"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.



CHAPTER XXV.

RETROSPECTIVE.

As story-tellers of every description have, from time immemorial, been considered free from those niceties by which all attempts in the nobler classes of literature are, or should be restrained, we consider no apology necessary for requesting the reader to leap over with us the space of four months; but still, before we continue our tale from that date, it will be as well that we should give a short outline of the principal events which produced the state in which the circumstances of the Macdermots will then be found, and we are sorry to say that they were not such as could offer much consolation to them.

It will be remembered that Pat Brady was commissioned by his master to take Ussher's body to the police station at Carrick, in Fred Brown's gig. This commission he promptly performed, and also that of restoring the gig to its owner; and after having thus completed his master's behests like a good servant, he paid a visit on his own account to Mr. Keegan.

Although it was late, he still found that active gentleman up, and gave him a tolerably accurate account of what had happened at Ballycloran, adding that "the young masther had gone off to join the boys, at laste that's what he supposed he'd be afther now." As soon as Keegan's surprise was a little abated, he perceived that the affair would probably act as a stepping-stone, on which he might walk into Ballycloran even sooner than he had hitherto thought to do; and when, as one of the jurors at the coroner's inquest, on the next morning, he saw that poor Larry had evidently fallen into absolute idiotcy, and heard that Thady had, in fact, escaped, he instantly determined to take such legal steps on behalf of his father-in-law as would put the property under his management. And this, accordingly, he did. The proper steps for proving the old man to be of unsound mind would have been attended with very great expense; instead of doing this, he got himself made receiver over the property, and determined to arrest Larry, which, in his existing state, he conceived he should have no difficulty in doing. Here, however, he found himself very much mistaken, for nothing could induce the old man to leave his own room, or so much as allow the front door to be unlocked. Mary Brady still continued to attend him every day, returning home to her husband after sunset, and she found him very easy to manage in every other particular, as long as he was allowed to have his own way in this.

He had quite lost the triumphant feeling which led him to boast in the streets of Carrick, after leaving the inquest, that he had escaped from Flannelly's power, and that he would never have to pay him another farthing; for now if he heard a strange step, he fancied it to be a bailiff's, and if there was the slightest noise in the house, he thought that an attempt was being made to drag him off by violence. It was a miserable sight to see the old man, thin, wan, and worn out, sitting during that cold winter, by a few sods of turf, with the door of his own room ajar, watching the front door from morning till night, to see that no one opened it. Before Christmas he had his bed brought down into the same room, in order that he might not be betrayed into the hands of his enemies in the morning before he was up, and from that time no inducement could prevail on him to leave the room for a moment.

During this time his poverty was very great; the tenants had been served with legal notices to pay neither to him nor to Thady any portion of their rents, and consequently provisions were very low and very scarce at Ballycloran; in fact, had it not been for the kindness of Father John, Mr. McKeon, and Counsellor Webb, whose property was adjoining to Ballycloran, Larry would have been starved into a surrender. Mr. Webb went so far as to interfere with Mr. Keegan, and to point out to him that in all humanity he should stay his proceedings till after Thady's trial, but Keegan replied that he was only acting for Mr. Flannelly, who was determined to have the matter settled at once; that all he wanted was his own, and that he had already waited too long.

When Keegan found that Larry Macdermot, in spite of his infirmities, was too wary to be caught, he endeavoured to bribe Mary to open the door to his emissaries, and to betray the old man; but though Mary was very fond of money, she was too honest for this, and she replied to the attorney by telling him, "that for all the money in the bank of Carrick, she wouldn't be the one to trate the ould blood that way." Larry consequently still held out at Ballycloran, living on the chance presents of his friends, who sent him at one time a few stone of potatoes, at another a pound of tea, then a bit of bacon, or a few bottles of whiskey; this last, however, was confided to Mary, with injunctions not to allow him too frequently to have recourse to the only comforter that was left to him.

Though Keegan failed to gain admission into the house, and could not therefore put himself into absolute possession of the estate, still he could do what he pleased with the lands, and he was not long in availing himself of the power. In January he served notices on all the tenants that unless the whole arrears were paid on or before the end of the next month, they would be ejected; and to many of those who held portions of the better part of the land, he sent summary notices to quit on the first of May next following. These notices were all served by Pat, who assured the tenants that he only performed the duties which he had now undertaken that he might look after Mr. Thady's interests, and as, as he said, "there could be no use in life in his refusing to do it, for av he didn't, another would, and the tenants would be no betther, and he a dale the worse."

These things by no means tended to make Keegan's name popular on the estate, particularly at Drumleesh, where the tenants were but ill prepared to pay their rent by small portions at a time, and were utterly confounded at the idea of having to pay up the arrears in a lump; but Pat assured him that although they were surly and sullen, they gave no signs or showed any determination of having recourse to violence, or of openly rebelling against the authority of their new landlord.

Pat, however, knew but little of what was going on amongst them now. Although they found no absolute fault with the arguments which he used for acting on Mr. Keegan's behalf, still he soon discovered that the tenants had withdrawn their confidence from him, and that they looked upon him rather as the servant of their new tyrant, than as the friend to whom they had been accustomed to turn, when they wanted any little favour from their old master. He had moreover discontinued his visits to Mrs. Mulready's, and had for a long time seen nothing of Joe Reynolds and his set, who spent most of their time in Aughacashel, or at any rate away from Drumleesh.

Joe Reynolds had been altogether unable to account for Thady's sudden disappearance from Aughacashel. At first he thought he must have been taken prisoner by some of the police, whilst roaming about in the neighbourhood; and although he ultimately heard that Father John and he had gone together to Counsellor Webb's, still he never could learn how Thady had fallen into the priest's hands. Joe, however, did not forget that Thady had done what he considered the good service of ridding the country of Ussher, and he swore that he would repay it by punishing the man, who in his estimation was robbing Thady of his right and his property; he had long since declared at Mrs. Mulready's, as we are aware, that if Thady would come over and join his party, Keegan should not come upon the estate with impunity, and he was now determined to keep his word.

