his debt a great deal already, and
how will I ever pay him? Besides, I'm a deal better now,
as you see, in health; it's only the heart now that ails
me. Give my kind love to Lyddy and Louey. I felt their
kindness when the sorrow within me wouldn't let me
tell them so. Now good bye, dear Mrs. McKeon; don't be
throubling yourself to come to Ballycloran; it'll be a
poor place now. I'll send Katty for the things.
I remain, dear Mrs. McKeon,
Very, very faithfully yours,
FEEMY.
P.S.--Indeed--indeed--it isn't the case, what you were
saying.
When Mrs. McKeon found the letter on her return, she was greatly
vexed; but she could do nothing; she couldn't go to Ballycloran and
fetch Feemy by force. The falsehood with which the letter concluded
was not altogether disbelieved; but still she felt by no means
certain that her former suspicions were not true, and if so, perhaps
it was better for all parties that Feemy should be at home. She
determined to call at Ballycloran when Feemy might be supposed to
have settled herself, and content herself for the present with
hearing from the girl who came for the clothes that she had got home
safe.
When Father John called on the Saturday, she talked over the subject
as fully with him as she could without alluding to the matter
respecting which she was so much in doubt. He declared his intention
of seeing Feemy on the following Monday, and of speaking to her
strongly on the subject of the trial which was so soon coming on; and
he begged Mrs. McKeon to do the same afterwards--as perhaps having
become latterly used to her interference, Feemy might bear from her
what she had to be told, with more patience than she would from
himself.
"Indeed I will, Father John, but do you be gentle with her. She's
broken-hearted now; you'll find her very different from the
hot-headed creature she was before her sorrows began."
"I fear she is--I fear she is; but, Mrs. McKeon, has she ever shown a
feeling of regard--a spark of interest, for her noble brother?--it's
that so annoys me in Feemy; I could feel for her--weep for her--and
forgive her with all my heart--all but that."
"Ah, Father John," answered the lady; "it's not for me to preach to
you; but where would we all be at the last, if our Judge should say
to us, 'I can forgive you all but that?'"
"God forbid I should judge her; God forbid I should limit that to
her, which I so much need myself. But isn't her heart hardened
against her brother? Oh, if you could have seen him as I have done
this morning--if you could believe how softened is his heart! He had
never much false pride in it--it is nearly all gone now! If you could
have heard how warmly, how affectionately he asks after the sister
that won't mention his name; if you could know how much more anxious
he is on her account and his father's, than on his own, Feemy's
coldness and repugnance would strike you as it does me. I'm afraid
her chief sorrow is still for the robber that would have destroyed
her, and has destroyed her brother."
"Of course it is, Father John--and so it should be. I'm a woman and a
mother, and you may take my word respecting a woman's heart. No wife
could love her husband more truly than Feemy loved that man: unworthy
as he was, he was all in all to her. Would it not, therefore, show
more heartlessness in her to forget him that is now dead, than the
brother who killed him? Of course she loved him better than her
brother, as every woman loves the man she does love better than all
the world. How can she forget him? Be gentle to her, Father John, and
I think she will do what you desire."
Father John promised that he would comply with Mrs. McKeon's advice,
and he was as good as his word.
On reaching the hall-door of Mrs. McKeon's house Feemy looked
cautiously about her, but seeing that no one belonging to the house
was in sight, she passed on through the little garden into the
street. She pulled her old veil down over her face, and walked on
through the village as quickly as she could. She felt that every
one's eye was on her; that all the country was looking at her; but
she had made up her mind to go through it all, and she persevered.
The last time she had been out of the house was the day she had been
taken from Ballycloran to the inquest. That was a horrid day, but the
present seemed worse; she had now a greater sorrow than any of which
she was then conscious, and she had to bear it alone, unpitied and
uncomforted. Indeed, her only rest, her only respite from absolute
torture was now to consist in being alone; and yet bad as the present
was, there was a worse,--she felt that there was a worse in store for
her. She already anticipated the tortures of that day, when she would
again be dragged out from her resting-place before the eyes of all
mankind, and placed in the very middle of the crowd, conspicuous
above the rest, to be stared at, bullied, and questioned horridly
about that dread subject, which it even racked her mind to remember.
