THE VERDICT.
It was not very late in the day when the jury retired, and it was
generally thought that they would come to a verdict in time to escape
being immured for a second night; but they did not.
Immediately after hearing the judge's charge, Father John, McKeon,
and Webb agreed among them that it was absolutely necessary that old
Macdermot should be acquainted with his daughter's death; but who was
to take upon himself the sad errand! Father John had for the last
few days been so harassed, so worn down by anxiety, and was now so
depressed by, as he conceived the unfavourable tone of the judge's
charge, that he looked like the ghost of himself; and yet the duty
of seeing old Macdermot could fall on no one but himself. Neither
Webb nor McKeon knew the ways of the old man, and it was more than
probable that neither of them would be admitted into the house.
Father John therefore put himself on a car and hurried off to
Ballycloran, making his friend promise that he would wait in Carrick
for him till his return.
Father John soon found himself in the presence of Larry; but he could
with difficulty find words to tell him of his bereavement. The old
man was seated on his bed--he always slept now in the parlour--he had
his legs thrust into a tattered pair of breeches, and had worn-out
slippers on his feet; and an old and ragged coat, into which he had
been unable or unwilling to thrust his arms, hung over his shoulder;
but he had no stockings on--no cravat round his throat; his long-worn
shirt was unbuttoned over his breast; and his face was not only
unshorn, but was also, as well as his hands and feet, unwashed and
filthy. When Father John entered the room he was seated on his bed,
which had not been made since he rose from it. He had a pipe in his
mouth, and a glass of grog in his hand. The smell of the room was
most offensive, and it seemed from the dreadfully close atmosphere,
that no window had been opened in it for weeks past. Mary McGovery
followed the priest's steps into the room, running through numerous
apologies as to the state in which the old man was found, and
assuring him that Macdermot was so stupid and so obstinate that it
was impossible to get him to do or to understand anything; and she
forthwith took hold of his shoulders, and began shaking him, and
scolding him--bawling into his ear, till the poor idiot shook in her
grasp.
Father John at last succeeded in rescuing him from her hands, and,
seating himself in a chair immediately opposite to him, he began his
sad tale. He told him by degrees that his daughter had been taken
very ill--that she had got worse and worse--that Doctor Blake had
been sent for--that she was found to be in imminent danger. But it
had no effect on Larry; he kept on continually thanking Father John
for his friendly visit, saying how kind it was of him, to come and
sit with an old man like him--how hard it was to be shut up alone
with such a d----d old jade as Mary; and then he began telling Father
John a history of the ill-treatment and cruelty he received from
her,--which to do Mary justice, was in the main false; for, excepting
that she shook him and bawled to him, by way of rousing his dormant
intellect, she had always endeavoured to be as kind to him as the
nature of her disposition would allow. He begged of Father John to
tell him when Ussher and Feemy would come back to take care of him;
asked if Feemy hadn't gone away to marry her lover; and complained
that it was cruel in his own dear girl not to let her old father be
present at her wedding.
At last the priest saw it was no good trying to break this bad news,
by degrees, to such a man as Larry; and he told him that his daughter
was dead. The old man remained silent for a few minutes staring him
in the face, and Father John continued--
"Yes, Mr. Macdermot, your poor daughter died in Mrs. McKeon's arms."
"Is it Feemy?" said Larry. "My own Feemy?"
"It is too true, Mr. Macdermot; and indeed, indeed, I feel for you."
"But it aint true, Father John," said the idiot, grinning. "Shure
didn't I see her myself, when she went away on the car to the
wedding?" And then the old man paused as if thinking, and the stupid
smile passed off from his face, and the saddest cloud one could
conceive came over it, and he said, "Ah, they're gone away from me;
they're gone away to Thady, and now I'll never see them agin." He
then paused for a moment, but after a while a fire came into his eyes
and he began again, "but curse her--curse--"
This was too horrid; Father John got up and held his hand before the
father's face, as if to forbid him to finish the curse which he was
about to utter; and the old man trembled like a frightened child upon
his seat, and sat silent with his eye fixed on the priest.