Keegan, trusting to the assurance of Pat, that the tenants were all quiet and peaceable, at length began to go among them himself, and had, about the beginning of February, once or twice ridden over portions of the property. About five o'clock one evening in that month, he was riding towards home along the little lane that skirts Drumleesh bog, after having seen as much of that delectable neighbourhood as a man could do on horseback, when his horse was stopped by a man wrapped in a very large frieze coat, but whose face was not concealed, who asked him, "could he spake to his honer about a bit of land that he was thinking of axing afther, when the man that was on it was put off, as he heard war to be done." As the man said this he laid his hands on the bridle, and Keegan fearing from this that something was not right, put his hand into his coat pocket, where his pistols were, and told the man to come to him at Carrick, if he wanted to say anything. The man, however, continued, "av his honer wouldn't think it too much throuble jist to come down for one moment, he'd point out the cabin which he meant." Keegan was now sure from the man's continuing to keep his hand on the bridle, that some injury to him was intended, and was in the act of drawing his pistol from his pocket, when he was knocked altogether from off his horse by a blow which he received on the head with a large stone, thrown from the other side of one of the banks which ran along the road. The blow and the fall completely stunned him, and when he came to himself he was lying on the road; the man who had stopped his horse was kneeling on his chest; a man, whose face was blackened, was holding down his two feet, and a third, whose face had also been blackened, was kneeling on the road beside him with a small axe in his hand. Keegan's courage utterly failed him when he saw the sharp instrument in the ruffian's grasp; he began to promise largely if they would let him escape—forgiveness—money—land—anything—everything for his life. Neither of them, however, answered him, and before the first sentence he uttered was well out of his mouth, the instrument fell on his leg, just above the ankle, with all the man's force; the first blow only cut his trousers and his boot, and bruised him sorely,—for his boots protected him; the second cut the flesh, and grated against the bone; in vain he struggled violently, and with all the force of a man struggling for his life; a third, and a fourth, and a fifth descended, crushing the bone, dividing the marrow, and ultimately severing the foot from the leg. When they had done their work, they left him on the road, till some passer by should have compassion on him, and obtain for him the means of conveyance to his home.

In a short time Keegan fainted from loss of blood, but the cold frost soon brought him to his senses; he got up and hobbled to the nearest cabin, dragging after him the mutilated foot, which still attached itself to his body by the cartilages and by the fragments of his boot and trousers; and from thence reached his home on a country car, racked by pain, which the jolting of the car and the sharp frost did not tend to assuage.

At the time of which we are writing—about the first week in March—he had been entirely unable to ascertain any of the party by whom he had been attacked. The men were Dan Kennedy, Joe Reynolds, and Corney Dolan; of these, Joe alone was personally known to Keegan, and it was he who used the axe with such fell cruelty; but he had been so completely disguised at the time, that Keegan had not in the least recognised him. Dan was the man who had at first stopped the horse, and he being confident that Keegan had not even heard his name, and that he was very unlikely to be in any place where his victim could again see him so as to know him, had not feared to stop the horse, and address its rider without any disguise.

This act, which was originally proposed and finally executed more with the intent of avenging Thady, than with any other purpose, was the most unfortunate thing for him that could have happened; for in the first place it made the magistrates and the government imagine that the country was in a disorderly state generally, and that it was therefore necessary to follow up the prosecutions at the Assizes with more than ordinary vigour; and in the next place, it made Keegan determined to do all that he could to secure Thady's conviction, for he attributed his horrible mutilation to the influence of the Macdermots.

Other things had also occurred during the four months since Thady had given himself up to the authorities, which had determined the law officers of the government to follow up Ussher's murderer with all severity, and obtain if possible a conviction.

The man who had been sent to Mohill in Ussher's place was by no means his equal either in courage, determination, or perseverance; still it had been necessary for him to follow to a certain degree in his predecessor's steps, especially as at the time illicit distillation had become more general in the country than it had ever been known to be before. A man named Cogan, who had acted very successfully as a spy to Ussher, also offered his services to the new officer, by whom they were accepted. This man had learnt that potheen was being made at Aughacashel, and, dressed in the uniform of one of the Revenue police, had led the men to Dan Kennedy's cabin. Here they merely found Abraham, the cripple, harmlessly employed in superintending the boiling of some lumpers, and Andy McEvoy in the other cabin, sitting on his bed; not a drop of potheen—not a grain of malt—not a utensil used in distillation was found, and they had to return foiled and beaten.

The new officer, whose name was Foster, also received various threatening letters, and among them the following:—

This is to giv' notis, Captin Furster, av you'll live and let live, and be quite an' pacable—divil a rason is there, why you need be afeard—but av you go on among the Leatrim boys—as that bloody thundhering ruffin Ussher, by the etarnal blessed Glory, you wul soon be streatched as he war—for the Leatrim boys isn't thim as wul put up with it.

This was only one of many that he received—and these, together with the futility of his first attempt—a tremendous stoning which he and his men received in the neighbourhood of Drumshambo—the burning of Cogan's cabin, and the fate of his predecessor, totally frightened him; and he represented to the head office in Dublin that the country was in such a state, that he was unable, with the small body of men at his command, to carry on his business with anything approaching to security.

These things all operated much against the chance of Thady's acquittal, and his warmest friends could not but feel that they did so. People in the country began to say that some severe example was necessary—that the country was in a dreadful state—and that the government must be upheld; and these fears became ten times greater, when it was generally known that Thady, a day or two before the catastrophe, had absolutely associated with some of the most desperate characters in the country.

Brady, at first, had been unwilling to divulge all that he knew to Mr. Keegan; for, though he felt no hesitation in betraying his old master, he was not desirous to hang him; but Keegan, by degrees, got it all out of him, and bribed so high that Pat, at last, consented to come forward at the trial and swear to all the circumstances of the meeting at Mrs. Mehan's, and the attorney lost no time in informing the solicitor, who was to conduct the prosecution on behalf of the crown, what this witness was able to prove.

All this was sad news for Father John, and his friend McKeon, but still they would not despair. They talked the matter over and over again in McKeon's parlour, and Tony occasionally almost forgot his punch in his anxiety to put forward and make the most of all those points, which he considered to be in Thady's favour. It was not only the love of justice, his regard for the family of the Macdermots, and Father John's eloquence which had enlisted McKeon so thoroughly in Thady's interest,—though, no doubt, these three things had great weight with him,—but his own personal predilections had also a considerable share in doing so.

