It is necessary to say here, that Moylan had not the slightest intention of sending Mr. Purcel's car to meet our friend M'Carthy, inasmuch as he never for a moment supposed that this devoted youth was likely to leave the mountains alive. His own egregious vanity, engrafted on a cowardly, jealous, and malignant disposition, prompted him, ever since he had been induced by the pedlar, out of a mere banter, to suppose that he had engaged the affections of Julia Purcel, to look upon this young man as a person that ought to be got out of his way. In this manner there was, indeed, a peculiar combination of circumstances against M'Carthy; for it so happened that Moylan, whilst anxious to wreak his own jealousy and hatred upon him, was, at the same time, executing the will of another individual who stood behind the scenes. On every side, then, M'Carthy was surrounded by mortal dangers that were completely veiled in obscurity. During this very night it was resolved to assassinate him, be the consequences what they might; and if he should escape, in the one instance, he was to be sought after in whatever house he took refuge, with the exception only of Purcel's, which his enemies were, for the present, afraid to attack. Every avenue and road leading to it however, was watched, with a hope that if he escaped elsewhere, they might shoot him down from, behind a hedge.
The condition of all secret and illegal societies in Ireland is, indeed, shocking and most detestable, when contemplated from any point of view whatsoever. In every one of them—that is, in every local body or branch of such conspiracy—there is a darker and more secret class, comparatively few in number, who undertake to organize the commission of crimes and outrages; and who, when they are controlled by the peaceably-disposed and enemies to bloodshed, always fall back upon this private and blood-stained clique, who are always willing to execute their sanguinary behests, as it were, con amore. In other cases, however, as we have stated before, even the virtuous and reluctant are often compelled, by the dark and stern decrees of these desperate ruffians, to perpetrate crimes from which they revolt. It was, therefore, in pursuance of these abominable principles that the arrangements for M'Carthy's murder were made on the night in question.
Jerry Joyce perceiving, as he had feared, that M'Carthy did not return to dinner, at once came to the determination that he would go to Finnerty's, where, from his connection with Whiteboyism, he knew that a meeting of them was to be held on that night. He accordingly armed himself with a ease of pistols, which he had been allowed to keep for the preservation of his master's family and premises, in case they should be attacked. He had not gone, however, within two miles of the mountains, when he met Mogue on His way home, carrying M'Carthy's, or rather John Purcel's double gun, and other shooting gear.
“Why, Mogue,” said he, “how does this come? Where's Mr. M'Carthy from you?”
“Oh! that I may never sin—but sure I know I will—for I'm a great sinner—God forgive me!—but anyhow, that I may never sin, if I'm worth the washin'! Oh! Jerry, darlin', sick a killin' day as we had I never passed, an' I'm well accustomed to the mountains. Sure, now, Jerry, if you have one spunk of common charity in your composition, you'll take me up on your back and carry me home, otherwise I'll lie down on the road, and either die at wanst or sleep it out till mornin'.”
“But that's not tellin' me where you left Mr. M'Carthy,” replied Jerry, whose apprehensions were not at all lessened by this indirect and circuitous answer. “Where is he, and what has become of him?”
“Of all the mists that ever riz out o' the airth, or fell from the blessed heavens above as—glory be to the name of God! we had it on the mountains this whole day. Why, now, Jerry, a happy death to me, but you might cut it with a knife, at the very least, an' how we got through it, I'm sure, barrin' the Providence of God, I dunna. But indeed we're far from bein' worthy of the care He takes of us.”
While speaking, he had, as an illustration of his fatigue, taken his seat upon the grassy ditch, which bounded in the road, and altogether enacted the part of a man completely broken down by over-exertion.
“But, Mogue, my pious creature, you're not tellin' us where you left—”
“Why, then, salvation to you, for one Jerry, do you think it's ait him I did? Sound asleep in Frank Finnerty's I left him, where he'll be well taken care of. Oh! thin, if ever a poor inoffensive young gintleman—for sure he's that by birth, as we say, at all events, as well as by larnin'—was brought to death's door with this day's work, he was. I thought to flatther him home if he could come, but it was no go. An' thin, agin, I thought it was a sin to ax' him; an' so for a afraid they'd be alarmed at home, I was on my way to make all your minds aisy. An' whisper hether, Jerry—not that I look upon Frank Finnerty an the man he ought to be, for we all know the narrow escape he had for the murder of Tom Whisky's son—still an' all, he's safe wid Finnerty, bekaise he knows that we know where he is, and that if anything happened him we'd hould him accountable.”
“Well,” replied Jerry, affecting a satisfaction which, however, he did not feel, “I'm glad he's safe; for, as you say, Mogue, although Frank Finnerty is pretty well known, still what could tempt him to harm Mr. M'Carthy?”
“I know that,” said Mogue; “still an' all, the nerra foot I'd brought him to his house, only we stumbled on it out o' the mist, by mere accident, an' by coorse it was the next to us. Goodness' sake, Jerry, carry these things home for me, will you? I'm not able to mark the ground—do, avick, an' I'll offer up a pathran avy for you before I lay down my head this night, tired as I am.”
“Well, begad, it's myself that would, Mogue, but you see, as I'm out for a while, an' so near my poor mother's, throth I'll slip over and see how she is, the crature; only for that, Mogue, I'd lighten you of the shootin' things wid a heart an' a half.”
“But sure you can see your poor mother, the crature, any other evenin'? Do come back, Jerry, an' I'll do twiste as much for you agin. Oh! oh! milia murther! I'm not able to get on my legs. Give me your hand, Jerry—oh! oh!—well, well—what's this at all? Jerry, achora, don't desart me now, 'an me in the state you see. I'll never get home by myself—that's what I won't—mavrone, oh! what's this?—I'm fairly kilt.”
“Well, but the thruth is, Mogue,” replied his companion, “that I got a message from my mother, sayin' that she's not well, and wishes most partiklarly to see me about my sisther Shibby's marriage. Now, Mogue, you're a pious and religious boy, an' would be the last to encourage me to neglect a parent's wishes: ay, or that would allow me to do so, even if I intended it; throth I know it's a scoulden' you'd give me if I did.”
Mogue's flank was completely turned; he was, in fact, most adroitly taken upon his own principle; his egregious vanity was ticked by this compliment to his piety; and, as he was at no time a person of firm character, he gave way.
Thought Jerry to himself, as he left this plausible hypocrite, to proceed home under his affected fatigue, “I know there's mischief on foot to-night, for if there wasn't I an' others 'ud be summoned to this meetin'; there will be nobody there, I suppose, but the black squad or the bloodmen. It'll go hard wid me, at any rate, but I'll send one there that'll bring Mr. M'Carthy from among them without suspicion; an' so here goes to lose no time about it.”
He then plunged into the most solitary and remote fields, and pursued his way, anxious, if possible, to meet no one, much less any of those who belonged, as he said, “to the black squad.”
