It was still about an hour after noon when Winny beheld from the
parlor window at which she stood a very exciting cavalcade upon the
road, slowly approaching the house. At once she became acquainted with
the whole concern. "The chief" had fore-warned her that she might
expect a visit from the magistrate the moment he returned; and her
intelligence at once recognized the addition of the police and
prisoners some distance in rear of the car.
Winny's heart beat quick and high as she saw them draw nigh and turn
up the lane. It would be mock heroism to say that it did not. She knew
that Tom Murdock, the murderer of her husband, must be one of
the prisoners, but she did not know why they were bringing him
there--for the police had now made the turn. She thought the
magistrate might have spared her that fresh excitement--that renewal
of her hate. But the magistrate was one of those who had anticipated
the law by his sense of justice and his practice. He was one who gave
every one of his majesty's subjects fair play, and it was therefore
his habit to have the accused face to face with the accuser when
informations were taken and read.
Poor Winny was rather fluttered and disturbed when they entered,
notwithstanding "the chief" had considerately prepared her for the
visit. She did not lose her self-possession, however, so much as to
forget the respect and courtesy due to gentlemen, beside being
officers of the law. She asked them down into the parlor, and
requested of them to be seated. They accepted her civility in silence,
seeing enough in her manner to show them that she was greatly
distressed, and required a little time to compose herself'. She was,
however, the first to speak.
"I suppose, gentlemen, you are come respecting this sad affair. I told
this gentleman here all I knew about it yesterday."
"Yes, but matters are still worse today, although there was no hope
even then that they would be better. Of course it will relieve you so
far at once to tell you that we are aware of the position in which you
now stand toward the deceased."
"Yes, sir. It was with a wish that the world might know it I took the
step I did. I had Father Farrell's approval of it, and my own
parish-priest's as well; but subsequently--"
"My good girl, we did not come here to question the propriety or
otherwise of either your actions or your motives. Nor do I for one
hesitate to say that I believe both to have been unexceptionable. But
it will be necessary that you should make an information upon oath as
to what took place from the first moment the men came to the door,
until the shot was fired by which Edward Lennon came by his death."
"I suppose, sir, you must have much better evidence than mine as to
the firing of the shot. I can only swear to the fact of two men having
tied me up and carried me away on a cart, and that there was a third
man on horseback with a mask upon his face; that when we came to Boher
bridge, the deceased Edward Lennon and his father came to our rescue;
that there was a long and distracting struggle at the bridge, which
lasted with very doubtful hopes of success for my deliverance until
Jamesy Doyle, our servant-boy, came up with the police; that the man
on horseback with the mask, whom I verily believe to have been Thomas
Murdock, turned to fly; that the deceased Edward Lennon fastened in
his horse's bridle to prevent him; that a deadly struggle ensued
between them, and that the man on horseback fired at the deceased, who
fell, I may say, dead on the road. The sight left my eyes, sir, and
except that we brought the dying man home on the cart, I know no more
about it of my own knowledge, sir."
"A very plain, straightforward, honest story as I ever heard," said
the magistrate. "But it will be necessary for you, when upon your
oath, to state whether you know, that is, whether you recognized, the
man on horseback at time."
"I could not recognize his features, sir, on account of the mask he
wore; but I did recognize his voice as that of Tom Murdock, and I know
his figure and general appearance."
"That will do now, Mrs. Lennon. I shall only trouble you to repeat
slowly and distinctly what you have already said, so that I can write
it down."
The magistrate then unlocked his leather writing-case, took out the
necessary forms for informations, and was not long embodying
what Winny had to say in premier shape.
He then went through the same form with old Ned, with Biddy Murtagh,
and with Jamesy Doyle.
When the magistrate had all the informations taken and arranged, he
directed Sergeant Driscoll to bring in the prisoners, that he might
read them over and swear the several informants in their presence.