The three leading resident gentlemen in the neighbourhood were Sir Michael Gibson, Mr. Jonas Brown, and Counsellor Webb; they were the three magistrates who regularly attended the petty sessions at Carrick; and as they usually held different opinions on all important subjects relative to the locality in which they resided, so all their neighbours swore by one of them, condemning the other two as little better than fools or knaves.

Sir Michael was by far the richest, and would, therefore, naturally have had the greatest number of followers, had it not been that it was usually extremely difficult to find out what his opinion was. He was neither a bad nor a good landlord—that is to say, his land was seldom let for more than double its value; and his agent did not eject his tenants as long as they contrived not to increase the arrears which they owed when he undertook the management of the property; but Sir Michael himself neither looked after their welfare, or took the slightest care to see that they were comfortable.

On the bench, by attempting to agree with both his colleagues, he very generally managed to express an opinion different from either of them; and as he was, of course, the chairman, the decisions of the bench were in consequence frequently of a rather singular nature; however, on the whole, Sir Michael was popular, for if he benefited none, he harmed none; and he was considered by many a safe constitutional man, with no flighty ideas on any side.

Jonas Brown was hated by the poor. In every case he would, if he had the power, visit every fault committed by them with the severest penalty awarded by the law. He was a stern, hard, cruel man, with no sympathy for any one, and was actuated by the most superlative contempt for the poor, from whom he drew his whole income. He was a clever, clear-headed, avaricious man; and he knew that the only means of keeping the peasantry in their present utterly helpless and dependent state, was to deny them education, and to oppose every scheme for their improvement and welfare. He dreaded every movement which tended to teach them anything, and when he heard of landlords reducing their rents, improving cabins, and building schools, he would prophesy to his neighbour, Sir Michael, that the gentry would soon begin to repent of their folly, when the rents they had reduced were not paid, the cabins which they had made comfortable were filled with ribbonmen, and when the poor had learnt in the schools to disobey their masters and landlords. Sir Michael never contradicted all this, and he would probably have become a second Jonas Brown, and much more injurious, because so much more extensive in his interests, were it not for the counteracting influence of Counsellor Webb, who was in all his opinions diametrically opposed to Mr. Brown.

Mr. Webb was a clear-headed, and a much more talented man than his brother magistrate. He was, moreover, a kind-hearted landlord—ever anxious to ameliorate the condition of the poor—and by no means greedy after money, though he was neither very opulent nor very economical. But, nevertheless, with all these high qualities he was hardly the man most fit to do real good in a very poor and ignorant neighbourhood. He was, in the first place, by far too fond of popularity, and of being the favourite among the peasantry; and, in the next, he had become so habituated to oppose Jonas Brown in all his sayings and doings, that he now did so whether he was right or wrong.

Thady's case had been much talked of in the country, and the rival magistrates, of course, held diametrically opposite opinions respecting it.

Jonas Brown had declared at his own table, that "unless that young man were hanged, there would be an end to anything like law in the country; his being the son of a landlord made it ten times worse; if the landlords themselves turned ribbonmen, and taught the tenants all manner of iniquity, and the law didn't then interfere, it would be impossible to live in the country; he, for one, should leave it. Here had a most praiseworthy servant of the crown—a man who had merited the thanks of the whole country by the fearless manner in which he had performed his duties, here," he said, "had this man been murdered in cold blood by a known ribbonman, by one, who, as he understood, had, a few days before the murder, conspired with others to commit it; and yet he was told there were a pack of people through the country—priests, and popularity hunters, who were not only using their best endeavours to screen the murderer, but who absolutely justified the deed. By G——d, he couldn't understand how a man, holding the position of a gentleman, could so far forget what he owed to his country and himself as to dirty his hands with such a filthy business as this, however absurd his general opinions on politics might be. As for the man's sister, that was all a got up story since the business. Every one knew that the family had been trying to catch the young man for the girl; she had been allowed to walk with Captain Ussher at all hours, night and day; and he was doing no more than walking with her when he was basely murdered by her brother. As for him (Jonas Brown), he hoped and trusted the murderer would be hung as he deserved."

The purport of this piece of after-dinner eloquence was duly conveyed to Counsellor Webb, who fully appreciated the remarks about the popularity-hunting gentleman who was dirtying his hands. Up to this time these two men, though differing so widely from each other, had still kept up a show of courtesy between them; but Mr. Brown's remarks altogether put an end to it.

Counsellor Webb never again addressed him in friendly terms.

He did not, however, in the least relax his efforts on Thady's behalf, or express less strongly his opinion on the case. He told Sir Michael one morning in Carrick, after some public meeting at which all the gentry of the neighbourhood had been present, and while many of them, and among them Mr. Brown, were standing by, that "he had lately been giving a great deal of very close attention to that very distressing case of young Mr. Macdermot; he thought it was the most melancholy and heartrending case he had ever known. It was proved beyond possibility of doubt that Ussher was eloping with the young man's sister; it seemed now to be pretty certain that the girl was herself absolutely senseless at the time the occurrence took place; he believed she had changed her mind, or got frightened, or what not; it was now a known fact, that she was being dragged senseless in the man's arms, when Macdermot attacked him. And was a brother to stand by and look on at such a sight as that, and not protect his sister, and punish the miscreant who was endeavouring to dishonour her? Was Mr. Macdermot to turn his back upon the affair, and leave his sister to her fate because, forsooth, the man who did it was a Revenue officer? Let us bring the matter home to ourselves, Sir Michael," he continued. "Suppose you saw that gay young Captain Jem Boyle hurrying through the demesne at Knockadrum with one of your own fair flock in his arms, violently carrying her off, wouldn't you not only knock him down yourself, if you could catch him; but also set all your people after him, begging them to do the same? Of course, you would; and what more has this young man done? Unfortunately he struck too hard; but that, although we may deplore the circumstance, shows no criminality on his part; but only the strong indignation which he very properly felt. As to the cock and bull story of his being a ribbonman, no man of sense could entertain it. It appears that a few nights before the occurrence he went to a tenant's wedding, and unfortunately took a drop too much punch. That had been many a good man's case before his. And then he got among a lot of men who were uttering vague, nonsensical threats against different persons, whom they disliked. One, I hear, says that Ussher was threatened; and another—and, I am told, by far the more creditable witness—that it was Keegan, the attorney, whose name was mentioned; it appears, that when drunk, he promised to join these men in another drinking party, which promise he, of course, never thought of keeping after he was sober; and yet there are some who are cruel enough to say—I won't say harsh enough to believe, for they can't believe it—that when he attacked Ussher in his sister's defence, Macdermot was only carrying into execution a premeditated plan of murdering him! Premeditated indeed, when it was plain to every one, that it was by the merest accident that he happened to be in the avenue at the time. People might just as well say that it was he who cut off the attorney's foot the other day, though he was in gaol at the time. I must say," continued the Counsellor, "that should the poor young man fall a victim to the false evidence which I am aware private malice and wretchedly vindictive feeling will supply, then the basest murder will really have been committed which ever disgraced this county. I don't envy the state of mind of any gentleman who can look forward with a feeling of satisfaction to the prospect of that poor youth's being hanged for protecting his sister, merely because the seducer was in habits of intimacy with himself or his family."

