The Macdermots of Ballycloran

Though Thady had never known the refinements of a gentleman, or the comforts of good society, still he felt that the fall, even from his present station to that in which he was going to place himself, would be dreadful. But it was not the privations which he might suffer, but the disgrace, the additional disgrace which he would bring on his family, which afflicted him. How could he now presume to prescribe to Feemy what her conduct should be, or to his father in what way he should act respecting the property? He already felt as though he was unworthy of either of them, and was afraid to look them in the face. After breakfast he wandered forth, striving to attend to his usual work, but the incentives to industry were all gone; he had no longer any hope that industry would be of service to him; he walked along the hedges and ditches, unconsciously planning in his mind the different ways of committing the crimes which he really so abhorred, but in which he was about to pledge himself to join. He thought, if it should be his lot to murder Keegan, how he would accomplish it. Should it be at night? – or in the day? – would he shoot him? – and if he did, would not the powder or the gun be traced home to him? – would not his footsteps in the bog be tracked and known? – if he struck him down on the road, would not the blood be found on his coat, or his shirt be torn in the struggle? – and, above all, would not his own comrades betray him? He had, some short time since, heard the whole of a trial for murder at Carrick assizes, and though he had not then paid particular attention to it, all the horrid detail and circumstances of the case now came vividly before his mind's eye. He planned and plotted how, had he in that case been the murderer, he would have foreseen and provided against the different things, the untoward accidents, which then came in evidence against the prisoner; he thought how much more wary he would be than the poor wretch who was then tried, and of what benefit the experience he had gained would be to him. Then he remembered that the principal witness in the case was an ill-featured, sullen-looking fellow, who had been called king's evidence – one who, in answering the tormenting questions put to him, had appeared almost more miserable than the prisoner himself; – that this man had been the friend and assistant of the murderer – the sharer and promoter of all his plans – the man who had led him on to the murder – his sworn friend. He remembered how it had come out on the trial, that the two had for months shared the same bed – tilled in the same field – eat from the same mess – and had sinned together in the same great sin. Yet this man had come forward to hang his friend! – and Thady shuddered coldly as he thought how likely it might be that his associates would betray him. He had not slept, eat, and worked with them – he was not leagued to them by equal rank, equal wants, and equal sufferings. If that wretched witness had been induced to give evidence against the man so strongly bound to him, how much more likely that Byrne or Reynolds should hang him! or Pat Brady! And as Brady's name occurred to him, he remembered Ussher's caution respecting that man, and his assurance that he was in Keegan's pay. If this were true, he had already committed the oversight to guard against which he had calculated that his superior cunning would be sufficient; and then the cold perspiration trickled from his brow, and he abruptly stopped, leaning against a bank, to meditate again on the position in which he stood.

It was not that during this time Thady had been absolutely planning murder. He had not been making any definite scheme, to be carried into immediate execution against any individual. He was not a murderer, even in mind or wish; he would have given anything to have driven the idea from his mind, but he could not; he could not avoid thinking what he would do, if he had resolved to do the deed – how the crime would be most safely perpetrated – how the laws most cunningly evaded. Then he half resolved to have nothing more to do with Reynolds and his followers, and to quiet his conscience while yet he possibly could; but the insolence of Keegan, the injuries of Ussher, and the sure enmity of those whom he had sworn to join, and now scarcely dared to desert, stifled his remorse, and destroyed the resolution before it was half made. He thought of enlisting – but he could not desert his sister; of going to Father John, and confessing all; but would Father John befriend him after his late conduct to him? Thus he wandered on, through the whole long morning. Twice he returned to the house, and creeping in through the back door, got himself a glass of spirits, which he swallowed, and again sallied forth, to find if movement would give him comfort, or his thoughts suggest anything to him in mitigation of his sorrows.

As he was returning, the third time, for the same bad purpose, – for the short stimulus of the dram was the only relief he could find to the depression which seemed to weigh him down and make his heart feel like a cold lump within him, – and just as he was turning from the avenue to the back of the house, he met Ussher walking down. He did not know what to do; he remembered that the evening before he had defied this man; he even recollected that he had arrogantly declared that he should not again set his foot on Ballycloran; he had forbad him the house, as if he had been the master; and at the present moment he felt as though he did not dare address him, for it seemed to him as if every one now would look down on him, as he looked down on himself, – as if every one could see what was in his breast, as plainly as he saw it himself.