Of late, the state of public feeling upon the subject of tithes had become so violent and agitated, that Mr. Purcel's immediate friends found it almost a matter involving their personal safety to dine with him. At all events, such of them as accepted his hospitality took care to leave his house very early, and to keep themselves well armed besides. On the evening in question, no one had been invited but M'Carthy and Fergus O'Driscol. The heroic magistrate, however, ever since the receipt of the threatening letter, would not suffer his son (who certainly participated in none of his father's cowardice), to dine abroad at all, lest his absence and well-known intrepidity might induce the Whiteboys, or other enemies of law, to attack the house when its principal defence was from home. The evening, therefore, hung heavy on their heads at Longshot Lodge, which was the name of Purcel's residence, especially upon that of the fair Julia, who felt not merely disappointed, but unusually depressed' by the unaccountable absence of her lover, knowing as she did, the turbulence which prevailed in the country. She scarcely ate any dinner, and in the course of a short time retired to her own room, which commanded a view of the way by which he should approach the house, where she watched, casement up, until she heard a foot in the avenue, which, however, her acute ear, well accustomed to McCarthy's, soon told her was not that of her lover. On looking more closely she perceived, however, that it was Mogue Moylan; and, unable to restrain her impatience, she raised the window still higher, and called down as Mogue passed under it, on his way round to the kitchen, but in a low, earnest voice, with, as Mogue thought, a good deal of confidential in it, “Is that Mogue?”
“Eh!” he exclaimed, struck almost on the instant into a state of ecstacy; “Is that Miss Julia?”
“Yes, Mogue,” she replied, in the same low voice, “I do not wish to run the risk of speaking to you from this; stay there, and I will go to one of the windows of the front parlor.”
“Well,” thought Mogue, “it is come to this at last? oh, thin, but I was a blackguard haythen an' nothing else ever to think of you, Letty Lenehan, or any low-born miscreant like you. The devil blow her aist, waist, north, and south, the flipen' blazes, and to think o' the freedoms she used to take wid me, as if she was my aquils; but sure, dam her cribs! whatever I intended to do, it wasn't to marry her, an' can I forget, moreover, the day she gave me the bloody nose, when I only went to take a small taste o' liberty wid the thief.”
In the course of a minute or two, Julia made her appearance at the window, with, in fact, a blushing face, if it could have only been seen with sufficient light. Now that she stood within a couple of yards of Moylan, she felt all the awkwardness and embarrassment of the task she had undertaken, which was to inquire, without seeming to feel any personal interest, as to the cause of her lover's absence. In addition to the prevailing agitation, and the outrages arising from if, she had heard of so many accidents with sportsmen, so many guns had burst, so many explosions had taken place, and so many lives had been lost, that her warm fancy pictured his death in almost every variety of way in which a gun could occasion it. Owing to all this, she experienced a proportionable share of confusion and diffidence in managing her inquiries with proper address, and without betraying any suspicion of her motives.
“Mogue,” said she, “I—hem—hem—I hope you don't feel fatigued after your sport'?”
“Ah, then, there it comes,” thought Mogue; “how the crature feels for me! an' even if I did, Miss Julia, sure one kind word when I come home is fit to cure it.”
“And you are sure to get that, Mogue,” replied Julia, who took it for granted that he referred to Letty Lenehan, “but whisper,” she proceeded, still speaking in a low voice, from an apprehension of being heard making the proposed inquiries by any of her family, “are you alone?”
“I am, indeed, Miss Julia,” he replied in a tone of such coaxing and significant confidence, as would have been irresistibly laughable had she understood why he used it, “I am alone, Miss Julia, and you needn't be either ashamed or daunted in sayin' whatever you like to me—maybe I could guess what you're goin' to say, but I declare to you, and that my bed may be in heaven, but, say what you will, you'll find me—honor bright—do you understand that, Miss Julia?”
“Well, I think I do, Mogue, and if I didn't think so, I wouldn't have watched your return to-night as I did, or been here to speak to you on the subject you say you—know.”
“An' sure, Miss Julia, you might a known, for some time past that I knew it; didn't I look like one that was up to it? An' listen hether, Miss Julia, my family was all honor bright; we wor great people in our day; sure we owned a big sweep of country long ago an' wor great sogers. We fought against the Sassenaghs, the dirty English bodaghs, an' because there was a lot of us ever an' always hanged from time to time, that's the raison why we have sich a hatred to the English law still, one an' all of us. Sure my grandfather, glory be to God, was hanged for killin' a Sassenagh gauger, and my own father, Miss Julia, did his endeavors to be as great as the best of them, knowin' no other way for to vex and revinge himself upon the dirty Sassenaghs of the country; for sure, you know yourself, it's full o' them'—ay, about us in all directions. Be borried a horse in a private way from one o' them, but then he escaped from that; he next had a 'bout at what they call'd perjury, although it was well known to us all that it was only his thumb he kissed, and, any how, the thing was done upon a Protestant Bible; but, at all events, he went an' honest and honorably, as far as gettin' himself transported for parjury. I hope you understhand, Miss Julia, that I'm accountin' for any disparagin' observations you might a' heard against us, an' showin' you why we acted as we did.”
“But, Mogue,” said she, smiling at this most incomprehensible piece of family history, “I hope you don't intend to imitate the example or to share the fate of so many of your family!”
“You really hope so; now do you really hope so, Miss Julia?”
“Unquestionably; for granting you marry, as, I dare say you intend, would it not be a melancholy prospect for your wife to—”
“Why, then I do intend it; are you not satisfied, Miss Julia? and what is more, although it's my intention to violate the law in a private and confidential way, still I have no intention of bein' either hanged or transported by it; that I may be happy if I have—No, for the sake of that wife, Miss Julia, do you understand, it's my firm intention to die in my bed if I can; I hope you feel that there's comfort in that.”
“To whatever woman you make happy Mogue, there will be. Well, but, Mogue, tell me; had you a good day's sport?”
“Sorra worse then; God pardon me for swearin',” he replied. “There riz a mist in the mountains that a man could build a house wid, if there was any implements to be found, hard and sharp enough to cut it. All we got was a brace of grouse and a snipe or two.”
“And—hem—well but—hem—why Mogue, you give but a very miserable account of the proceedings of the day. Had you any one with you?—Oh, yes, by the way, did I not see Mr. M'Carthy go out with you this morning?”
“Yes, Miss Julia, you did; he went out wid me, sure enough,” replied Mogue, drily, and with rather a dissatisfied tone.
“He is a—hem, does he shoot well?”
“He shoots well enough, Miss Julia—when he pulls the trigger the gun goes off; but as for killin' birds, that my bed may be in heaven but they fly away laughin' at him.”
“He came with you as far as O'Driscol's,” she said, at once putting a query in the shape of an assertion, “and I suppose sent some apology to my father and brothers, for not having been here to dinner.”
“Hem! come as far as Mr. O'Driscol's?” exclaimed Mogue; “troth he's about the poorest piece o' goods ever carried a gun—God help the unhappy woman that'll get him; for sorra thing he is but a mere excuse for a man. I left him lyin' like a half-hung dog, up in the mountains above.”