Mr. Brown left the meeting, taking no immediate notice of the Counsellor's philippic. It was not, however, because he did not comprehend the latter part of it, or that he meant to overlook it.

Sir Michael was much distressed in making up his mind finally on the subject. It was reported, however, soon after the meeting above alluded to, that he had stated to some of his more immediate friends and admirers, that "he considered it highly discreditable, he might say disgraceful, for any of the more respectable classes to give any countenance to the illegal meetings, which he was afraid were too general through the country, and that there was too much reason to fear that the unfortunate man in prison had been guilty in doing so; but that there could be no doubt that every one was justified—he might add, only performed his bounden duty—in protecting the females of his family from injury or violence."

Now Tony McKeon was a tenant both of Sir Michael and of the Counsellor; he also held land from other landlords, but he had no connexion whatever with Mr. Brown: he was not at all the sort of tenant that Jonas liked; for though he always punctually paid his rent to the day, he usually chose to have everything his own way, and would take no land except at a fair rent and on a long lease.

Mr. Webb, however, was his chief friend and principal ally in the country. Sir Michael was altogether too grand for him, seeing that Tony had no idea of being a humble dependent; but Mr. Webb would occasionally come and dine with him—and often asked him in return. Mrs. Webb too was civil to his wife and the girls—always lent them the Dublin pattern for their frills, frocks, and other frippery—and seldom drove into Drumsna without calling. The consequence was, that the Counsellor was a man after Tony's own heart. Though they were of different religions, they had, generally speaking, the same political feelings and opinions—the same philanthropical principles—and the same popular prejudices; and after a few years intimacy in each other's neighbourhood, Mr. Webb well knew where to find a powerful recruit for any service in which he might wish to enlist one.

Tony declared that if any one spoke ill of Feemy's character, he should make it personal with himself; that he was ready, willing, and moreover determined to quarrel with any one who dared to apply the opprobrious name of murderer to Thady; and he had even been heard, on one or two occasions, to stand up for Larry himself, and to declare that although he might be a little light-headed or so, he was still a deal better than those muddy-minded blackguards at Carrick who had driven him to his present state.

For a long time Feemy had been very ill, but after Christmas she had apparently got a little stronger; she would sit up in her bed-room for a few hours in the day; but still she would talk to no one. Mrs. McKeon endeavoured more than once to lead her to the subject which she knew must be nearest her heart, thinking that if she could be got to speak of it, she would be relieved; but in vain. In vain she tried to interest her in her brother's fate—in vain she tried to make her understand that Thady's safety—that his acquittal would, in a great degree, depend on her being able to prove, at the trial, that at the time when the occurrence took place, she was herself insensible. She shuddered violently at the idea of being again questioned, and declared with sobs that she should die if she were again dragged to that horrid place. When Mrs. McKeon asked her if she would not make a struggle to save her brother's life, she remained mute. It was evident that it was for her lover that she was still grieving, and that it was not the danger or ignominy of Thady's position that afflicted her.

Mrs. McKeon, however, conceived it to be her duty to persevere with her—and, at last, told her how wrong it was of her to give way to a grief, which was in its first stage respected. Feemy answered her only with tears; and on the next morning told her that she had determined to return to Ballycloran, as she thought she would be better there, at home with her father.

To this, however, Mrs. McKeon would not consent, and Feemy was told that the doctor had forbidden her to be moved. She was, therefore, obliged to remain satisfied for the present, as she had no means of escaping from Drumsna; but she soon became more sullen than ever—and, at last, almost refused to speak to any one.

Things went on in this way till about the middle of March. Feemy constantly requested to be allowed to go home, which request was as constantly refused; when different circumstances acting together gave rise to a dreadful suspicion in Mrs. McKeon's mind. She began to fear that Ussher, before his death, had accomplished the poor girl's ruin, and that she was now in the family way. For some few days she was determined to reject the idea, and endeavoured to make herself believe that she was mistaken; but the more close her observations were, the more certain she became that her suspicions were well founded. She was much distressed as to what she should do. Her first and most natural feelings were those of anger against Feemy, and of dismay at the situation into which her own and her husband's good nature had brought herself and her daughters; and she made up her mind that Feemy should at once have her wish and return to Ballycloran. But then, she might be mistaken—or even, if it were too true—how could she turn the poor girl, weak, ill, and miserable, out of her house, and send her to an empty unprovided barrack, inhabited by an infirm, idiotical old man, where she could receive none of that attention which her situation so much required?

She communicated her suspicions to the doctor, and after a few days' observations, he told her that there was too much reason to fear that the case was as she supposed. He, however, strongly advised her to speak to Miss Macdermot herself on the subject. This she did, at last, most tenderly, and with the greatest gentleness—but still imploring Feemy to tell her the truth. Feemy, at first, could not speak in reply; she threw herself on her bed sobbing most violently, and fell from one fit into another, till Mrs. McKeon was afraid that she would choke herself with the violence of her emotion. At last, however, she declared that the accusation brought against her was untrue—protested on her most solemn word and honour that it was not the case—and ended by saying how thankful she was to Mrs. McKeon for her kindness and protection, but that she must now beg her to allow her to return to Ballycloran.