This annoyance, however, was of short duration, for Ussher passed him with a slight unembarrassed nod, as if nothing had passed between them on the previous evening – as if they were still good friends, and had met and been talking together but a short time before. Ussher had walked by quickly, and there was a look of satisfaction or rather gratified vanity in his face; he seemed, also, absorbed with the subject of his thoughts; Thady, however, as soon as he had passed, took but little notice of him, but walked on into the kitchen, at the rear of the house.

Here, on a small settle by the fireside, where he had been placed out of the way by Biddy or Katty, sat a ragged bare-legged little boy, known as Patsy, the priest's gossoon; he was the only assistant Judy had in the management of Father John's ménage. He ran on errands to Drumsna, and occasionally to Carrick-on-Shannon – fetched the priest's letters – dug his potatoes – planted his cabbages, and cleaned his horse Paul. He had now come up to Ballycloran with a message to Thady, and having been desired to stay there till he could see him himself, he had been quietly sitting in the kitchen since a little after Thady had first left the house; he now jumped up to give his message.

"Misther Thady, yer honer, Father John says as how he'll be glad av yer honer'll come down to dinner with him at six; and he says as how you must come, Mr. Thady, because divil a bit he'll ate himself, he says, till you're in it."

"For shame, Patsy!" interposed Biddy, "putting those words into his riverence's mouth. I'm sure thin Father John wasn't cursing that way."

"Faix thin, ma'am, thim wor his very words – 'Tell Mr. Thady, av he don't come down to the cottage to his dinner this day, divil a bit will I ate till he does.'"

"Well, to hear the brat!" continued Biddy, shocked at the indecorous language which was put into her priest's mouth.

"And who's to be at Father John's else?" said Thady.

"Sorrow a one av me rightly knows thin, for I wasn't hearing; all I wor told wor, I warn't to come out of this widout yer honer."

"But I can't go to-night, Patsy."

"But Father John says you must, Mr. Thady."

"Tell Father John, Patsy, that I am very much obliged to him, but that I'm not just well enough to come out to-night. I couldn't go to-night, do you hear; go down and tell him so, or he'll be waiting dinner."

"But, Mr. Thady," said the boy, half sobbing, "Father John said as how I warn't to come at all widout you."

"Do as I tell you, you fool; but mind you tell Father John I'm very much obliged to him, only I'm ill."

"Well," muttered the boy, at length taking his departure, "I know Father John 'll be very mad, but any way it ain't my fault."

Thady was gratified with the priest's invitation, for it showed that he at least had forgiven him; but he did not dare to face him by accepting it.

He got himself another glass of whiskey, and lighting his pipe, sat down to smoke by the kitchen fire; after he had been some time sitting there, Pat Brady came into the kitchen. Thady, however, took no notice, except muttering something in answer to Pat's usual salutation. They remained both some time silent, till at last Brady observed that, "They'd all of them had ilegant divarsion last night – most of them stayed a power later nor you, Mr. Thady."

This allusion to last night was not at present the subject most likely to make Thady talk freely, so he still continued silent. At last Pat said.

"Could I spake to you a moment, Mr. Thady?"

"Spake out – what is it?"

"Oh, it's business, yer honer; it's something about money – wouldn't you step out to the rint-office?"

"Don't you see I'm just going to dinner; besides, I ain't well – it'll keep till to-morrow, I suppose?"

"But it won't keep, Mr. Thady."

At this moment, Biddy, who had been taking some smoking viands out of a big black pot and transferring them to a dish, went out of the kitchen with them on her road to the dining-room, and Pat took the opportunity of whispering to his master that, "the boys wor to meet at Mulready's on the next evening."

"What of that?" answered Thady; "I suppose some of them meet there mostly every night?"

"But to-morrow's the night, Mr. Thady, when yer honer's to be inisheated among us sworn brothers."

"I shan't be in it at all to-morrow, then."

"Not be in it! why you promised; and the boys is all noticed now. Didn't you take the oath, Mr. Thady?" and he whispered down close to his ear.