Julia started, and almost screamed with terror at this account of her lover. “Gracious heavens, Moylan, what do you mean?” she exclaimed—“up in the mountains!—where and how in the mountains? Is he ill, or does he want aid or assistance?”
“No, Miss Julia; but the truth is, he's a poor cur of a creature that's not able to undertake a man's task at all; he's lyin' knocked up in Frank Finnerty's; moanin' and groanin' an' yowlin', like a sick hound; I had to carry or drag him over half the mountains; for, from the blessed hour of twelve o'clock this day, he wasn't able to put a foot undher him, an' he did nothing but blasphayme' an' curse every one he knew; your fathers and brothers, your sisther, and mother, and yourself; he cursed and blasphaymed you all, helther skelther; I could bear all, Miss. Julia till he came to run you down, an' 'tis well for him that I hadn't the gun in my hand when he did it, that's all; or, that I may never do an ill turn but I'd a' given him a touch o' the Moylan blood for your sake—an' now, Miss Julia,” he proceeded, “I hope we understand one another. As for him he's a pitiful whelp!”
“Are you in jest or earnest?” she inquired, changing her tone.
“That luck may flow on me, but I'm in airnest, Miss Julia—but no matther for that, don't you let you spirits down, think of our great family; and remimber that them that was wanst great may be great agin. Plaise God we'll have back the forwhitled estates, when we get the Millstone broke, an' the Mill that ground us banished from the counthry; however, that will come soon; but in the mane time, Miss Julia, I have a saycret to tell you about him.”
“About Mr. M'Carthy?” she asked, sadly puzzled as to the tendency and object of his conversation, but at the same time somewhat awakened to an indistinct interest, respecting this secret concerning her lover.
“Yes, miss; listen hether, Miss Julia; would you believe it that he, Mr. M'Carthy, is sworn, or any way as good as sworn, to take your father's life away?”
“No, Mogue,” she replied firmly, but with good humor, “not a syllable.”
“Well then,” he proceeded, “if he did not swear to do it in plain words, he did as good. You won't braithe a syllable of this, Miss Julia; but listen still—You know the ruction that's through, the counthry aginst tides?”
“I do, I am sorry to say.”
“An' that the whole counthry is sworn Whiteboys, and that all the Whiteboys in sworn, of coorse, to put an end to them. That's the oath they take now, miss, by all accounts.”
“So they say Mogue.”
“Well, miss, would you believe it, that that fellow, the ungrateful hound that he is, that same Francis M'Carthy, is at the head of them, is one of their great leaders, and is often out at night wid the villains, leadin' them on to disturbances, and directin' them how to act; ay, an' he doesn't like a bone in Mr. O'Driscol's body, any more than in your father's.”
“Ha!—ha!—ha! very good, Mogue, but make it short—ha!—ha!—ha!—and who's your authority for all this?”
“Himself, miss, for a great part of it; it was this day, he wanted myself to become a White-boy; but I had the grace o' God about me, I hope, an' resisted the temptation. 'Mogue,' says he, 'you are a good Catholic, an' ought to join us; we're sworn to put down the tides altogether, an' to banish Protestantism out o' the counthry.'”
“But is not M'Carthy himself a Protestant?” said Julia.
“Not he, miss, he only turned to get a lob o' money from the Great College in Dublin above; sure they provide for any one that will turn, but he's a true Catholic at heart; air when the time comes he'll show it.”
“And you say he joins their meetings at night, Mogue?”
“That I may be blest, but he does, miss; and since you must know the truth, he's at one o' them this very night.”
“Then you have told me a falsehood with respect to his fatigue?”
“He put me up to it, miss; and bid me say it; howandever my mind wasn't aisy undher it; and now you know the truth.”
“And does he blacken his face as well as the other Whiteboys?”
“That hurt or harm may never come near me but he does that same; I have it from them that seen him and knew him, in spite o' black face an' all.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—well good-night, Mogue, and many thanks for your most important and truthful secret.”
“Before you go, Miss Julia, one other word; listen, there a man worth a ship load of him, that's in grate consate wid you—remember the ould families, Miss Julia, an' them that suffered for—for—their counthry. Now here' the kind o' man I'd recommend you for a husband; don't let a pair o' red cheeks or black eyes lead you by the nose—an' what signifies a good figure, when neither the handsomest nor the strongest man can keep off a headache or a fit o' the blackguard cholic—bad luck to it—when they come on one. No, Miss Julia, always in the man that's to be your husband, prefer good lastin' color in the complection, an' little matther about the color of the eyes if they always smile upon yourself—then agin, never marry a man that swears, Miss Julia, but a man that's fond of his prayers, and is given to piety—sich men never use any but harmless oaths, sich as may I be blest, salvation to me, and the like—that's the kind o' men to make a husband of, and I have sich a man in my eye for you.”
“Thank you, Mogue,” said Julia, who was too quick-witted to misunderstand him any longer. “Many thanks for your good advice—and whisper, Mogue—who knows but I may follow it? Good-night!”
“Good-night, darlin',” he whispered in a kind of low triumphant cackle, that caused her to shake her very sides with laughter, after she had closed the window.
Julia Purcel, who could attribute Moylan's extraordinary conversation to nothing but a more than usual indulgence in liquor, did not for a single moment suffer herself to become influenced by the unaccountable information which she had heard respecting M'Carthy. But even if it had been true, she was so peculiarly circumstanced, that without disclosing the private conversation she had had with Moylan, she could not without pain communicate it to her family. As it was, however, she placed no confidence whatever in any portion of it, and on further reflection, she felt all her apprehensions concerning M'Carthy revived. If she experienced anything in the shape of satisfaction from the dialogue, it arose from the fact that if M'Carthy had suffered injury, Mogue would not have been so much at ease on his return. When his return was made known, however, to the family at large, Mogue repeated his first version, and assured them that he, M'Carthy had laid down in Finnerty's for an hour or so to recruit his strength. He supposed he would soon be home, he said—or for that matter, maybe as he found himself comfortable, he would stop there for the night. Mogue himself had come home to make their minds easy, and to let them know where he was, and what had kept him away. To a certain extent the family were satisfied, but as M'Carthy had communicated to the male portion of them the friendly warning he had got from the Whiteboy, they said, that although he might have been, safe enough when Mogue left him in the mountains, yet considering the state of the country, and that he unquestionably had enemies, he might not be free from danger on his way home. There was scarcely a night in the week that the country was not traversed by multitudes of those excited and unscrupulous mobs, that struck terror to the hearts of the peaceful, or such as were obnoxious to them. Accordingly, after waiting a couple of hours, Alick Purcel got a double case of pistols, and proposed to go as far as O'Driscol's, where they took it for granted, as he had not been able to come to dinner, they would find him should he have returned.