Feemy's denial of the charge against her was so firm, and so positively made, that it very much shook her friend's suspicions. When Feemy begged to be sent home, she told her not to agitate herself at present—that they would all see how she was in a day or two—and then speaking a few kind words to her, left her to herself.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DUEL.

Mr. Jonas Brown was in a towering passion, when he left the meeting at which he had listened to, but had not ventured to answer, Counsellor Webb's remarks respecting Thady Macdermot and the supposed intimacy between Ussher and the inmates of Brown Hall. He had so openly expressed his wish that the young man might be capitally punished—and this joined to the fact that Ussher had not been as intimate at any other house as he had been at Brown Hall, could leave no doubt on the mind of any one who had been present, that Webb's allusion had been intended for him. His first impulse was to challenge his foe at once; but his ardour on that point soon cooled a little, and he came to the conclusion of sleeping on the matter, or, at any rate, of drinking a bottle or two of wine over it with his sons.

As soon as the servant had withdrawn after dinner he began his grievance.

"By G——d, Fred, that ruffian Webb is passing all bounds. He's not only forgotten the opinions and notions of a gentleman, but he has lain down the manners of one too."

"Why, what has he done now? With all his queer ideas, Webb can be a gentleman if he pleases," said Fred.

"I must say," said George, "the Counsellor is a good fellow on the course. I don't care how seldom I see him anywhere else."

"I don't know what you may call being a good fellow or a gentleman," replied the father; "but I know he has insulted me publicly, and that in the most gross way, and before half the country. I don't know whether that's your idea of acting like a gentleman or a good fellow."

"It's what many a gentleman and many a good fellow has done before him," said George; "but if he has insulted you, of course he must apologize—or do the other thing."

"What—let it alone?" rejoined Fred.

"No; fight—and that's what he's a deal the most likely to do," said George.

"Be d——d," said old Brown, "but I think both of you seem glad to hear that your father has been insulted! you've neither of you a grain of proper feeling."

"It's with a grain or two of gunpowder, I'd take it," said George, "and I'd advise you, father, to do the same; a precious deal better thing than good feeling to settle an insult with."

"But you've not told us what it's all about?" said Fred; "what was the quarrel about?"

"Quarrel! there was no quarrel at all in the matter—I couldn't quarrel with him for I wouldn't speak to him. It was about that infernal friend of yours, Fred, that Ussher; I wish he'd never darkened this door."

"Poor devil!" answered Fred; "there's no use abusing him now he's dead. I suppose the row wasn't his fault."

"It was about him though, and the low blackguard that murdered him. Webb was talking about him, making a speech in the public-room, taking the fellow's part, as I'm told he's always doing, and going on with all the clap-trap story about protecting his sister;—as if every one in the country didn't know that she'd been Ussher's mistress for months back. Well, that was all nothing to me—only he'll be rightly served when he finds every man on his estate has become a ribbonman, and every other tenant ready to turn murderer. But this wasn't enough for him, but at the end of the whole he must declare—I forget what it was he said—but something about Ussher's intimacy here—that it was a shameful thing of me to be wishing on that account that this Macdermot should be hanged, as he deserves."

"Did he actually mention Brown Hall?" asked Fred.

"No; but he put it so that there could be no mistake about it; he said he didn't envy my state of mind."

"Well, tell him you don't envy his. I don't think you could call him out for that," said George.

"By heavens you're enough to provoke a saint!" continued the father. "Can't you believe me, when I tell you, he made as direct a cut at Brown Hall as he could, because I can't repeat all his words like a newspaper? By G——d the pluck's gone out of the country entirely! if as much had been said to my father, when I was your age, I'd have had the fellow who said it out, if he'd been the best shot in Connaught."

"Don't say another word, father," said George, "if that's what you're after. I thought, may be, you'd like the fun yourself, or I'd have offered. I'd call him out with a heart and a half; there's nothing I'd like better. May be I'd be able to make up a match between Diamond and the Counsellor's brown mare, when it's done. He'd be a little soft, would Webb, after such a job as that, and wouldn't stand for a few pounds difference."

"That's nonsense, George," said the father, a little mollified by the son's dutiful offer. "I don't want any one to take the thing off my hands. I don't want to be shelved that way—but I wish you to see the matter in the right light. I tell you the man was cursedly insolent, Fred; in fact, he said what I don't mean to put up with; and the question is, what had I better do?"

"He didn't say anything, did he," asked Fred, "with your name, or Brown Hall in it?"

"No, he didn't name them exactly."

"Then I don't think you can call for an apology; write him a civil note, and beg him to say that he intended no allusion to you or your family in what he said."

"Fred's right for once," said George, "that's all you can do as the matter stands now. If he won't say that, call him out and have done with it."

"I've no wish to be fighting," said the father; "in fact, at my time of life I'd rather not. I was ready enough once, but I'd sooner settle it quietly."

"Why, there's no contenting you," answered Fred; "just now nothing but pistols and coffee would do for you; and then you were in a passion because one of us wouldn't take a challenge for you at once, without knowing anything about it; and now you're just the other way; if you don't like the business, there's George will take it off your hands, he says."

After a considerable quantity of squabbling among this family party it was at last decided that a civil note should be sent to Ardrum, in which Mr. Webb should be desired to state that he had made no allusion to Brown Hall; accordingly a servant on horseback was dispatched on the Monday morning with the following missive:—

Brown Hall, Sunday Evening.

Mr. Brown presents his compliments to Mr. Webb, and begs to inform him that certain expressions which fell from him at the meeting at Carrick on Saturday respecting the murder of Captain Ussher, have been thought by many to have had reference to the family at Brown Hall. Mr. Brown feels himself assured that Mr. Webb would not so far forget himself, as to make any such allusion in public to a neighbouring gentleman and magistrate; but as Mr. Webb's words were certainly singular in their reference to Captain Ussher's intimacy with some family in the neighbourhood, and as many conceive that they were directly pointed at Brown Hall, Mr. Brown must beg Mr. Webb to give him his direct assurance in writing that nothing which fell from him was intended to apply either to Mr. Brown or his family.