Would she be able on that long, long day--days, for what she knew--to
conceal her shame from all who would be looking at her, and to bear
in patience the agonies which it would be necessary for her to
endure? She walked on quickly, and was soon out of Drumsna, and in
the lane leading by the cottage to Ballycloran. By the time she
had walked half a mile she was in a dreadful heat, although it was
still in March, for she was so weak and ill that her exertion, in
proportion to her strength, had been immense. She sat down by the
side of the road for a time, and then continued; and then again
sat down. Her sufferings were soon so great that she was unable to
walk above two hundred yards at a time, and she began to fear that
she would be utterly unable to get to the house. Once when she was
sitting, panting on the bank by the road-side, one of the labouring
peasants recognised her--saw she was ill--and offered to get her a
country car. Oh, what an agonising struggle she made to answer the
man cheerfully, when she assured him that she was quite well--that
she was only sitting there for her pleasure--that she required no
assistance, and that she should walk home directly. The man well knew
that she was not there for her pleasure--that her brother was in
gaol, her father on the point of losing his property, and that she
was weak and in need of rest; but he saw that she would sooner be
alone, and he had the good tact to leave her, without pressing his
offer for her accommodation.
At length she reached the avenue, and had to pass the spot where she
had sat so long on that fatal night listening for the sound of her
lover's horse, and watching her brother as he stood swinging his
stick before the house. She shuddered as she did so, but she did walk
by the tree where she had then sat shivering, and at last once more
stood on the steps of her father's house.
The door was fastened inside, and she had to knock for admittance.
This she did three times, till she thought she should have fainted on
the flags, and at last the window of her own sitting-room was raised,
and Mary McGovery's head was slowly protruded. Feemy was sitting on
the low stone wall, which guarded the side of the flags, as she heard
Mary say in a sharp voice--
"Who's that?--and what are ye wanting here? Oh! by the mortials, but
av it aint Miss Feemy herself come back I declare!"
And Mary ran round, and began to draw the bolts of the front door. Up
jumped Larry at the unwelcome sound, from his accustomed seat by the
fire.
"What in the divil's name are ye afther? What are ye doing? Ye
owld hag, will ye be letting the ruffians in on me?" And he caught
violently hold of Mary's gown to drag her back, before she had
accomplished the liberation of the rusty bolts.
"Now go in, sir, and sit down," said Mary. "Go in, sir, will you; I
tell you it's yer own daughter, and no ruffian whatever. Dra---- the
owld man, but he'll have every rag off the back of me! Don't I tell
you, it's Miss Feemy. Will you be asy now?--do you want to have me
stark naked?"
"Come away, woman, I tell you; don't I know Feemy's gone off,
away from me; she'll niver, niver come back; it's Keegan and his
hell-hounds you're letting in on me."
By this time Mary had accomplished her object of undoing the door in
spite of the old man's exertions, and Feemy entered weary and worn,
soiled with the road, and pale and wan in spite of the hectic flush
which reddened a portion of her cheek.
"Father," she said when she saw the old man standing astonished and
stupified in the hall, "father, don't ye know me--won't ye spake to
me?"
"Why thin, Feemy, is it yer own self in arnest come back again?
And where's yer lover? the man ye married, ye know--what war his
name?--why don't ye tell me? Mary, what's the name of the Captain
Feemy married?"
"Asy, sir, asy; come in thin," and Mary led him into his own room,
and Feemy followed in silence with her eyes already filled with
tears.