“Alick,” said the father, “after all the notices we have got, and considering the feeling that is against us, it is ridiculous to be fool-hardy—don't go by the road but cross the fields.”
“Such is my intention, sir,” replied Alick; “for although no coward, still I am but flesh and blood, and it is death you know, for mere flesh and blood to stop a bullet. Give me my enemy face to face and I don't fear him, but when he takes me at night from behind a hedge, courage is of little use, and won't save my life.”
On arriving at O'Driscol's, he found that M'Carthy had not come, and after waiting till one o'clock, he prepared to take his departure. At this moment, a female servant tapped at the drawing-room door, and after having been desired to come in, she communicated the following startling particulars:—She had forgotten her washing, she said, and gone out a little time before to bring it in, and in doing so, she spied several men with black faces and white shirts skulking about the house. She was not sure, she said, on having the question put to her, whether she had been seen by them or not.
This communication, which was given with every mark of alarm and terror, completely altered the posture of affairs at the magistrate's. Katherine O'Driscol's face became deadly pale as she turned a glance upon young Purcel, which he well understood. “Alick,” said she, “under these circumstances, it would, be absolute madness to attempt going home to-night. It is very likely they have discovered that you are here, and are watching for you.”
“But if I do not return home,” he replied, “it is equally probable that John and my father, wondering at my delay, may come to look for me, and in that case they might meet these ruffians—or rather might be waylaid by them.”
“Purcel, my dear fellow!” said the magistrate, who was now pretty deep in his cups, and consequently somewhat pot-valiant—or at least disposed to show them a touch of his valor—“Alick, my dear fellow, you are courageous enough, I admit, but at the same time, you must put yourself under the guidance of a brave and loyal old magistrate, who is not to be cowed and intimidated by a crew of midnight cut-throats. You'll gee now, Alick, my boy, what a touch of loyal courage can do. Upon my honor, and conscience, I will myself escort you home.”
“By no means, sir,” replied Purcel, “I could not think of putting you to such a risk, and inconvenience at this late hour.”
“But I say by all manes, Alick—and as for inconvanience, it is none at all.”
“But Mr. Purcel will expose neither himself nor you, my dear father,” said Katherine; “he will be guided by good sense, and remain here to-night.”
“Tut! you foolish cowardly girl, go to bed—you play loo very well, and have won seven-and-sixpence from me to-night. That's your province. No, upon my sowl and honor, I'll see him home. What! is it for the intelligent and determined O'Driscol, as your brother John said—and who is well known to be a very divil incarnate when danger's before him—is it for such a man—the terror of evil-doers—to funk from a crew of White-boys! What would my friend the Castle say if it knew it?—divil resave the line ever it would correspond with me again. Get me my pistols, I say—a case for each pocket, and the blunderbush under my arm—then come on, M'Donough, as the play says, and blazes to him who runs last.” Here he gave a lurch a little to the one side, after which he placed himself in something intended for a military attitude, and drawing his hand down his whiskers, he inflated himself as if about to give the word of command, “Soldiers, steady,”—here he gave another lurch—“recover omes (arms)—charge bayonets—present—halt—to the right about—double quick—:bravo—you see what I could do, if placed in a military position.”
“We do, sir,” said Fergus, laughing; “not a doubt of it.” The latter then whispered something to Purcel, who smiled, and immediately turning to the doughty magistrate, said:—
“Well, sir, since you insist upon protecting me home—”
“Good—that's the word, Alick—steady boys—shoulder omes.”
“I will feel very happy, sir, in your escort.”
“Yes, Alick—yes—exactly so—but then we are time enough, man—the night's but young yet—we must have another tumbler before we go—if it is only to put terror into these villains.”
“I am exceedingly sorry that it is out of my power to wait, sir. My father and John may possibly come over here, and if they do it is difficult to say what these blood-thirsty villains, who care so little about human life—especially, sir, when that life belongs to either a tithe-proctor or a magistrate, may do. You will oblige me very much, sir, by coming with me now. I wish to heavens I had your courage, Mr. O'Driscol, and that I-was such a wicked and desperate dare-devil as you are.”
“Good, Alick, upon my honor and conscience, you've hit me off there—hallo—what is this?—put these pistols and that blunder-bush aside, and be d—d to you, we don't want them yet awhile;” this was addressed to the servant who had brought them at Fergus's suggestion. “I am a hospitable man, Alick—a convivial man—and I tell you that I don't wish a guest to leave my house with dry lips—and what is more, I won't allow it—sit down then, and take your punch, or if you're afraid of these fellows why didn't you say so?”
“I am then, sir,” replied Alick, who thought that by admitting the fact, he might the sooner bring matters between himself and the magistrate to a crisis.
“What!” exclaimed the latter, “you admit your cowardice, do you?—Well, upon my honor and reputaytion, Alick, I'm extremely surprised at you—a young fellow like you—and a coward! Now I'll tell you what, Alick, I hate a coward—I despise a coward, and d—n me if any man who is mane enough to acknowledge himself to be one, shall have the benefit of my escort this night. Then stay where you are, sir, and take your punch—but you are not entitled to any protection; no, confound me if you are! A nice office for a man of my mettle to escort a coward!—no, no—take your punch, I say—you are safe under this roof, but as touching my protection, no fellow of your kidney shall resave it from me, unless in honest open daylight with a body of police or military at my elbow; and, besides, you have declined my hospitality, Mr. Purcel, and with the man—but man you are not—who declines my hospitality, I will keep no terms. Here's the 'Castle!' long life to it, and may it never have occasion to read me a lecture for protecting a coward! Steady, men—shoulder oines!—ah, I'm a pearl before swine here:—upon my honor and conscience, I'm nothing else—hurra!”
Whilst this manifestation of courage and loyalty was proceeding, his daughter had sent a little girl by a lonely and circuitous way across the fields to Longshot Lodge, with a message to the effect that they had prevailed upon Alick to stop for the night, and that he would also breakfast there the next morning. The little girl's absence was very brief, and on her return, Alick had no hesitation in remaining. The heroic magistrate, having taken another tumbler, began to get drowsy, and with some assistance, was prevailed on to go to bed, where he almost immediately fell asleep. The two young men then got together all the arms and ammunition in the house, which, having made ready for an attack, they went also to bed, taking only their coats off, where for the present we leave them—but not asleep—and return to M'Carthy, for whose absence, no doubt, the reader is anxious that we should account.
M'Carthy on that night had not gone far, after having separated from the friendly Whiteboy, when he was met by a powerfully-formed man, who, he thought, bore a considerable resemblance in shape and size to the fellow who had been invested with authority not long before in Finnerty's. On seeing that it was M'Carthy, the stranger, whose face was blackened, and who also wore the white shirt outside, approached him coolly but determinedly, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, said—: “Your name is Francis M'Carthy'?” and as he spoke, M'Carthy could perceive the ends of a case of pistols projecting from his breast within the shirt, which was open at the neck.
“As I have never knowingly done anything that should occasion me to deny my name, I acknowledge it—you know me, of course.”