To W. WEBB, Esq., Ardrum.

Mr. Webb was at home when the servant arrived, and, only detaining him two minutes, sent him back with the following answer:—

Ardrum, Monday Morning.

Mr. Webb presents his compliments to Mr. Brown. Mr. Webb regrets that he cannot comply with the request made in Mr. Brown's letter of yesterday's date.

To JONAS BROWN, Esq., Brown Hall.

The conclave at Brown Hall, on receipt of this laconic epistle, unanimously declared that it was tantamount to a declaration of war, and that desperate measures must at once be adopted.

"The sod's the only place now, father," said George; "by heavens I like him the better for not recanting."

"He's a cursed good shot," said Fred. "Would you like to send for Keegan before you go out?"

"Keegan be d——d!" said George; "but have Blake by, for he'll wing you as sure as Moses."

"May be not," said Fred. "Webb's a d——d good shot in a gallery; but may be he won't allow for the wind on the sod; but it'll be as well to have the sawbones."

"No fear of your legs, governor, for he'll fire high. The shoulder's his spot; you may always tell from a man's eye where he'll fix the sight of a pistol. Webb always looks up. If his tool lifts a little, he'll fire over you."

"Yes, he might," said Fred; "or take you on the head—which wouldn't be so pleasant. I'm not particular—but I'd better run my chance myself with a chap that fired low."

"There you're out," answered the brother. "The low shot's the death-shot. Why man, if you did catch a ball in the head, you'd get over it—if it was in the mouth, or cheek, or neck, or anywhere but the temple; but your body's all over tender bits. May heaven always keep lead out of my bowels—I'd sooner have it in my brains."

The father fidgetted about very uneasily whilst enduring these pleasant remarks from his affectionate children, which, it is needless to say, they made for his particular comfort and amusement at the present moment. At last he lost his temper, and exclaimed—

"D—— your brains, you fool—I don't believe you've got any! what's the use of the two of you going on that way—you that were never out in your life. I tell you when a man's standing to be fired at, he doesn't know, nine times in ten, whether he fires high or low. Who'll I get to go out with me?"

"Yes, and take your message," said Fred; "you've a deal to do yet before you're snug home again."

"Well, who'll I get to go to him?"

"Why wouldn't I do?" suggested George. George, at any rate, had the merit of being a good son.

"Nonsense," said Fred; "if the governor got shot you'd be considered a brute if you were cool; and a man should be cool then."

"Cool," said George; "I'd be as cool as a cucumber."

"Nonsense," said the father; "of course I couldn't go out with my own son; there's Theobald French; I went out with his cousin just after Waterloo."

"He can't show—he's on his keeping. He'd be nabbed before he was on the ground."

"Then I'll have Larkin; I've known him since I was a boy."

"Larkin's too old for that game now; he'd be letting them have Webb up with his back to the sun."

"Murphy, of Mullough; he's used to these things—I'll send over to him."

"Murphy's up to snuff; but since the affair of the bill he forged Dan Connolly's name to, he's queerly thought of. It wouldn't do at all, governor, to send anyone that Webb's friend could refuse to meet."

"I'll tell you, father, who'd be proud of the job—and he's quite a gentleman now, since he got an estate of his own—and that's Cynthy Keegan. It'd be great fun to see him stepping the ground, and he only with one foot."

"By heavens, George, you're a born fool; must you have your d——d joke, when I'm talking so seriously?"

"Upon my soul, then, if it were myself, I'd send for Keegan. He'd think the compliment so great, he wouldn't refuse, and it'd be such a joke to see him on the ground with his crutches. But if you don't like the attorney, send to Fitzpatrick."

"He's so young," said the father; "he'd do very well for either of you; but I'd want some one steadier."

"Besides," said Fred, "Webb and Fitz are bosom friends. I wouldn't wonder if Fitz were Webb's friend himself."

"I tell you, father—Major Longsword's exactly the boy," said George; "send to Boyle for him; he wants to get a name in the country, and the job'll just suit him."

"You're right for once, George," said Jonas, "Longsword's just the man that will answer." And accordingly it was at last decided that Major Longsword was to be the honoured individual. He had dined once or twice at Brown Hall, and therefore there was some excuse for calling upon him; and a note was accordingly written to him, with a great deal of blarney about his station and experience, and the inexpediency of entrusting affairs of honour to inexperienced country gentlemen. This had the effect of immediately bringing him over to Brown Hall, and on the Tuesday morning he was dispatched to Ardrum, to make what arrangements he pleased with Mr. Webb.

To give Major Longsword his due, Mr. Brown could not have made a much better choice; for though he was a disciple of that school, which thoroughly entertained the now antiquated notion that the world—that is, the world of men in broad cloth—could not go on without duels, or a pretence of duels; still he was one who, as a second, would do all in his power to prevent an absolute effusion of lead. He was a great hand at an apology, and could regulate its proper degree of indifference or abjectness to the exact state of the case; he could make it almost satisfactory to the receiver, without being very disagreeable to the giver; he could twaddle about honour for ever without causing bloodshed; and would, if possible, protect a man's reputation and body at the same time.

He started on his mission of peace with the determined intention of returning with some document in his pocket which would appease Mr. Brown's irritated feelings, and add another laurel to the wreath which he considered his due as a peace-maker.

He was shown into Mr. Webb's parlour, where that gentleman soon joined him, and he was not long in making known his business. Major Longsword plumed himself on his manners in such embassies, and to-day he was perfect.

"Now, Mr. Webb," he continued after a long preamble, "of course I am not to judge of the propriety of any words you may think fit to use; but, I am afraid I must admit in this case, a somewhat—I must say a somewhat unwarranted allusion was made to my friend. Such I can assure you is the general opinion. Now, if you will allow me to say as much, I think,—I cannot but think, you were right—perfectly right—in not disclaiming such an allusion, having once made it; but I trust, indeed I feel confident, that a man of your acknowledged sense, and general character as a man of the world, will not object to give me a line—a mere line will suffice—addressed to myself; I wouldn't ask you in such a matter to write to Mr. Brown—a mere line, just stating that you regret having said anything in your fervour which should hurt any one's feelings. The matter you know is now in my hands, and I pledge myself that shall suffice; I really think such a bagatelle as that cannot be objectionable to you. Were I in your place, I can assure you, Mr. Webb, as a man of honour, I should be delighted to do the same."