Mary had not been present at this interview; Father John, however,
now found it necessary to call her, and to commission her if possible
to make the father understand that he had been bereaved of his
daughter. Poor Mary was dreadfully distressed herself, and for a long
time sat sobbing and weeping. But by degrees she recovered her tone,
and commenced the duty which Father John had enjoined her to perform;
but nothing could convince Larry of Feemy's death; he felt assured
that they were all trying to deceive him, and that Feemy and her
lover had now deserted him as well as Thady.
When Father John returned to Carrick, anxious, yet fearing to hear
the verdict, he found that the jury had not yet agreed. Even this
was some comfort, for it made it evident that there was doubt on the
subject; and surely, thought he, if a man doubts on such a subject as
this, he must ultimately lean to the side of mercy. He remained with
Tony McKeon in court till about eight, when they went to the hotel
and got their dinner--for they would not leave the town till the jury
were locked up for the night.
Soon afterwards Webb joined them, and the three sat together till
eleven o'clock, when it was signified to them that the judge
would not receive the verdict that night; and that the jury were,
therefore, again to be locked up. Webb then went home, and the priest
and his friend both returned to Drumsna to sleep.
Thady had remained in the dock that he might be ready to hear the
verdict, till the judge left the bench. He was then conducted back
into the prison, and it was so late that the prison regulations
did not allow him to see any friend or visitor; he was, therefore,
debarred from the comfort which a few kind words from Father John
would have afforded him. After he had heard the news of his sister's
death he never once raised himself from the position into which he
almost fell rather than sunk. During the whole of the long afternoon
he remained crouched down in one corner of the benches within the
dock. When the judge commenced his charge to the jury, he had once
attempted to rise; but he felt that he could no longer endure the
gaze of those around him, and he remained on his seat till he was
taken back to gaol.
Father John and McKeon agreed that the cause of Feemy's death should
not be told to Thady--at any rate till after the verdict had been
given. If he should be condemned it would only be a useless cruelty
to increase his sufferings by telling him of his sister's disgrace.
Should he be acquitted, it would then become a question whether or
no he might still be suffered to live in ignorance of that which, if
known, would so deeply embitter the remainder of his life.
On the Friday morning the two friends again took their seat in court,
waiting anxiously till the jury should send in word that they had
come to a unanimous decision.
Thady was again in the dock, and Father John was just enabled to say
one word to him over the wooden paling;--to bid him still keep up his
courage, and to press his hand closely within his own.
Hour after hour passed on, and the dull stupid work of the week
went on. Mr. Allewinde's eloquence, Mr. O'Malley's energy, and Mr.
O'Laugher's wit, sounded equally monotonous to the anxious priest and
his good-natured friend. Though they seemed to listen, and indeed
endeavoured to do so, yet at the close of each trivial case that
was tried, they had no idea impressed upon them of what had just
been going on. One o'clock struck--two--three--four--five--and yet
they remained in the same position; and still the jury who had been
considering the subject remained undecided.
The business in the Record Court had been closed on the Thursday, and
therefore both the judges heard criminal cases during the whole of
Friday; and by six o'clock the business of the assizes was finished,
and the prisoners are all disposed of with the exception of poor
Thady. It was absolutely necessary that the judges should commence
their business at Sligo on the following Saturday, and if the jury
did not agree to a verdict before eleven on that morning, they would
have to be discharged, and the case must stand over for a fresh trial
at the summer assizes. This now seemed almost desirable to Father
John and McKeon. Immediately after hearing Mr. O'Malley's defence
they had felt sure of success; but the judge's charge had dreadfully
robbed them of their hopes, and they began to fear the arrival of the
foreman.
At six Baron Hamilton left the court, saying that either he or his
brother would be within call till twelve o'clock to receive the
verdict, and that he would remain in town till eleven the next
morning, should the jury not have decided before then. Thady was yet
once more taken back to prison in doubt, and whilst McKeon went to
the inn again to get some dinner ready, Father John went up to the
prison to visit the prisoner in his cell.