"Where's yer own husband thin, Feemy dear? Ussher, I main--Captain
Ussher--it's he'd be welcome with you now, my pet," and he began
stroking his daughter's shoulders and back, for she had still her
bonnet on her head. "Thady's not here now to be brow-beating and
teasing him; it's we'll be comfortable now the cowld long nights--for
the Captain 'll be bringing the whiskey and the groceries with him,
won't he, darling? and Thady the blackguard's out along wid Keegan,
and they can't get in through the door, for it's always locked;" and
then turning to Mary, he said, "why don't you put the locks back, you
d----d jade? do you want them to be catching me the first moment I'm
seeing my own darling girl here?"
Feemy could not say a word to her father: his absolute idiotcy, and
the manner in which he referred to Ussher, quite upset her, and she
sat down and wept bitterly.
"What ails you, pet?" continued the old man, "what ails you, alanna?
they shan't touch him, dear--there, you see the big lock's closed
now; he'll be safe from Thady now, darling."
"Oh, Miss Feemy," said Mary, "he's quite beside himself; asy now,
sir, asy, and don't be talking such nonsense; don't ye know the
Captain got kilt--months ago--last October?"
"Killed--and who dared to kill my darling's husband? who'd dare to
touch him? why wasn't he here? why wasn't he inside the big lock?"
"Why, don't you know," and Mary gave the old man a violent shake
to refresh his memory; "don't you know Mr. Thady kilt him in the
avenue?"
"May his father's curse blisther him then! May--but I think they wor
telling me about that before. Eh, Feemy?" he continued, with a sigh,
"it's a bad time I've been having of it with this tipsy woman since
you were gone; she don't lave me a moment's pace from morning to
night; bad 'cess to her, but I wish she wor well out of the house.
I'll have you to mind me now--and you'll not be bawling and shaking
me as she does; but she's always dhrunk," he added in a whisper.
Feemy could bear this no longer; she was obliged to make her escape
from the room into her own, in which she found that Mary had taken up
her temporary residence during so much of the day as she could spare
from bawling at, and shaking, poor Larry. At dinner time, she again
went into her father's room, but he took no farther notice of her,
than if she had been there continually for the last four months. He
grumbled at his dinner, which consisted of nothing but potatoes, some
milk, and an egg, and he scolded Feemy for having no meat; after
dinner she mixed him a tumbler of punch, for there was still a little
of Tony's whiskey in the house; and whether it was that she made it
stronger for him and better than that which Mary McGovery was in the
habit of mixing, or that the action to which he had been for so many
years accustomed roused some pleasant memory within him, when he
tasted it, he said--
"Heaven's blessing on you, Feemy, my daughter; may you live many
happy years with the man you love."
Feemy soon left him, and went to bed, and Katty, who had been
dispatched to Drumsna, returned with her mistress's small box, and
a kind message from Mrs. McKeon:--"Her kind love to Miss Macdermot;
she hoped she had felt the walk of service to her, and she would call
some time during the next week." She had asked no questions of the
girl which could lead her to imagine that her mistress's departure
from Drumsna had been unexpected, nor had she said a word to her own
servants which could let them suppose that she was surprised at the
circumstance.
For five or six days Feemy remained quiet at Ballycloran--spending
the greater part of her time in her own room, but taking her meals,
such as they were, with her father; she had no books to read, and
she was unable to undertake needlework, and she passed the long days
much as her father did--sitting from breakfast till dinner over the
fire, meditating on the miseries of her condition. There was this
difference, however, between them--that the old man felt a degree
of triumph at his successful attempt to keep out his foes, whereas
Feemy's thoughts were those of unmixed sorrow. She had great
difficulty too in inducing Mary to leave her alone to herself. Had
that woman the slightest particle of softness in her composition,
anything of the tenderness of a woman about her, Feemy would have
made a confidant of her, and her present sufferings would have been
immeasurably decreased; but Mary was such an iron creature--so loud,
so hard, so equable in her temper, so impenetrable, that Feemy could
not bring herself to tell her tale of woe, which otherwise she would
have been tempted to disclose. She had, therefore, the additional
labour of keeping her secret from Mary's prying eyes, and Mary was
nearly as acute as Mrs. McKeon.