Winny became very nervous and fidgety, and would have left the room,
but the magistrate assured her that it was absolutely necessary that
she should remain, at least while her own informations were being
read. He would read them first, and she might then retire. He
regretted very much that it was necessary, but he would not detain her
more than a couple of minutes at most.
Tom Murdock and the other prisoner were then brought in; and Winny
having identified the other man, her informations were read in a loud,
distinct voice by the magistrate, and she acknowledged herself bound,
etc, etc.
"You may now retire, Mrs. Lennon," said the magistrate; and she
hastened to leave the room.
Tom Murdock stood near the door out of which she must pass, his hands
crossed below his breast in consequence of the handcuffs. He knew that
there was no chance of escape, no hope of an alteration or mitigation
of his doom in this world. Everything was too plain against him. There
were several witnesses to his deed of death, and the damning words by
which it was accompanied, and he knew that the rope must be his end.
Well, he had purchased his revenge, and he was willing to pay for it.
He determined, therefore, to put on the bravado, and glut that revenge
upon his still surviving victim.
"Emon-a-knock is dead. Miss Cavana," said he, as Winny would have
passed him to the door, her eyes fastened on the ground; "but not
buried yet", he added, with a sardonic smile. "I wish I were free of
these manacles, that I might follow his _remains_ to Shanvilla
chapel-yard."
"You would go wrong," she calmly reply. "He is indeed dead, but not
buried yet. But he is my dead husband, and will lie with the Cavanas
in the chapel-yard of Rathcash, and rise again with them; and I would
rather be possessed of the inheritance of the six feet of grass upon
his grave than be mistress of Rathcash, and Rathcashmore to boot.
Where will you be buried, Tom Murdock? Within the precincts of--the
jail? To rise with--but no! I shall not condemn beyond the grave; may
God forgive you! I cannot."
Even Tom Murdock's stony heart was moved. "Winny Cavana, do you think
God can?" he said, turning toward her; but she had passed out of the
door.
The magistrate then read the informations of the other witnesses,
while Tom Murdock and the other prisoner, stood apparently listening,
though they heard not a word.
Jamesy Doyle's informations were word for word characteristic of
himself. He insisted upon having the flash of lightning inserted
therein, as an undoubted fact, "if ever he saw one knock a man down in
his life."
The magistrate and "the chief" had then some conversation with old Ned
and Winny, who had returned at their request to the parlor. It was of
a general character, but still respecting the melancholy occurrence,
or indeed occurrences, the magistrate said, for he had heard of the
death of the man who had been killed by the "watch-dog." Ere they left
they took Jamesy aside upon this subject, as the only person who knew
anything of this part of the business, and the magistrate requested
him to state distinctly what he knew of the transaction.
Jamesy was _distinct_ enough, as the reader will believe, from the
specimens he has already had of his style of communicating facts.
"Tell me, my good boy," said the magistrate, "did you _set_ the dog at
the deceased?" laying a strong emphasis on the word.
"Beghorra, your honor, Bully-dhu didn't want any settin' at all. The
minnit he seen the man inside in the kitchen, he stuck in his thrapple
at wanst. I knew he'd hould him till I come back, an' I med off for
the police."
"Are you aware, my young champion, that if you set the dog at the
deceased you would be guilty of manslaughter at least, if not murder?"
"Of murdher, is id? Oh, tare anages, what's this for? Begorra, af that
be law it isn't justice. Didn't they tie th' ould masther neck an'
heels? Didn't they tie Miss Winny and carry her off to murdher her, or
maybe worse? Didn't they tie Biddy Murtagh? and wouldn't they ha' tied
me af they could get hoult of me? an' would you want Bully-dhu to sit
on his boss, lookin' on at all that, your honor?"
"That may be all true, Jamesy, but I do not think the law would
exonerate you, for all that, if you set the dog at the deceased man."