"Were you in my place, Major Longsword," replied the Counsellor, "you would, no doubt, act with more judgment than I shall do; but without wishing to say anything offensive to you, I may as well assure you at once that I will give no letter to any one on the subject."

"But, Mr. Webb, you cannot deny or justify the allusion—the very pointed allusion?"

"I certainly shall not deny it; indeed to you, Major Longsword, I have no objection to acknowledge it."

"And yet you'll not just state your regret—in a note to myself mind! Why, Mr. Webb, you can't but regret it; you can't desire bloodshed."

"Indeed, Major, I do not regret it. Your friend considered himself at liberty to accuse me in private—not by name, but by allusion, as you say—of certain feelings and opinions derogatory to me. I have retaliated in public. I believe now you will own that I consult your convenience best by telling you that Major Macdonnel, of Tramore, is my friend in this matter. He will make all arrangements with you for the immediate termination of this affair."

"I shall be proud to see the Major; but still let me hope, Mr. Webb, that this little affair may be arranged. As a magistrate, and as a man, I may say, not exactly in your premiere jeunesse—"

"As a magistrate, and as a man not exactly, as you say, in my premiere jeunesse, for I was fifty yesterday, let me assure you that if Mr. Brown intends to call me out, I shall go out. If he intends to let me alone, I shall be better pleased to be let alone; as for a word, or a line of retractation or apology, I will not give it."

"But, Mr. Webb—"

"Forgive me for interrupting you, but allow me to suggest that any further remarks you may have to make on the subject had better be made to my friend, Major Macdonnel."

"Would you allow me to put it to you in another light? Suppose now—"

"Major Longsword, the idea of being uncourteous to any man in my own house is particularly grievous to me; but with your pardon I must say that I cannot continue this conversation with you. If you will allow me the honour of considering the remainder of your visit one of compliment, I shall be proud to increase my acquaintance with a gentleman for whom I entertain so profound a respect."

The baffled Major was obliged to take the hint, to move himself off, and have recourse to his brother major. Major Macdonnel received his visitor with a very long face, assured him that his principal had left him nothing to do but to arrange the meeting, and that however willing he might be to agree to pacific measures himself, he had no power to do so. The Boyle Major, however, found a more willing listener in his colleague than in the Counsellor, and made many eloquent dissertations; but it was all to no purpose; he was obliged to return to Brown Hall, signally defeated as he felt himself, and with the tidings that a place had been agreed to, and that the meeting was to take place at eight, A.M., the next morning.

"I had really hoped, Mr. Brown, to have been able to settle this little matter amicably; indeed I had no doubt about it; but I must say a more impracticable gentleman to deal with than Mr. Webb, it was never my lot to meet upon such an occasion."

The Major dined at Brown Hall, and could not but admire the solicitude which the two sons expressed for their father's safety, and the filial manner in which they comforted him. During dinner he was somewhat silent and moody; but when he got to his wine he recovered his spirits, and seemed tolerably happy. Indeed he conducted himself wonderfully well, considering that during the whole evening Fred and George would talk of nothing but trepanned skulls, false knee-caps—cork legs—bullets that had come out of men's backs ten years after they had entered men's bellies—surgeon's knives—pincers and tourniquets—wills—attorneys—leaden coffins, and the family vault. George expressed a great desire to go and see his parent shot. Fred said that eight o'clock was so damnation early, or else he'd be happy. George was so warm in his solicitude, that in spite of his father's declining this mark of his affection, he insisted on attending him to the ground; and it was only when Major Longsword gravely assured him that if he, George, was there he, Major Longsword, would not be there too, that the anxious son was prevailed on to give up his project.

The affair was to come off in the County Roscommon, about a mile and a half from Carrick, at the edge of a small copse, about a mile on the left-hand side of the Boyle road. A message had been conveyed to Doctor Blake to be near the spot with the different instruments that had been so freely named on the previous evening. At the hour appointed, the military Major and his friend arrived in the Brown Hall chariot, and a few minutes afterwards the ex-military Major and his man appeared on the Counsellor's car. Had any one walked about the ground with very scrutinising eyes, he might have espied Doctor Blake snugly ensconced under a bank with a cigar in his mouth, and a small mahogany box lying at his feet.

The carriages had been left a few hundred yards distant, and the two servants, well knowing what was going to happen, discussed cosily and leisurely the chance they either of them had of carrying home a dead master.

"Faix, Barney," said the Brown Hall whip, "I believe we stand a baddish chance; they do be saying the Counsellor's mighty handy with the powdher; would you plaze to try a blast this cowld morning?" and he handed him his pipe.

"And thank ye kindly too, Dan; it's a mighty cowld place. Why thin it's thrue for you,—the masther is handy with the powdher; more power to his elbow this morning."

"But whisper now, Barney, did he iver shoot many now to your knowing? did he shoot 'em dead? I wonder whether Mr. Fred will be keeping on the chariot; he's more taste in the gig way, I'm fearing."

"Why thin, the Counsellor mayn't shoot him dead; that is, av he behaves himself, and don't have no blusthering. Was old Jonas much afeard, now, Dan?"

"Afeard, is it! the divil wouldn't fright him. Maybe, after all, it's the Counsellor 'll be shot first."

"Oh, in course he may," said Barney; "oh musha, musha, wirrasthrue, how'd I ever be looking the misthress and the young ladies in the face, av I was taking him home dead and buried as he's likely to be, av he don't hit that owld masther of yours in the very first go off;" and then the man's air of triumph at the idea of his master's shooting Jonas Brown, turned to despondency as the thought struck him that the Counsellor might be shot himself. But he soon cheered up again at a brighter reflection.

"But that'd be the wake, Dan! My; there'd have been nothing like that in the counthry, since old Peyton was waked up at Castleboy; not a man in the county but would be there, nor a woman neither; and signs on, there's not another in the counthry at all like the masther for a poor man."