About noon, on Monday, Feemy was horror-struck at being told by Katty
that Father John was at the back door asking for her.
"Oh, Katty, tell him to wait awhile; say I'm ill, can't you--do,
dear!"
"Why, Miss, I towld him as how you war up, and betther, thank God,
since you war home."
It was clearly necessary that she should see the priest; but she
insisted on his not being shown in till she had dressed herself; and
she again submitted herself to those agonies which she trusted, for
a time, would hide her disgrace, which at last must become known to
all. When this was done, she seated herself on the sofa, and plucked
up all her courage to go through the painful conversation which she
knew she was to endure. She did not rise as he entered, but remained
on the sofa with the hectic tint on her face almost suffused into a
blush, and her hands clasping the calico covering of the cushion, as
if from that she could get more strength for endurance.
Father John shook hands with her as he seated himself by her; the
tears came into his eyes as he observed the sad change which so short
a time had made in her. The flesh had fallen from her face, and the
skin now hung loose upon her cheek and jaw bones, falling in towards
the mouth, giving her that lean and care-worn look which misery so
soon produces. Her healthy colour, too, had all fled; part of her
face was of a dull leaden paleness, and though there was a bright
colour round her eyes, it gave her no appearance of health. She
looked ten years older than when he had seen her last. No wonder Mrs.
McKeon pitied her so deeply; she appeared even more pitiable than
her brother, who was awaiting his doubtful fate in gaol--though with
nervous anxiety, still with unflinching courage.
"I am glad to hear you're better, Feemy. Mrs. McKeon thinks you a
great deal better."
"Thank ye, Father John; I believe I'm well enough now."
"That's well, then; but you must take care of yourself, Feemy; no
more long walks; you should have waited for the car to come home that
day. Mrs. McKeon's not the least angry; if you are more at ease here
than at Drumsna, she's glad for your sake you're here now, and she
bids me tell you how sorry she is she didn't give you the car the day
you asked for it."
"Oh, Father John, Mrs. McKeon's been too kind to me. Indeed I love
her dearly, though I could never tell her so. Give her my kind love.
I never thought she was so kind a woman."
"I will, Feemy; indeed I will. She is a kind woman; and it will
please her to the heart to hear how you speak of her. She sends you
all manner of loves, and Lyddy and Louey too. She is sending up a
few things for you too. Patsey 'll bring them, just till affairs are
settled a little. She wishes me to tell you she 'll be up herself on
Thursday; she wouldn't come before, for she thought you'd be better
pleased to be alone a few days."
"Tell her not to come here. This is no place for her now. They never
open the front door now. This is no place for any one now, but just
father and me. But tell her how I love her. I'll never forget her;
no, not in my grave!"
"But I've another message for you, Feemy."
"Is it from her?"
"No, not from her, well as she loves you; it's from one who loves you
better than she does; it is from one who loves you better than any
ever did, since your poor mother died."
Feemy raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, as she listened to
Father John's words, and marked his solemn tones. No thought of Thady
entered her mind; but some indefinite, half-conceived idea respecting
Ussher--that he had not been killed--that he had come to life
again--that some mysterious miracle, such as she had read of
in novels, had taken place; and that Father John had come with
some blessed news, which might yet restore her to happiness and
tranquillity. The illusion was but for a moment, though during that
moment it completely took possession of her. It was as speedily
dispelled by Father John's concluding words--
"I mean from your brother."
Feemy gave a long, long sigh as she heard the word. She wished for no
message from her brother; he had robbed her of everything; she could
not think of him without horror and shuddering.
"He sends his kindest love to you. I told him you were better, and he
was very glad to hear it. Though he has many heavy cares of his own
to bear, I have never seen him but he asks after your health with
more anxiety than he thinks of his own prospects. Now you are better,
Feemy, won't you send him some message by me?--some kind word, which
may comfort him in his sorrow?"
Feemy was no hypocrite; hypocrisy, though she did not know it
herself, was distasteful to her. She had no kind feelings for her
brother, and she did not know how to make the pretence which might
produce kind words; so she remained silent.