"Well, begorra, I pointed at the man, your honor; but I tell you
Bully-dhu wanted no settin' at him at all; af he did I'd have given it
to him; and I think the law would onerate me for that same. See here
now, your honor. Af th' ould masther had a double-barrel gun, an' shot
the two men as dead as mutton that was goin' to tie him up, wouldn't
the law be well plaised wid him? and if I had a pistol, an' shot every
man iv 'em, wouldn't your honor make a chief iv me at least, instead
of sending me to jail? and why wouldn't Bully-dhu, who had on'y a pair
of double-barrel tusks, do his part an' help us? I'm feedin' an'
taichin' that dog, your honor, since he was a whelp, an' he never
disappointed me yet--there now!"
There was certainly natural logic in all this, which the magistrate,
with all his experience of the law, found it difficult to contradict.
A notion had come into his head at one time that if Jamesy Doyle had
set the dog at John Fahy, he might be guilty of his death,
notwithstanding the said John Fahy had been committing a felony at the
time. But there was no proof that he had set the dog at the man beyond
his own admission, and the question had not been raised. Jamesy was
willing to avow his responsibility, as far as it went, in the most
open and candid manner, and not only that, but to _justify_ it, which
he had indeed done in a most extraordinary, clever manner. Then what
had been his conduct all through? Had it not been that of a
courageous, faithful boy, who had risked his own life in obstructing
the escape of the murderer? and was he not the most material witness
they had--the only one who had never lost sight of the man who had
shot Edward Lennon, until he himself had secured him for the police?
"No, no," reflected the magistrate; "it would be absurd to hold Jamesy
Doyle liable for anything, but the most qualified approbation of his
conduct from first to last."
"Well, Jamesy," said he, out of these thoughts, "we will take your own
opinion in favor of yourself for the present. There is no doubt of
your being forthcoming at the next assizes?"
"Begorra, your honor, I'll stick to the ould masther and Miss Winny,
an' I don't think they're likely to lave this."
"That will do, Jamesy. Come, Mr.----, I think we have taken up almost
enough of these poor people's time. We may be going."
A word or two about old Mick Murdock ere we close this chapter, as the
reader, not having seen or heard of him for some days, will no doubt
be curious to know what he had been doing, and how he comported
himself during so trying and exciting a scene.
During the period which Tom had spent in the obscure little
public-house upon the mountain road in the county Cavan, his own
report that, he had gone to the north had done him no service; for the
addition which he had tacked to it, about "going to get married to a
rich young lady," was not believed by a single person for whose
deception it had been spread abroad. That sort of thing had been so
often repeated without fulfilment that people reversed the cry of the
wolf upon the subject.
There was nothing now for it with those to whom Tom was indebted but
to go to his father, in hopes of some arrangement being made to even
secure them in their money. Several bills of exchange--some overdue,
and some not yet at maturity--with his name across them, were brought
to old Mick for sums varying from ten to fifteen and twenty pounds.
Old Mick quietly pronounced them one and all to be _forgeries_. Tom
and he had had some very sharp words before he went away. He had
called the poor old man a "----old niggard" to his face, and he heard
the words "cannot lost very long," as Tom slapped the door behind him.
Old Mick would have only fretted at all this had his son returned in a
reasonable time to his home, and, as usual, made promises of
amendment, or had even written to him. It was the first time that ever
a forged acceptance had been presented to him for payment, and Tom's
prolonged absence without any preconcerted object to account for it
weighed heavily upon the old man's heart as to his son's real
character. Tom was all this time, as the reader is aware, planning a
bold stroke to secure Winny Cavana's fortune to pay off these
forgeries. But we have seen with what a miserable result.
It was impossible to hide the glaring fact of Tom Murdock's
apprehension and committal to jail upon the dreadful charge of murder
from his father. It rang from one end of the parish to the other. But
instead of rushing to meet his son, clapping his hands, and
exclaiming, "Oh! wiristhrue, wiristhrue! what's this for?" poor old
Mick was completely prostrated by the news; and there he lay in his
bed, unable to move hand or foot from the poignancy of his grief and
disgrace.
If Tom Murdock has broken his poor old father's heart, and he never
rises from that bed, it is only another item in his great account.