"I took no oath about any day. I suppose I needn't come before I choose?"

Biddy now returned, and Thady got up to go to his dinner; Pat followed him, and renewed the conversation in the passage. Thady, however, would give no definite promise to come to-morrow, or the next day, but said he meant to come some day. Pat observed that the boys would be furious – that they would think themselves deceived and betrayed – then urged the necessity of taking steps to prevent their paying the rent to Keegan – hinted that Ussher had been with Miss Feemy that morning – and at last departed when he found that his master was not in a proper mood to be persuaded, remarking that "he would come up again in the morning, when perhaps his honer would be thinking better of it, and not break his promised word to the boys, as there would be a great ruction among them, av he didn't go down jist to spake a word to them afther what had passed; besides, Mr. Thady," he added, "av you wor to go back now, some of thim boys as wor in it last night, would be going to Jonas Brown's, thinking to get the first word agin you – thinking, you know, as how you would 'peach agin thim, may be."

After this threat, Pat took his leave, and Thady, with a sad heart, and low spirits, which even three glasses of whiskey had not raised, went in to dinner. After swallowing a few hasty morsels, without speaking either to his father or his sister, he returned to the kitchen and again sat there smoking, till one of the girls came in, telling him that Father John was on the steps of the hall-door waiting for him – that he couldn't come in, but that he said he had important business to speak of, and must see Mr. Thady.

"Confound you," muttered Thady, in a low voice, "why didn't you say I was out?"

"Shure, you niver told me, Mr. Thady."

Thady considered a moment, whether he should escape through the back door; at last, however, he plucked up his courage, and went out to meet the priest.

CHAPTER XVI
PROMOTION

As soon as Father John had gone, Mrs. McKeon prepared to persuade her refractory daughter to agree to the propriety of what she was going to do with respect to Feemy, and to inform her husband of the visitor she intended to ask to her house; she had not much difficulty with either, for though Louey was indignant when Father John hinted at her want of a beau, she was not really ill-natured, and when her mother told her that Father John had said that this invitation would be the performance of a Christian duty, she soon reconciled herself to the prospect of Feemy's company, in spite of Mr. Gayner and his bed. And as for Mr. McKeon, he seldom interfered with the internal management of his house, and when his spouse informed him that Feemy was coming to Drumsna, he merely remarked that "no wonder the poor girl was dull at that old ramshackle place up there, and that though Drumsna was dull enough itself, it was a little better than Ballycloran, especially now the Carrick races were coming on;" and so the three ladies put on their best bonnets and set off on their journey of charity.

Feemy was in her own sitting-room, and was somewhat more neat in her appearance than the last time we saw her there, for Ussher had said he would call early in the morning; but she was employed in the same manner as then – sitting over the fire with a novel in her hand, when she heard the sound of the car wheels, and on going to the window, saw Mrs. McKeon and her daughters.

That lady managed her business with all the tact and sincerity for which Father John had given her credit; she made no particular allusion to Ussher, but merely said that they should have a party to the race-course, as Mr. McKeon had a horse to run, and that afterwards they should all go to the ball at Carrick; and Mrs. McKeon added, "You know, Feemy, you'll meet your old friend Captain Ussher there."

She then assured Feemy how glad she would be if she would stay a short time at Drumsna, after the races were over, as her two daughters were now at home, and that if she would, she would try to make the house as pleasant as possible for her.

This was all said and done so pleasantly, that Feemy did not detect any other motive in her friend's civility than the one which was apparent, and after a little pressing, agreed to accept the invitation. It was agreed that Mrs. McKeon was to call for her on the Monday following, when, if her father made no objection, she would accompany her home to Drumsna.

As soon as they were gone, Feemy made her father understand who had been there, and obtained his consent to her proposed visit, which he gave, saying at the time, "God knows, my dear, whether you'll ever come back, for your brother's determined to part with the owld place if he can, in spite of all your poor father can say to the contrary."

She then returned to her room, resuming her novel, and waiting with what patience she could for Ussher's coming. About two o'clock he made his appearance, and she was beginning gently to upbraid him for being so late, when he stopped her, by saying.

"Well, Feemy, I have strange news for you this morning."