“I know you well. I meek it a point to know everyone who is worth knowing. In the meantime, M'Carthy, you'll come along with me, if you pleese.”
“It is not at all clear that I will,” replied M'Carthy; “you are a perfect stranger to me—at least your disguise makes you so. You are out on illegal business, as is evident from that disguise, and you are armed with a case of pistols. Now, under these circumstances, happen what may, until I know more about you, and who you are, I will not walk one inch in your society, except as a free agent.”
“Hear me,” replied the other; “you were singled out for murdher this night, and you only escaped by a miracle—by the assistance of a man who is a warm friend to you, and who got information of the danger you wor in from another friend who suspected that you were in that danger. Two pistols wor loaded to settle you, as they say. Well, the person that saved your life damped the powder in these pistols—both wor snapped at you, and they didn't go off—am I right?”
“You are right for so far, certainly.”
“Well, then, the other two who followed you—one of them with a long, sharp dagger—were shot down—d—n your friend that didn't send the bullets through their brains instead of their hams and limbs; however, they fell and you escaped—am I right?”
“Perfectly correct,” replied M'Carthy; “and you must have had your information only from the person who befriended me.”
“Well, then, have you-any objection to come with me now?”
“Every objection; I wish to go either to Mr. O'Driscol's or Mr. Purcel's.”
“Listen. I say if you attempt this night to go to either one house or the other, you will never carry your life to them. If I was your enemy, and wished to put a bullet into you, what is there to prevent me now, I ask you?”
“All, my good friend,” replied M'Carthy, “that argument won't pass with me. Many. a man there is—and I dare say you know it well—who feels a strong scruple against committing murder with his own hands, who, notwithstanding, will not scruple to employ others to commit it for him.”
“Do you refuse to come with me, then? because if you do to-morrow mornin' will rise upon your corpse. Even I couldn't save you if you were known. There's a desperate and a dreadful game goin' to be played soon, and as you stand in the way of a man that possesses great power, and has a perticular end in view—the consequence is that you are doomed. Even if you do come with me, I must blacken your face, in ordher to prevint you from being known.”
“Will you answer me one question candidly,” said M'Carthy—“if it's a fair one? Did I see you to-night before?”
“Ask me no question,” replied the man; “for I won't answer any I don't like, and that happens to be one o' them. Whether you saw me this night before, or whether you didn't, there is no occasion for me to say so, and I won't say it.”
“I think I know him now,” said M'Carthy; “and if I judge correctly, he is anything but a safe guide.”
“Come,” said the huge Whiteboy, “make up your mind; I won't weet another minute.”
M'Carthy paused and deliberately reconsidered as coolly as possible all the circumstances of the night. It was obvious that this man must have had his information with respect to the recent events from his friendly preserver—a man who would not be likely to betray him into danger after having actually saved his life, by running the risk of committing two murders. On the other band it was almost clear, from the manner in which the person before him pronounced certain words, as well as from his figure, that he was the celebrated and mysterious Buck English of whose means of living every one was ignorant, and who, as he himself had heard, expressed a strong dislike to him.
“Before I make up my mind,” said M'Carthy, “may I ask another question?”
“Fifty if you like, but I won't promise to answer any one o' them.”
“Was I brought to Finnerty's house with an evil purpose?”
“No: the poor, pious fool that brought you—there—but I'm wrong in sayin' so—for it was the mist that done it. No, the poor fool that came there with you is a crature that nobody would trust. He thinks you're lyin' sound asleep in Finnerty's this minute. He's fit for nothing but prayin' and thinking the girls in love with him.”
“Well,” replied M'Carthy, “at all events you are a brother Irishman, and I will put confidence in you; come, I am ready to accompany you.”
“In that case, then, you must suffer me to blacken your face, and for fear your shoot-in' jacket might betray you, I'll put this shirt over it.”
He then pulled out an old piece of crumpled paper that contained a mixture of lampblack and grease, with which he besmeared his whole face, from his neck to the roots of his hair, after which he stripped the shirt he wore outside his clothes, and in about two or three minutes completely metamorphosed our friend M'Carthy into a thorough-looking Whiteboy.
“Come along now,” said he, “and folly me; but even as it is, and in spite of your disguise, we must take the lonesomest way to the only place I think you'll be safe in.”
“I am altogether in your hands,” replied M'Carthy, “and shall act as you wish.”
They then proceeded across the country for about two miles, keeping up towards the mountainous district, after which they made a turn and entered a deep valley, in whose lowest extremity stood a long, low house.
“Now,” said the stranger, “before we go in here, remember what I'm goin' to say to' you. If any one—I mean a Whiteboy,”—here M'Carthy started, struck by the peculiarity of the pronunciation—a circumstance which by no means strengthened his sense, of security—“if any of them should come across you and ask you for the pass, here it is. What's the hour? Answer—Very near the right one. Isn't it come yet? Answer—The hour is come, but not the man. When will he come? Answer—He is within sight.” He repeated these words three or four times, after which he and M'Carthy entered the house.
“God save all here!” said the guide.
“God save you kindly, boys.”
“Mrs. Cassidy,” he continued, “here's poor fellow on his keepin' for tithe business and although you don't know me, I know you well enough to be sartin that you'll give this daicent boy a toss in a bed till daybreak—an' a mouthful to ate if he should want it.”
“Troth an' I will, sir; isn't one o' my poor boys in Lisnagola goal for the same tithes—bad luck to them—that is for batin' one of the vagabonds that came to collect them. Troth he'll have the best bed in my house.”
“And listen, Mrs. Cassidy; if any of us should happen to come here to-night—although I don't think it's likely they will, still it's hard to say, for the country's alive with with them—if any of them should come here, don't let them know that this poor boy is in the house—do you mind?”
“Ah, then, it would be a bad day or night either I wouldn't.”
“Will you have anything to ate or dhrink,” asked the guide of M'Carthy..
“Nothing,” replied the other; “I only wish to get to bed.”
“Come, then,” said the colossal Whiteboy, “I'll show you where you're to lie.”
They accordingly left the kitchen, passed through a tolerably large room, with two or three tables and several chairs in it, and entered another, which was also of a good size. Here there was a bed, and in this M'Carthy was to rest—if rest he could under a series of circumstances so extraordinary and exciting.
“Now,” said his guide, for such we must call him—“observe this,” and he brought him to a low window which opened at the back of the house, “press that spot where you see the frame is sunk a little—you can feel it, too, aisily enough in the dark—very well, press that with your thumb and the windy will open by being pushed outwards. If you feel or find that there's any danger you can slip out of it; however, don't be alarmed bekase you may hear voices. There's only one set that you may be afraid of—they're on the look-out for yourself—but I don't think it's likely they'll come here. If they do, however, and that you hear them talkin' about you, there's your way to get off. Come, now, I must try you again before I go. What's the hour?”
“Very near the right one.”
“Isn't it come yet?”
“The hour is come but not the man.”