At this moment two shots were heard.

"Virgin Mary!—there they are at it," said Dan; "now they're oncet began in arnest, they'll not lave it till they're both dead, or there's not a grain of powdher left. Bad cess to them Majors for bringing thim together; couldn't they be fighting theyselles av they plazed, and not be setting the real gentry of the counthry at each other like game cocks?"

"Had they much powdher I wonder, Dan? Was there a dail of ammunition in the carriage?"

"Faix their war so; that Major, bad luck to him, had his own and Master George's horns crammed with powdher, and as many bullets in a bag under his coat-tail as he could well-nigh carry."

"Then they're one or both as good as dead; they're loading again now, I'll go bail. Och! that I'd thrown the owld horse down coming over the bridge, and pitched the masther into the wather. I'd be a dail readier getting him out of that, than putting the life into him when he's had three or four of them bullets through his skin."

"It's thrue for you, Barney," said the good-natured Dan; "and as Mr. Fred couldn't well be turning an owld servant like me off the place av he didn't keep up the chariot, I wish it mayn't be the Counsellor's luck to be first kilt, for he's as good a man as iver trod."

In the meantime the two Majors had paced the ground with a good deal of official propriety, loaded the pistols, and exchanged a quantity of courtesies.

"Not so agreeable an occasion as when we last acted together in the field, Major Macdonnel; I'd sooner be clearing the course for my friend's horse, than measuring the ground for his fire."

"True, indeed, Major Longsword; true, indeed. Don't you think you're putting your friend a leetle too much under the shade? I don't know—perhaps not—but a foot or two off the trees gives a more equal light; that's it."

"I believe we're ready now—eh, Major?"

"Quite ready, Major. We'll have it over in two minutes."

"I say, Major," and the other Major whispered; "Blake's just under the small bush there, I hope you won't want him."

"Thank ye, Major, thank ye—I hope not."

"And, Major, there can be no necessity for a second shot, I think—eh? Brown won't want a second shot, will he?"

"Not at all, Major, not at all; a trifling thing like this—we'll have it over now in a double crack, eh?"

"True, Major, true; put your man up, and I'll give the word."

And the Majors put up their men with great dexterity, and the word was given. They both fired, each at his adversary, but each without attempting to cover the other. Brown's ball whistled harmlessly away without approaching within any dangerous proximity of the Counsellor's body; but not so Webb's; it was very evident Jonas was hit, for his body gave a spasmodic jerk forwards, his knees bent under him, and his head became thrown back somewhat over his shoulders. He did not fall himself, but his hat did; he dropped his pistol to the ground, and inserted both his right and his left hand under the tails of his coat.

Mr. Brown indulged a notion, whether correctly or not I am unable to say, but one which I believe to be not uncommon, that by presenting his side instead of his front to his adversary's fire, he exposed fewer vital parts to danger; and if destiny intended him to be wounded, he certainly, in the present instance, was benefited by the above arrangement, for he received the bullet in perhaps the least dangerous part of his body.

Mr. Brown was a stout, compact man, well developed and rounded in the fuller parts of his body; he piqued himself somewhat on the fair proportions of his nether man; he was also somewhat of a dandy; and had come out this morning, as, I believe, was the custom on such occasions, nearly full dressed; he had on a black dress coat, black waistcoat, and black well fitting trousers; and as he turned his side to the Counsellor, he displayed to advantage the whole of his comely figure.

But, alas! its comeliness was destined for a time to be destroyed. Mr. Webb's fire passed directly under the tails of his coat; the ball just traversed along his trousers about a foot beneath the waistband, cutting them and his drawers and shirt, as it were, with a knife, and wounding the flesh in its course to the depth of perhaps the eighth part of an inch. Directly Major Longsword perceived that his man was hit, he vociferously called for Blake.

From the position which Mr. Brown assumed on receiving the fire, it was the general opinion of all the party that he was not mortally wounded. Blake was immediately on the spot, and lost no time in supporting him.

"Where is it, Mr. Brown, where is it? Can you stand? Can you walk? Allow me to support you to the bank. You can get a seat there; we must sit down at once. My dear sir, the first thing is to get you to a comfortable seat."

"Comfortable seat, and be d——d to you!" was the patient's uncivil reply. "Go to hell, I tell, you!" as Blake continued to lift him. "I'm well enough; I can walk to the carriage!"

"My dear sir," continued the doctor, "the ball must be in your side; at any rate allow me to discover where it is."

"Ball be d——d, I tell you!" and he hobbled a little way off from his tormentor; the portion of his trousers on the part affected annoyed him sorely when he attempted to walk.

"Permit me to hope," said the Counsellor, coming up—"permit me to hope, now that this affair seems to be over, that you are not seriously hurt. Had you not better allow Doctor Blake to ascertain whether the bullet still remains in you? had you not better sit down?"

"Bother Doctor Blake, sir," said Mr. Brown, with his hands still under his coat tails.

"Ah! I see now," said the Doctor, stooping down; "I see the wound, I think. It's bleeding now—and I think I may guarantee that there's no danger; allow me one minute, for the ball may be lodged," and he proceeded to lift up the tails of the coat.

"Doctor Blake, if you touch me again, by heavens I'll kick you! when I want you, I'll send for you. Major Longsword, will you do me the honour to accompany me to my carriage—ugh, d——n it!"

This last exclamation was occasioned by his renewed attempt to walk. He managed, however, at last, to get to his carriage, and in that to Brown Hall. Major Longsword, who accompanied him, declared afterwards to his brother officers at Boyle, that Mr. Brown's efforts to support himself by the arm-straps in the carriage were really disagreeable to witness. He got home safely, however; and though he was not competent to attend to his public duties for some considerable time, it is believed he was not a great sufferer. The Brown Hall livery servant was seen in the chemist's shop the same morning, asking for a yard and a half of diaculum, which was supplied to him; and a new pair of dress trousers, somewhat fuller than the last, was ordered from the tailor. Doctor Blake was not called in, for Mr. Brown found himself, with his son's assistance, equal to the cure of the wound he had received.



CHAPTER XXVII.

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!"