"What! not a word, Feemy? you who spoke so well, so properly, so
affectionately, but now of that good friend of yours--have you not a
word of kindness for a most affectionate brother?"
Feemy still remained silent.
"Why, Feemy, what is this? Don't you love your own brother?"
She said nothing in reply for a moment or two; and then, bursting
into tears, she exclaimed,
"Don't scold me, Father John!--don't scold me now, or I shall die!
I try to forgive him--I am always trying! But why did he--why did
he--why did he--" She was unable to finish her sentence from the
violence of her sobs and the difficulty of uttering the words which
should have concluded it. She meant to say, "Why did he kill my
lover?"
"Don't agitate yourself, Feemy. I don't mean to scold you; I don't
mean even to vex you more than I can possibly help; but I must speak
to you about your brother. I see the feeling that is in your mind,
and I will not blame you for it, for I believe it is natural; but
I beseech you to pray that your heart may be softened towards your
brother, who instead of repugnance, deserves from you the warmest
affection. But though I will not attempt to control your feelings,
I must tell you that you will be most wicked if you allow them
to interfere with the performance of your duties. You know your
brother's trial is coming on, do you not?"
"Yes."
"Wednesday fortnight next is the day fixed, I believe. You know you
will have to be a witness?"
"I believe so, Father John."
"Certainly you will; and I wish you now to listen to me, that you may
know what it is that you will then have to do. In the first place you
will be asked, I presume, by one gentleman whether you were willingly
eloping with Captain Ussher?" Feemy shuddered as the name was
pronounced. "And of course you must answer that truly--that you
were doing so. Then another gentleman will ask you whether you were
absolutely walking off with him when the blow was struck which killed
Captain Ussher; and, Feemy, you must also answer that truly. Now the
question is, can you remember what you were doing when the blow was
struck? Tell me now, Feemy, can you remember?"
"No, Father John, I remember nothing; from the time when he took me
by the arm, as I sat upon the tree, till Thady told me he was dead, I
remember nothing. If they kill me, I can tell them nothing."
"Feemy, dear, don't sob so! That's all you'll have to say. Merely say
that--merely say that you were sitting on a tree. Were you waiting
for Captain Ussher there?"
"Yes."
"And that whilst you were there you saw Thady; isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"And Ussher then raised you by the arm, and then you fainted?"
"I don't know what happened to me; but I heard nothing, and saw
nothing, till Thady lifted me from the ground, and told me he was
dead."
"That's all, Feemy. Surely there's no great difficulty in saying
that--when it'll save your own brother's life to say so; and it's
only the truth. You can say as much in court as you've just said to
me, can't you? Mrs. McKeon 'll be there with you--and I'll be there
with you. You'll only have to say in court what you've just said to
me."
"I'll try, Father John. But you don't know what it is for one like
me to be talking with so many horrid faces round one--with the
heart dead within--to be asked such horrid questions, and everybody
listening. I'll do as you bid me; I'll go with them when they fetch
me--but I know I'll die before I've said all they will want me to
say."
Father John tried to comfort and strengthen her, but she was in great
bodily pain, and he soon saw that he had better leave her; she had at
any rate shown him by her answers to his questions, that the evidence
she could give would be such as would most tend to Thady's acquittal;
and, moreover, he perceived from her manner, that though the feelings
which she entertained towards her brother were of a most painful
description, she would, nevertheless, not be actuated by them in any
of the answers she might give.
On the Thursday following Mrs. McKeon and one of her daughters called
at Ballycloran, and in spite of the bars and bolts with which the
front door was barricaded, they contrived to make their way into
Feemy's room. She remembered that Father John had told her that they
would call on that day, and she was therefore prepared to receive
them. Mrs. McKeon brought her some little comforts from Drumsna,
of which she was sadly in want; for there was literally nothing at
Ballycloran but what was supplied by the charity of those who pitied
them in their misfortunes; and among other things she brought two or
three volumes from the library. She was very kind to her, and did and
said all in her power that could in any way console the poor girl.