“When will he come?”
“He is within sight.”
“Now, good-bye, you may take a good sleep but don't strip; lie just as you are—that's twiste your life has been saved this night. In the mane time, you must give me back that overall shirt—your danger I hope is past, but I may want it to-night yet; and stay, I was near spoilin' all—I forgot to give you the right grip—here it is—if any of them shakes hands wid you, mark this—he presses the point of his thumb on the first joint of your fore-finger, and you press yours upon the middle joint of his little finger, this way—you won't forget that now?”
“Certainly not,” replied M'Carthy, “I will remember it accurately.”
“Very well,” he proceeded, “take my advice, get to Dublin without delay—if you remain here you're a dead man; you may never see me again, so God bless you.” and with these words he left him.
It is difficult to describe M'Carthy's state of mind on finding himself alone. The events of the night, fearful as they were, joined to his singular and to him unaccountable escape—his present state of uncertainty and the contingent danger that awaited him—the fact that parties were in search of him for the purpose of taking away his life, whilst he himself remained utterly unconscious of the cause which occasioned such, a bitter and unrelenting enmity against him—all these reflections, coming together upon a mind already distracted and stupefied by want of rest, and excessive weariness—succeeded in inducing first a wild sense of confusion—then forgetfulness of his position, and ultimately sound and dreamless sleep. How long that sleep had continued he could not even guess, but be that as it may, on awaking, he heard, medley of several voices in the next room, all engaged in an earnest conversation, as was evident, not merely from the disjointed manner of their pronunciation but a strong smell of liquor which assailed his nose. His first impulse was to arise and escape by the window, but on reflection, as he saw by the light of their candle that the door between the two apartments was open, he deemed it safer to keep quiet for a little, with a hope that they might soon take their departure. He felt anxious, besides, to ascertain whether the party in question consisted of those whom the strange guide had mentioned as being his enemies. In the meantime, the following agreeable dialogue greeted his ears and banished for the moment every other thought and consideration.
“It was altogether a bad business this night. He was as well set as man could be, but hell pursue the pistols, they both missed fire; and thim that did go off hit the wrong men. The same two—we can't names boys, won't be the betther of it for some time. We met them, you see, in the mountains, where we wor goin' on a little business. Here's that we may never ait worse mait than mutton!”
“More power, Dick—Dick, (hiccup) you're a trojan, an' so was your father and mother afore you; here's your to—toast, Dick, that we may ever an' always ait no worse mait than—praties an' point, hurra!—that's the chat, ha!—ha!—ha!—ah, begad it's we that's the well-fed boys—ay, but sure our friends the poor parsons has been always starvin' in the counthry.”
“Always starvin' the counthry!” exclaimed another, playing upon the word, “be my sowl you're right there, Ned. Well sure they're gettin' a touch of it now themselves; by japers, some o' them knows what it is to have the back and belly brought together, or to go hungry to bed, as the sayin' is; but go on, Dick, an' tell us how it was.”
“Why, you see, we went back when we heard that the house was to be attacked, and only he escaped the way he did, it wouldn't be attacked; howaniver, you know it's wid O'Driscol—a short cooser to him, too, and he'll get it—it's wid O'Driscol he stops. So off we went, and waited in Barney Broghan's still-house, where we had a trifle to dhrink.”
“Divil resave the bet—bettherer spirits ever came from—a still—il eye, nor dar-lent Bar—ar—ney Brogh—aghan makes—whisht!—more power!—won't the counthry soon—be our—our—own—whips!”
“Ned, hould your tongue, an' let him go 'an; well, Dick.”
“Afther waitin' in the still-house till what we thought was the proper time, we went to O'Driscol's, and first struv to get in quietly, but you see we had no friends in the camp, for the men-servants all sleep in the outhouses, barrin' the butler; an' he's not the thing for Ireland. Well and good, although among ourselves, it was anything but well and good this night; however, we demanded admittance, an' jist as if they had been on the watch for us—a windy was raised, and a voice called out to us to know what we wanted.
“'Neither to hurt or harm any one in the house,' we said, 'or belongin' to it; but there is a stranger in it that we must have out.'
“'Ay,' said another voice, that several of us knew to be Mr. Alick Purcel's; 'here I am—you scoundrels, but that's your share of me. If you don't begone instantly,' says he, swearin' an oath, 'we'll shoot you like dogs where you stand.'
“'We know you, Mr. Purcel,' says we, 'but it isn't you we want to-night—your turn's to come yet; time about is fair play. It's M'Carthy we want.'
“'You must want him, then,' says young O'Driscol, 'for he's not here; and even if he was, you should fight for him before you'd get him—but what might your business be wid him?' he asked. 'Why,' says we, 'there's a man among us that has an account to settle wid him.'
“'Ah, you cowardly scoundrels,' says he, 'that's a disgrace to the counthry, and to the very name of Irishman; it's no wondher for strangers to talk of you as they do—no wondher for your friends to have a shamed face for your disgraceful crimes. You would now take an inoffensive gintleman—one that never harmed a man of you, nor any one else—you'd take him out, bekaise some blackhearted cowardly villain among you has a pick (pique) against him, and some of you for half-a-crown or a bellyful of whisky would murdher him in could blood. Begone, or by the livin' Farmer, I'll scatter the contents of this blunderbush among you.' He that wishes to have M'Carthy done for was wid us himself, and tould us in Irish to fire at the windy, which we did, and on the instant slop came a shower of bullets among us. A boy from the Esker got one of them through the brain, and fell stone dead; two others—we can't mention names—was wounded, and it was well we got them off safe. So there's our night's work for us. Howaniver, the day's comin' when we'll pay them for all.”
“I think, boys,” said a person, whose voice was evidently that of a man advanced in years, “I think you ought to give this procthor Purcel a cardin'. He lifts the tithes of four parishes, and so far he's a scourge over four parishes; himself and his blasted citations to the bishop's court and his blasted decrees—hell purshue him, as it will. Ah, the Carders wor fine fellows, so were the Sextons.”
“Bravo, Billy Bradly, conshumin' to me but I'm—I'm main proud, and that we met you com—omin' from the wake to-night; I am, upon my sow—owl.”
“I believe, Billy,” said another voice, “you had your own fun wid procthors in your day.”