The young man had to a great degree recovered his self-possession. He
told Father John that he had given up all hope for himself--that he
believed he had made up his mind perfectly to face death like a brave
man. He then talked about his sister, and lamented grievously that
she, ill as she was, should have been dragged into court with the
vain object of saving his life. He asked many questions about the
manner of her death--her disease--the state of her feelings towards
himself--all which Father John found it most difficult to answer; and
he was just beginning to inquire how his father had borne all the
griefs which had accumulated themselves upon him, when one of the
turnkeys opened the door of the cell, and told him that he was to
return immediately into court--that the jury had agreed--and that the
judge was now going into court to receive the verdict.
Father John turned deadly pale, and leant against the wall for
support. A hectic red partially suffused the prisoner's face, and his
eyes became somewhat brighter than before. A slight shudder passed
over his whole frame; in spite of all that he had suffered--all
that he made up his mind to suffer--it was evident that there was a
fearful degree of anxiety in his bosom, a painful hope still clinging
to his heart.
The fetters were again fixed on to his legs, and he was led away in
the midst of a body of policemen into court. Father John hurried to
the same place, where he found Mr. McKeon already seated on one of
the dark benches. There were but very few there, as every one had
left it after the business of the day had been concluded; some of
those who were in town and had heard that the jury were at last
unanimous, had hurried down; but the generality of the strangers who
were still remaining in Carrick, preferred the warmth of the hotel
fires to paddling down through the rain, dirt, and dark, even to hear
the verdict in a case in which every one was so much interested.
The barristers' and attorneys' seats were wholly deserted by their
customary learned occupants; there was but one lawyer present, and
he, probably thinking it unprofessional to appear to take more than
a lawyer's interest in any case, was standing by himself in the dark
obscurity between the dock and the bottom of one of the galleries.
This was Mr. O'Malley--and though he would not be seen in court after
his business there was really over, he felt so truly anxious in the
matter that he could not wait to hear the verdict from a third party.
At length the judge took his seat, and the clerk of the crown sat
beneath him ready to record the decision of the jury. A few lighted
candles were stuck about in different parts of the court; but they
were lost in the obscurity of the large, dark, dismal building. The
foreman stood ready with a written and signed paper. The judge asked
him if they had all come to a unanimous verdict, and he answered in
the affirmative; and handed the paper to the clerk of the peace, who
glancing his eye upon it, and half turning round to the judge said in
his peculiar, sonorous voice--
"My lord, the prisoner has been found guilty."
"Gentlemen, is that your verdict?" said the judge; and they said it
was.
The prisoner stood up at the bar erect without moving. He neither
shook nor trembled now. If it were not that his lips were pressed
quite close together, he would have appeared to have heard the
verdict without emotion. Not so Father John; he had been leaning
back, anxiously waiting till the one fatal word met his ear; and then
his head fell forward on the desk, and he sobbed like a woman.
Baron Hamilton immediately placed the black cap on his head, and
proceeded to pronounce the dreadful sentence of death. As he did so,
his voice seemed like some awful, measured tone proceeding from an
immovable figure or statue placed beneath the dusky canopy; so dark
was it--and so cold and stern; so slow and clear were his words and
manner; he must have felt, and felt strongly, as he doomed that young
man to a sudden and ignominious death, for he was no heartless man;
but so powerfully had he schooled his emotions, so entirely had he
learnt to lay aside the man in assuming the judge, that had he been
the stone he looked like, he could not have betrayed less of the
heart within him.
He dwelt at considerable length on the enormity of the offence
of which the prisoner had been found guilty; he stated his own
conviction that the verdict was a just and true one; alluded to
the irreparable injury such illegal societies as that to which the
prisoner too evidently belonged, must do in the country; assured
him that he had no hope for mercy to look for in this world, and
recommended him to seek it from Him who could always reconcile it
with his justice to extend it to the repentant sinner. He concluded
by ordering that he should be taken back to the place from whence he
came, and be brought from thence to the place of execution on the
Monday week following, and then and there be hung by his neck till he
should be dead.
The assizes were then finished--the judge immediately left the
court--the prisoner was taken back to his cell--the lights were
extinguished--and when the servants of the sheriff came to lock the
door, they found Mr. McKeon still vainly endeavouring to arouse the
broken-hearted priest from his ecstasy of sorrow.