"Strange news, Myles! what is it? I hope it's good news."

Ussher had not quite his usual confidence and ease about him; he seemed as if he had something to say which he almost feared to disclose at once, and he did not give Feemy a direct answer.

"Why, as to that, it is, and it isn't. I suppose it's good news to me, – at least I ought to think so; but I don't know what you'll think of it."

Poor Feemy's face fell, and she sat down on the chair from which she had risen, as if she had not strength to stand. Myles stood still, with his back to the fire, trying to look as if he were not disconcerted.

"Well, Myles, what is it? won't you tell me?" And then, when he smiled, she said, "Why did you try and frighten me?"

"Frighten you! why you frightened yourself."

"But what is it, Myles?" and she walked up to him, and put her two hands on his shoulders, and looked up in his face – "what is your strange news?"

"In the first place, I am promoted to the next rank. I'm in the highest now, next to a County Inspector."

"Oh! Myles, I'm so glad! but you couldn't but know that would be good news to me; – but what else?"

"Why, they've sent me a letter from Dublin, with a lot of blarney about praiseworthy energy and activity, and all that – "

"That's why they've promoted you: but you don't tell me all."

"No, that's not all: then they say they think there's reason why I'd better not stay in this immediate neighbourhood."

"Ah! I thought so!" exclaimed the poor girl; "you're to go away out of this!"

"And they say I'm to commence in the new rank at Cashel, in County Tipperary."

Feemy for a time remained quiet. She was endeavouring to realize to herself the idea that her lover was going away, and then trying in her mind to comprehend whether it must follow naturally, as a consequence from this, that he was going away from her, as well as from Ballycloran. Ussher still stood up by the fireplace, with the same smile on his face. What he had told Feemy was all true; he had unexpectedly received an official letter that morning from the Dublin office, complimenting him on his services, informing him that he was to be moved to a higher grade, and that on his promotion he was to leave Mohill, and take charge of the men stationed at Cashel. All this in itself was very agreeable; promotion and increased pay were of course desirable; Mohill was by no means a residence which it would cause such a man as Ussher much regret to leave; and though he had made up his mind not to fear any injury from those among whom he was situated, he could not but feel that he should be more assured of safety at any other place than that at which he now resided. All this was so far gratifying, but still he was perplexed to think what he should do about Feemy. It was true he could leave her, and let her, if she chose, break her heart; or he might promise to come back and marry her, when he was settled, with the intention of taking no further notice of her after he had left the place; – and so let her break her heart that way. But he was too fond of her for this; he could not decide what he would do; and when he came up to see her at the present time, the only conclusion to which he could bring himself with certainty was this – that nothing should induce him to marry her; but still he did not like to leave her.

He was, however, rather perplexed to know what to say to her, and therefore preferred waiting to see what turn she herself would give to the conversation. At length Feemy said.

"And when do you leave this?"

"Oh! they've given me a month's leave of absence. I'm to be in Cashel in a month."

Even this seemed a reprieve to Feemy, who at first thought that he would have to start immediately, – perhaps that evening, a good deal might be done in a month; now, however, she regretted that she had promised to go to Mrs. M'Keon's.

"Then, Myles, you'll not leave this for a month?"

"I don't know about that; that depends on circumstances. I've to run up to Dublin, and a deal to do."

"But when do you mean to be out of this?"

"Why, I tell you, I haven't settled yet – perhaps immediately after the races."

Again they were silent for some time; Feemy longed for Ussher to say something that might sound at any rate kind; he had never met her before without an affectionate word – and now, on the eve of his departure, he stood at the fire and merely answered her questions coldly and harshly. At length she felt that this must be the time, if ever, for saying to him what she had made up her mind to say on the previous evening, when her courage failed her. So, plucking up all the heart she could, and blushing at the time to the top of her forehead, she said.

"An't I to go with you, Myles, when you go?"

Ussher still remained silent; he did not know how to answer to this question. "Come, Myles, speak to me. I know you came down to tell me your plans. What am I to do? You know you must settle now, if you're going so soon. What are your plans?"

"Why, Feemy, it's not two hours or more since I've received the letter; of course I couldn't think of everything at once. Tell me; what do you think best yourself?"