Though Father John had been gentle in his manners and had endeavoured
to abstain from saying anything hard, still Mrs. McKeon was more
successful in her way of explaining to Feemy what it was that she
would have to do. She promised, moreover, to come to Ballycloran and
fetch her, and to remain with her and support her during the whole of
the painful time that she would either be in the court itself, or
waiting in the neighbourhood till she should be called on to give her
evidence. She did not allude either to the manner in which Feemy had
left Drumsna, or to the suspicions which she had formerly expressed.
Her whole object now was to relieve as much as possible the
despondency and misery so plainly pictured in the poor girl's face.
As she put her arm round her neck and kissed her lips, Feemy's heart
yearned towards her new-found friend with a kind of tenderness she
had never before felt. It was as though she for once experienced a
mother's solicitude for her in her sorrows, and she longed to throw
herself on her knees, hide her face in her friend's lap, and confess
it all. Had she been alone with her she would have done so; but there
sat Louey in the same room, and though her conduct to Feemy had been
everything that was kind, she felt that it was not as if she had been
absolutely alone with her mother. She could not at the same time
confess her disgrace to two.
Mrs. McKeon went away, after having strongly implored Feemy to return
with her to Drumsna, and remain there till the trial was over. But
this she absolutely refused to do--and at last it was settled that
Mrs. McKeon should come for her on the morning on which the trial
was to come on, and that she should hold herself ready to attend on
any day that she might be called for after the commencement of the
assizes.
The time now wore quickly on. When Mrs. McKeon called it had only
wanted a fortnight to the first day on which the trial could take
place; and as it quickly slipped away, day by day, to that bourn from
which no day returns, poor Feemy's sorrow and agonies became in every
way more acute. At last, on the Wednesday,--the day before that on
which she was to be, or at any rate, might be fetched,--she was in
such a state that she was unable to support herself in a chair. Mary
McGovery would not leave her for a moment. The woman meant kindly,
but her presence was only an additional torment. She worried and
tortured Feemy the whole day; she talked to her, intending to comfort
her, till she was so bewildered, that she could not understand a word
that was said; and she kept bringing her food and slops, declaring
that there was nothing like eating for a sore heart,--that if Ussher
was gone, there were still as good fish in the sea as ever were
caught,--and that even if Thady were condemned, the judge couldn't
do more than transport him, which would only be sending him out to a
better country, and "faix the one he'd lave's bad enough for man and
baste."
About seven in the evening Feemy was so weak that she fainted. Mary,
who was in the room at the time, lifted her on the sofa, and when
she found that her mistress did not immediately come to herself, she
began stripping her for the sake of unlacing her stays, and thus
learnt to a certainty poor Feemy's secret.
Mary had a great deal of shrewd common sense of the coarser kind; she
felt that however well inclined she might be to her mistress, she
should not keep to herself the circumstance that she had just learnt;
she knew it was her duty as a woman to make it known to some one, and
she at once determined to go that evening to Mrs. McKeon and tell her
what it was she had discovered.
As soon as Feemy had come to herself, she got her into bed, and
having performed the same friendly office for the old man, she
started off for Drumsna; and having procured a private audience with
Mrs. McKeon, told her what had occurred.
Mrs. McKeon was not at all surprised, though she was greatly grieved.
She merely said,--
"You have done quite right, Mary, to tell me; but don't mention it
yet to any one else; after all this affair is over we'll see what
will be best to do. God help her, poor girl; it were almost better
she should die," and as Mary went down stairs she called her back to
her. "Take my silk cloak with you, Mary. Tell Miss Macdermot I've
sent it, because she'll be so cold to-morrow--and Mary," and here
she whispered some instruction on the stairs, "and mind I shall come
myself for her--but let her be ready, as may be there mayn't be a
minute to spare."
Father John was certainly right when he said that Mrs. McKeon had a
kind heart.