“Before the union—hell bellows it for a union—-but it has been a black sight to the counthry! Amin this night—before the union, it's we that did handle the procthors in style; it isn't a cowardly threatenin' notice we'd send them, and end there. No—but I'll tell you what we done one night, in them days. There was a man, a procthor, an' he was a Catholic too, for I needn't tell you, boys, that there never was a Protestant procthor half as hard and cruel as one of our own ralligion, an' thas well known. Well, there was this procthor I'm tellin' of, his name was Callaghan; he was a dark-haired I'll-lookin' fellow, with a squint and a stutther; but for all that, he had a daicent, quiet, well-behaved family that offended nobody—not like our proud horsewhippin' neighbors; an', indeed, his daughters did not mount their side-saddles like some of the same neighbors, but sure we all know the ould proverb, set a beggar on horseback, and we needn't tell you where he'll ride to. Well, I'm forgettin' my story in the mane time. At that time, a party of about sixty of us made up our minds to pay Callaghan a nightly visit. The man, you see, made no distinction betune the rich and poor, or rather he made every distinction, for he was all bows and scrapes to the rich, and all whip and fagot to the poor. Ah, he was a sore blisther to that part of the counthry he lived in, and many a widow's an' orphan's curse he had. At any rate, to make a long story short, we went a set of us, a few nights afore we called upon him—that is, in a friendly way, for we had no intention of takin' his life, but merely to tickle him into good humor a bit, and to make him have a little feelin' for the poor, that he many a time tickled an' got tickled by the sogar's bagnet to some purpose; we went, I say, to a lonely place, and we dug sich a grave as we thought might fit him, and havin' buttoned and lined it well with thorns, we then left it covered over with scraws for fraid anybody might find it out. So far so good. At last the appointed night came, and we called upon him.
“'Is Mr. Callaghan in?' said one of us, knockin' at the door.
“'What's your business wid him?' said a servant girl, as she opened the door.
“'Tis to pay some tithe I want,' says the man; and no sooner was the word out of his mouth than in we boulted betther than a score of us; for the rest all stayed about the place to act accordin' to circumstances.
“'How do you do, Misther Callaghan?' says our captain, 'I hope you're well, sir,' says he, 'and in good health.'”
“'I can't say I am, sir,” said Callaghan, 'I haven't been to say at all well for the last few days, wid a pain down my back.'
“'Ah, indeed no wondher, Mr. Callaghan,' says the other; 'that's the curse of the widows and orphans, and the poor in general, that you have oppressed in ordher to keep up a fat an' greedy establishment,' says he, 'but in the mane time, keep a good heart—we're friends of yours, and wishes you well; and if the curses have come down hot and heavy on your back, we'll take them off it,' says he, 'so aisily and purtily, that if you'll only shut your eyes, you'll think yourself in another world—I mane of coorse the world you'll go to,' says he;—'we have got a few nice and aisy machines here, for ticklin' sich procthors, in ordher to laugh them into health again, and we'll now set you to rights' at wanst. Comes, boys,' says he, turnin' to us, 'tie every sowl in the house, barrin' the poor sick procthor that we all feel for, bekaise you see, Misther Callaghan, in ordher to do the thing complate, we intind to have your own family spectawthers of the cure.'
“'No,' said one of them, a determined man he was, 'that wasn't in our agreement, nor it isn't in our hearts, to trate the innocent like the guilty.'”
“'It must be done,' said the captain.
“'No,' said the other back to him, 'the first man that mislists a hair of one of his family's heads, I'll put the contents of this through him—if this onmanly act had been mentioned before, you'd a' had few here tonight along wid you.'
“Well, sure enough, the most of us was wid the last speaker, so, instead of cardin' the sick procthor before his own family, we tied and gagged him so as that he neither spoke nor budged, and afther clappin' a guard upon the family for an hour or two, we put him on horseback and brought him up to where the grave was made. We then stripped him, and layin' him across a ditch, we got the implements, of the feadhers as we call them, to tickle him. Well, now, could you guess, boys, what these feadhers was? I'll go bail you couldn't, so I may as well tell you at wanst; divil resave the thing else, but half-a-dozen of the biggest tom-cats we could get, and this is the way we used them. Two or three of us pitched our hands well and the tails of the cats into the bargain, we then, as I said, laid the naked procthor across a ditch, and began to draw the tom-cats down the flesh of his back. God! how the unfortunate divil quivered and writhed and turned—until the poor wake crature, that at first had hardly the strength of a child, got, by the torture he suffered, the strength of three men; for indeed, afther he broke the cords that tied him, three, nor three more the back o' that, wasn't sufficient to hould him. He got the gag out of his mouth, too, and then, I declare to my Saviour his scrames was so awful that we got frightened, for we couldn't but think that the voice was unnatural, an sich as no man ever heard. We set to, however, and gagged and tied him agin, and then we carded him—first down, then up, then across by one side, and after that across by the other. * Well, when this was done, we tuk him as aisily an' as purtily as we could.
“D—n your soul, you ould ras—rascal,” said the person they called Ned, “you wor—wor 'all a parcel o' bloody, d—n, hell—fi—fire cowardly villains, to—to—thrat—ate any fellow crature—crature in sich a way. Why didn't you shoo—shoo—oot him at wanst, an' not put—ut him through hell's tor—tortures like that, you bloody-minded ould dog!”
To tell the truth, many of them were shocked at the old carder's narrative, but he only, grinned at them, and replied—
“Ay, shoot—you may talk about shootin,' Ned, avick, but for all that life's sweet.”
“Get on—out, you ould sinner o' perdition—to blazes wid you; life's sweet you ould 'shandina—what a purty—urty way you tuk of sweetenin' it for him. I tell—ell you, Bil—lilly Bradly, that you'll never die on your bed for that night's wo—ork.”
“And even if I don't, Ned, you won't have my account to answer for.”
“An' mighty glad I am of it: my own—own's bad enough, God knows, an' for the mat—matther o' that—here's God pardon us all, barrin' that ould cardin' sinner—amin, acheerna villish, this night! Boys, I'll sing-yes a song.”
“Aisy, Ned,” said one or two of them, “bad as it was, let us hear Billy Bradly's story out.”
“Well,” proceeded Billy, “when the ticklin' was over, we took the scraws off of the grave, lined wid thorns as it was, and laid the procthor, naked and bleedin'—scarified into gris-kins—”
“Let me at—at him, the ould cardin' mur—urdherer; plain murdher's daicency compared to that. Don't hould me, Dick; if I was sworn ten times over, I'll bate the divil's taptoo on his ould carkage.”
“Be aisy, Ned—be aisy now, don't disturb the company—sure you wouldn't rise your hand to an ould man like Billy Bradly. Be quiet.”
—“Scarified into griskins as he was,” proceeded Bradly looking at Ned with a grin of contempt—“ay, indeed, snug and cosily we laid him in his bed of feadhers, and covered him wid thin scraws for fear he'd catch could—he! he! he! That's the way we treated the procthors in our day. I think I desarve a drink now!”
Drinking was now resumed with more vigor, and the proceedings of the night were once more discussed.
“It was a badly-managed business every way,” said one of them, “especially to let M'Carthy escape; however, we'll see him 'igain, and if we can jist lay our eyes upon him in some quiet place, it'll be enough;—what's to be done wid this body till mornin.' It can't be lyin' upon the chairs here all might.”
M'Carthy, we need scarcely assure our readers, did not suffer all this time to pass without making an effort to escape. This, however, was a matter of dreadful danger, as the circumstances of the case stood. In the first place, as we have already said, the door between the room in which he lay and that in which the Whiteboys sat, was open, and the light of the candles shone so strongly into it, that it was next to an impossibility for him to cross over to the window without being seen; in the second place, the joints of the beds were so loose and rickety that, on the slightest motion of its Occupant, it creaked and shrieked so loud, that any attempt to rise off it must necessarily have discovered him.
