The Macdermots of Ballycloran

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.

CHAPTER XXVIII

ASSIZES AT CARRICK-ON-SHANNON

And now the assize week in Carrick-on-Shannon had commenced, and all was bustle and confusion, noise, dirt, and distraction. I have observed that a strong, determined, regularly set-in week of bad weather usually goes the circuit in Ireland in company with the judges and barristers, making the business of those who are obliged to attend even more intolerable than from its own nature it is always sure to be. And so it was in this case.

On Tuesday afternoon Mr. Baron Hamilton and Justice Kilpatrick entered Carrick-on-Shannon, one after the other, in the company of the high sheriff, and a tremendous shower of rain, which drenched the tawdry liveries of the servants, and gave a most uncomfortable appearance to the whole affair.

The grand jury had been in the town since Monday morning – settling fiscal business – wrangling about roads – talking of tolls – checking county cesses – and performing those various patriotic offices, which they would fain make the uninitiated believe, require so much talent, industry, and energy; and as they were seen stepping over the running gutters, and making the best of their way through the splashing streets, their physiognomies appeared ominous of nothing good to the criminals, whose cases had in the first instance to come before them.

Every lodging in the town was engaged, beds being let, sometimes three in a room, for the moderate sum of a guinea each for the week. The hotels, for there are two, were crowded from the garrets to the cellars. Happy the man at such a period, who enjoys a bed-room which he can secure with a key – for without such precaution the rightful possessor is not at all unlikely, on entering his own premises, to find three or four somewhat rough looking strangers, perhaps liberated jurors, or witnesses just escaped from the fangs of a counsel, sitting in most undisturbed ease on his bed, eating bread and butter, and drinking bottled porter. Some huge farmer with dripping frieze coat will be squatted on his pillow, his towel spread as table-cloth on the little deal table which has been allotted to him as the only receptacle for his jug, basin, looking-glass, brushes, and every other article of the toilet, and his carpet-bag, dressing-gown, and pantaloons chucked unceremoniously into a corner, off the chairs which they had occupied, to make way for the damp friends of the big farmer, who is seated on the bed. This man is now drawing a cork from a bottle of porter, the froth of which you are quite sure from the manner in which the bottle is held, will chiefly fall upon the sheets between which you are destined to sleep, – unless some half drunken ruffian, regardless of rights of possession and negligent of etiquette, deposits himself there before the hour at which you may think good to retire to rest.

Fruitless and vain would it be for you to endeavour to disturb that convivial party. Better lock up your bag, above all things not forgetting your brushes; and, as you are a witness yourself, go down to the court and admire the ingenious manner in which the great barrister, Mr. Allewinde, is endeavouring to make that unfortunate and thoroughly disconcerted young man in the witness box, swear to a point diametrically opposite to another point to which he has already sworn at the instigation of counsel on the other side, – and thereby perjure himself. Never mind the bustling of eager, curious countrymen; never mind those noisy numerous policemen with their Sunday brass-chained caps; push on through them all, make your way into the centre of the court – go down there right on to the lawyers' benches; never mind the seats being full – plunge in; if you hesitate, look timid – ask question, or hang back – you are lost, thrust out, expelled, and finally banished with ignominy into the tumultuous sea of damp frieze coats, which æstuates in the outer court. But go on with noise, impudence, and a full face; tread on people's toes, and thrust them back with "by your leave," and you will find yourself soon seated in direct view of the judge, counsel, witness and prisoner. You will be taken for an attorney, or, at any rate, for an influential court witness. If you talk somewhat loud, and frown very angrily in the face of the tallest policeman, you may by the ignorant even be taken for a barrister.

In fact, into court you must come, there is no other place open to receive you. The big room at the hotel, in which we have been three times on such different occasions, the long big room where McKeon presided over so many drunken spirits – where poor Feemy made her last arrangements with her lover at the ball – and where so soon afterwards she was brought forward to give her evidence touching his death, while his cold body was lying dead on the table before her, – this long big room is now set apart for yet another purpose. The grand jury are to dine there, and already the knives and forks are laid out upon the long deal table. The little coffee-room – so called, though whiskey-room, or punch-room, or porter-room would be much the more appropriate name, unless indeed there is a kind of "lucus a non lucendo" propriety in the appellation – is full nearly to suffocation. There is not an unoccupied chair or corner of a table to be found.

Large men half wet through – reeking, smelling most unwholesomely as the rain steams up from their clothes – are keeping the cold out of their stomachs by various spirituous appliances. The room is half covered with damp straw, which has been kicked in from the passage; the windows are closed, and there is a huge fire burning on the other side of that moist mass of humanity. On entering the room you feel that you breathe nothing but second-hand rain; a sojourn there you find to be impossible; the porter drinkers are still in your bed-room, even on your bed up-stairs. What are you to do? where are you to go? Back home you cannot. You have a summons in your pocket; you have been unfortunately present when Mr. Terence O'Flanagan squeezed the fair hand of Miss Letitia Murphy; false Mr. Terence O'Flanagan would not come to the matrimonial altar when required; fair Miss Letitia Murphy demands damages, and you must swear to the fact of the hand having been squeezed as aforesaid. Who can tell when the case may come on? Rumour comes from the clerk of the peace, town clerk, or some other clerk who sits there in pride of place, always conspicuous under the judge's feet, and whispers that Letitia Murphy, spinster, is coming on next. Attorneys' clerks have been round diligently to all witnesses, especially as it seems to yourself, warning you that the important hour is at hand – that on no account may you be absent, so much as ten minutes' walk from the court. Vainly you think to yourself that it can hardly be of such vital import that you, her father's friend, saw little Letty Murphy's hand ensconced one evening in the brawny palm of that false Lothario O'Flanagan; yes, of serious import is it – if not to Letty, or to Terence – yet to that facetious barrister, Mr. O'Laugher, who, at your expense, is going to amuse the dull court for a brief half-hour, – and of importance to yourself, who are about to become the laughing-stock of your county for the next twelve months. It is, therefore, evident that you cannot leave the filthy town with its running gutters – the filthy inn with its steamy stinking atmosphere, and bed-room porter drinkers for good and all, and let Lothario O'Flanagan, Spinster Letty, Lawyers Allewinde and O'Laugher, with Justice Kilpatrick, settle the matter by themselves their own way; but that you must, willy nilly, in spite of rain, crowd, and offensive smell, stay and help to settle it with them. Into court therefore return, unfortunate witness; other shelter have you none; and now being a man of strong nerves, – except when put into a chair to be stared at by judge, bar, grand jury, little jury, attorney, galleries, &c., &c., – you can push your way into a seat, and listen with attention to the quiddities of the legally erudite Mr. Allewinde, as on behalf of his client he ingeniously attempts – nay, as he himself afterwards boasts to the jury, succeeds in making that disconcerted young gentleman in the witness chair commit perjury.

Mr. Allewinde is a most erudite lawyer. He has been for many years employed by the crown in its prosecutions, and with great success. He knows well the art of luring on an approver, or crown witness, to give the information he wants without asking absolutely leading questions; he knows well how to bully a witness brought up on the defence out of his senses, and make him give evidence rather against than for the prisoner; and it is not only witnesses that he bullies, but his very brethren of the gown. The barristers themselves who are opposed to him, at any rate, the juniors, are doomed to bear the withering force of his caustic remarks.