"Me! what do I think? – you know I'd do anything you bid me. Won't you step in and tell father about it?"

"Oh, you can tell him. I couldn't make him understand it at all, he's so foolish."

Feemy bore the slur on her father without indignation.

"But, Myles, if you go so soon, am I to go with you?" and when after a few minutes he did not answer, – "Speak, Myles, an't we to be married before you go?" When she said this, she sat down on the old sofa, looking up into his face, as if she would read there what was passing in his mind. That which was passing in his mind must be the arbitrament of her fate.

"Why, Feemy, how can you be so foolish? – How can we be married in eight days' time? I must go, I tell you, in eight days from this."

"But you won't go to this new place then. You'll be back here, won't you, before you go to Cashel?"

"How can I be back again? – No, I could not be back again then; besides, Feemy, I wouldn't be married in this place after what your brother and Father John said to me last night. If we are to be married at all, it can't be here."

"If we are to be married!" exclaimed Feemy, rising up – "if we are! Why, Myles, what do you mean?" and rushing to him she threw her arms round his neck, and hiding her face on his bosom, she continued, "Oh, Myles! you don't mean to desert me! Myles – dear Myles – my own Myles – don't you love me? – you won't leave me now – say you won't leave me!" and she sobbed and cried as though her heart was breaking.

Ussher put his arm round her waist and kissed her; he seated her on the sofa – sat down by her – and tried to comfort her by caresses: but he still said nothing.

"Why don't you speak, Myles? I shall die if you don't speak! Only tell me what you mean to do; I'll do anything you bid me, if you'll only say you don't mean to desert me."

"Desert you, Feemy! who spoke of deserting you, dearest?"

"Then you won't leave me, my own Myles? You won't leave me here with those I hate! I love no one – I care for no one but you; only say you won't leave me here when you're gone!" and again she clung to him as though she could have detained him there for ever by holding him.

"But, Feemy, what can I do? – you see I've told you after what passed I couldn't be married here."

"Why not, Miles? why not? – never mind what Thady said – or Father John. What does it signify? – you'll be soon away from them. I'll never treat you that way, my own Myles – I'd put up with more than that for you – I wouldn't mind what the world might say to me – I'd bear anything for you!"

"I tell you, Feemy, there are reasons why I couldn't be married before I get to Cashel. There, – to tell you the whole, they wouldn't let a man take his rise from one rank to another if he's married. They can't prevent the officers in the force marrying, but they don't like it; and it's a rule that they won't promote a married man. You see I couldn't marry till after I was settled at Cashel."

Feemy received the lie with which Ussher's brain had at the moment furnished him, without a doubt; she believed it all, and then went on.

"But when you've got your rank, you'll come back, Myles, won't you?"

"Why that's the difficulty – I couldn't well again get leave of absence."

"Then, Myles, what will you do?"

And by degrees he proposed to her to leave her home and her friends, and trust herself to him, and go off with him unmarried, without her father's blessing, or the priest's – to go with him in a manner which she knew would disgrace herself, her name, and her family, and to trust to him afterwards to give her what reparation a tardy marriage could afford. She, poor girl, at first received the offer with sobs and tears. She proposed a clandestine marriage, but he swore that when afterwards detected, it would cause his dismissal; – then that she would come to him at Cashel, when he was settled; but no, – he told her other lies equally false, to prove that this could not be done. She prayed and begged, and lay upon his bosom imploring him to spare her this utter degradation; but now that the proposal had been fairly made, that he had got her to discuss the plan, his usual sternness returned; and at last he told her, somewhat roughly, that if she would not come with him in the manner he proposed, he would leave her now and for ever.

Poor Feemy fell with her knees on the ground and her face on the sofa, and there she lay sobbing for many minutes, while he again stood silent with his back against the fireplace. During this time, old feelings, principles, religious scruples, the love of honour and fair fame, and the fear of the world's harsh word, were sorely fighting in her bosom; they were striving to enable her to conquer the strong love she felt for Ussher, and make her reject the disgrace to which he was alluring her. Then he stooped to lift her up, and as he kissed the tears from her face, passion prevailed, and she whispered in his ear that she would go.