“We must do something with the body of this unlucky boy,” continued the speaker; “divil resave you, M'Carthy, it was on your account he came to this fate; blessed man, if we could only catch him!”
“Here, Dick, you and Jemmy there, and Art, come and let us bring him into the bed' in the next room—it's a fitter and more properer place for him than lyin' upon chairs here. God be merciful to you, poor Lanty, it's little you expected this when you came out to-night! Take up the candles two more of you, and go before us: here—steady now; mother of heaven, how stiff and heavy he has got in so short a time—and his family! what will they say? Hell resave you, M'Carthy, I say agin! I'm but a poor man, and I wouldn't begrudge a five-pound note to get widin shot of you, wherever you are.”
It would be idle to attempt anything like a description of M'Carthy's feelings, upon such an occasion as this. It is sufficient to say, that he almost gave himself up for lost, and began to believe, for the first time in his life, that there is such a thing as fate. Here had his life been already saved once to-night, but scarcely had he escaped when he is met by a person evidently disguised, but by whose language he is all but made certain that he is a man full of mystery, and who besides has expressed strong enmity against him. This person, with a case of pistols in his breast, compels him, as it were, to put himself under his protection; and he conducts him into a remote isolated shebeen-house, where, no doubt, there is a meeting of Whiteboys every night in the week. The M'Carthy spirit is, proverbially, brave and intrepid, but we are bound to say, that notwithstanding its hereditary intrepidity, our young friend would have given the wealth of Europe to have found himself at that moment one single mile away from the bed on which he lay. His best policy was now to affect sleep, and he did so with an apparent reality borrowed from desperation.
“Hallo!” exclaimed those who bore the candle, on looking at the bed, “who the devil and Jack Robinson have we got here? Aisy, boys—here's some blessed clip or other fast asleep: lay down poor Lanty on the ground till we see who this. Call Molly Cassidy; here, Molly, who the dickens is this chap asleep?”
Molly immediately made her appearance.
“Troth I dunna who he is,” she replied; “he's some poor boy on his keepin', about tithes, tha' He brought here to-night.”
“That's a cursed lie, Molly; wid' many respects to you, He couldn't a' been here to-night.”
“Thank you, sir, whoever you are; but I tell you it's no lie; and he was here, and left that boy wid me, desirin' me to let him come to no injury, for that—” and this was an addition of her own, “there was hundreds offered for the takin' of him.”
“Why, what did he do, did you hear?”
“He whispered to me,” she replied, in a low voice, but loud enough for M'Carthy to hear, “that he shot a tithe-proctor.”
“We'll see what he's made of, though,” said one of them; “and, at all events, we'd act very shabbily if we didn't give him a share af what's goin'; but aisy, boys,” he added, “take care—ay! aisy, I say, safe's the word; who knows but he's a spy in disguise, and, in that case, we'll have a different card to play. Hallo! neighbor,” he exclaimed, giving M'Carthy a shove, who started up and looked about him with admirable tact.
“What—what—eh—what's this? who are you all? what are you about?” he asked, and as he spoke, he sprung to his feet. “What's this?” he exclaimed again. “Sweet Jasus! is this Fagan the tithe-proctor that I shot? eh—or are you—stay—no—ah, no—not the polis. Oh, Lord, but I'm relieved; I thought you were polis, but I see by your faces that I'm safe, at last—I hope so.”
“Ay, to be sure, you're safe—safe—as—as the bank (hiccup). You're a gintlemen, si—r you're a Con Roe—the ace o' hearts you are. Ay, you shot—like a ma—an, and didn't card—ard him wid tomcats, and then put the poo—oo—oor (hiccup) devil into a grave lined wid thorns; ah, you cowardly ould villain! the devil, in the shape of a to—to—tom-cat will card you in hell yet; an' moreover, you'll ne—never—ever die in your bed, you hard-hearted ould scut o' blazes; an' that you may not, I pray Ja—sa—sus this night—an' God forgive us all—amin, acheema!”
“Hould your drunken tongue, Ned,” said he who seemed to assume authority over them; “we want to put this poor boy, who died of liquor to-night, into the bed, and I suppose you'll have no objection.”
“None at all at all,” replied M'Carthy, assuming the brogue, at which, fortunately for himself, he was an adept; “it's a good man's case, boys; blood an' turf, give him a warm birth of it—he'll find it snug and comfortable.”
They then placed the corpse on the bed but changing their mind, they raised him for a moment, putting him under the bedclothes, pinned a stocking, about his head to give him a domestic look; after which they returned to the tap-room of the shebeen-house, for such in fact it was. The latter change in the position of the corpse was made from an apprehension lest the police might come in search of the body, and with the hope that he might pass for a person asleep.
“You'll drink something wid us,” said the principal among them; “but, before you do, I suppose you are as you ought to be.”
M'Carthy, who really was in a frightful state of thirst, determined at once to put on the reckless manner of a wild and impetuous Irishman, who set all law and established institutions at defiance.
“You suppose I am as I ought to be,” he exclaimed, with a look of contempt; “why, thin, I suppose so too: in the mane time, an' before you bother me wid more gosther, I'd thank you to give me a drink o' whisky and wather—for, to tell you the truth, blast me but I think there's a confligration on a small scale goin' an inwardly; hurry, boys, or I'll split. Ah, boys, if you but knew what I wint through the last three days an' three nights.”
“And what did you go through it all for?” asked the principal of them, with something of distrust in his manner.
“What did I go through it fwhor? fwhy, thin, fwhor the sake o' the trewth—I'm a Gaaulway man, boys, and it isn't in Can-naught you'll fwhind the man that's afeard to do fwhat's right: here's aaul your healths, and that everything may soon be as it ought to be.”
“Well,” said the other, “you are a Can-naught man sartainly, that's clear from your tongue; but I want to axe you a question.'
“Fwhy nat? it's but fair,—it's but fair, I say,—take that wit j'ou, an' I'm the boy that will answer it, if I can, bekaise you know, or maybe you don't—but it's a proverb we have in Cannaught wit us—that a fool may ax a question that a wise man couldn't answer: well, what is it?”
“Who brought you here to-night?”
“Who brought me here to-night? fwhy, thin, I'll tell you as much of it as I like—He did.”
“Be japers it's a lie, beggin' your pardon, my worthy Cannaught man. He couldn't be here to-night. I know where he was the greater part of the night, and the thing's impossible. I don't know you, but we must know you—ay, and we will know you.”
“Trath an' I must know you, thin, and that very soon,” replied M'Carthy.
“Come into the next room, then,” said the other.
“Anywhere you like,” he replied, “I'm wit you; but I'm not the boy to be humbugged, or to bear your thricks upon thravellers.”