He stayed there for a considerable time after that; at first Feemy was so agitated and so miserable, that she was unable to converse with him, or listen to his plans for her removal. She sat there sobbing and crying, and all he could say – all his protestations of love – all his declarations that it was his firm intention to marry her at Cashel – all his promises of kind and good treatment, were unable to console her. He tried to animate her by describing to her the pleasure she would have in seeing Dublin – the delight it would be to her to leave so dull a place as Ballycloran, and see something of the world, from which she had hitherto been excluded. But for a long time it was in vain; she was thinking – though she rarely thought of them – of her father and her brother; of what the old man would feel, when she, his only joy, had gone from him in such a manner; of what Thady would do and say, when he found that the suspicions, which she knew he already entertained, were too true. She could not bring her heart to give up Ussher; but the struggles within her breast at length made her hysterical, and Ussher was greatly frightened lest he should have to call in assistance to bring her to herself. She did not, however, lose her senses, and after a time she became more tranquil, and was able to listen to his plans. She first of all told him that she had promised Mrs. McKeon to go to her house for a short time, during the races, and suggested that she should now send some excuse for declining the visit; but this he negatived. He desired her to go there – to go to the races and the ball – and, above all, to keep up her spirits, and at any rate seem to enjoy herself there as if nothing particular had happened. This she promised to do, but with a voice and face which gave but little sign of her being able to keep her promise.

He told her that he would occasionally call at Mrs. McKeon's, so that no remark might be made about his not coming to see her; he desired her to tell no one that he was going permanently to leave the country, and that he should not himself let it be known at Mohill till the day or so before he went; and he added that even when it was known that he was going, there would be less suspicion arising respecting her, if she was at Drumsna, than if she remained at Ballycloran.

To all this she quietly submitted. He was to meet her at the ball at Carrick-on-Shannon, and then tell her what his definite plan of carrying her off would be; but he added that the ball night would be the last she would spend in the country, for that they would leave the next evening.

About five o'clock Ussher took his leave; she begged of him to come and see her the next day – every day till they went; but this he refused; she said that unless she saw him every day to comfort her, she would not be able to keep up her strength – that she was sure she would fall ill. It was now Friday, and she was to go to Mrs. McKeon's on Monday; on Tuesday he said he would call on her there; the races and ball were to be on the Tuesday week. In vain she asked him how she was to bear the long days till she saw him again; Ussher had no true sympathy for such feelings as were racking Feemy's heart and brain; he merely bid her keep up her spirits, and not be foolish; – that he would see her on Tuesday, and that after Tuesday week she would have nothing more to make her unhappy. And then, kissing her, he went away, – and as we have seen, Thady met him in the avenue, so satisfied in appearance, so contented, so triumphant, that he was able to forget the words which had been applied to him on the previous evening, and to nod to Feemy's brother with as pleasant an air as though there were no grounds for ill-feeling between them.

Poor Feemy! those vain words that "after Tuesday week she would have nothing more to make her unhappy," sounded strangely in her ears. Nothing more to make her unhappy! Could she have anything more, then or ever, to make her happy? Could she ever be happy again? All that had happened during the last few days passed through her mind, and added to her torment. How indignant had she been when her brother had hinted to her that Ussher did not intend honestly by her; into what a passion had she flown with Father John, when he had cautioned her that she should be circumspect in her conduct with her lover; what an insult she had felt it when Mary Brady alluded to the chance of Ussher's deserting her! And now so soon after all this – but a few hours after this strong feeling – after the indignation she had then shown, she had herself submitted to worse than they had even dared to suspect; she had herself agreed to leave her father's house as the mistress of the man, of whom she had then confidently boasted as her future husband! And it was not only for her own degradation, dreadful as that was, that she grieved, but Ussher himself – he of whom she had felt so fond – whom she had so loved – was this his truth, his love? – was this the protection he had sworn to give her against her father's folly, and her brother's violence? – and, as he had basely added, against Father John's bigotry? Was this the protection – roughly to swear he'd leave her, desert her for ever, unless she agreed to give up her family, her home, her principles, and follow him, a base low creature, without a name? And was it likely that after she had agreed to this – after she had so debased herself, that he who had already deceived her so grossly would at last keep his word by marrying her?