For four long hours there he remained, seated on the same stool, without moving or speaking; and for the same time there sat Andy on his bed, looking at the fire, and from time to time dragging a few sods from under the bed to throw them upon the ashes and keep up the warmth which seemed to be his only comfort. At length Thady thought it was dark enough, and without saying a word to the old man, he left the cabin and again descended the hill. He would not return by the same path by which he had come for fear he should meet Joe or Corney, or Meg — for he was unwilling that even she should see him escaping from his hiding-place. By the time that he reached Drumshambo it was dark, and it continued so till he got to Cashcarrigan, which he did without meeting any one who either recognised him or spoke to him. From thence he passed back by the two small lakes and the cabin of the poor widow who owed her misery to Ussher’s energy, and across the bog of Drumleesh to the lane which would take him by Ballycloran to Father John’s cottage. But before he reached Ballycloran the moon again rose bright and clear, and as he passed the spot where he more particularly wished to be shrouded by the darkness, it was so light that any one passing could not but recognise him.
He pulled his hat far over his forehead, and passed on quickly; but just as he got to the gateway he met Mary McGovery, who was on the very point of turning up the avenue to the house. The turn in the road, exactly at the spot, had prevented him from seeing her before, and she immediately recognised him.
“Holy Virgin! Mr. Thady,” she said; “and is that yerself?”
“Hist, Mary, don’t spake so loud — not that I care who spakes now; you see it’s me; and I’m going to the Cottage. Is Father John at home?”
“And what would you do with Father John, now? Don’t you know the police is afther you?”
“What matther? it’s not much throuble I’ll be giving thim, looking for me. I’m going to thim myself now.”
“An’ what for would you do that, Mr. Thady? Don’t you know they found it murdher agin you? We all hoped you were out of the counthry afore this. What for would you go to the police? Time enough when they catches you.”
This was the first time that Thady had heard that a verdict of murder had been found against him before the Coroner, and though it was only what he expected, nevertheless the certainty, now that it reached him, almost made him change his mind and return to Aughacashel. The remembrance, however, of that weary day, and the feeling that even though he were there, he would assuredly be ultimately taken, strengthened his resolution, and he said,
“No, Mary, I’ve had enough of running away already. But tell me; how’s Feemy?”
“Why, thin, Mr. Thady, she’s nothing much to boast of; since she was in Carrick, yesterday, she’s been very bad intirely.”
“What is it ails her? It’s — it’s that man’s death, isn’t it, Mary?”
“‘Deed, Mr. Thady, I s’pose that war the first on it. Poor young lady! in course she feels it. — Wouldn’t I feel it, av any one was to knock poor Denis on the head? — not that it’s the same thing, altogether, for the Captain wasn’t her lawful wedded husband. — Not that I’m saying agin you, Mr Thady, for what ye did.”
“Never mind about that, Mary; what I’ve done is my own look out. But would Feemy see me, do you think?”
“See you, Mr. Thady! How could she see you, an’ she in a raging fever in bed at Mrs. McKeon’s? in course she couldn’t see you.”
“Good God! and is she so bad as that?”
“Faith then, she is, very bad intirely; at laste, Docther Blake says so.”
“It’s very well, any way, that she’s at Drumsna, instead of here at Ballycloran. Mrs. McKeon must be a kind woman to take her at such a time as this. And what’s the owld man doing here by himself?”
“He’s very quare in his ways, they do be saying; but I didn’t see him meself yet; I’m going down to mind him, meself, this blessed moment.”
“Why, isn’t the two girls in it still?”
“Yes, they is, Mr. Thady; but they got frighted with the quare ways the owld man brought back with him from Carrick. He’s wake in the head, they say, Mr. Thady, since he war up afore the gintlemen at the inquest; an’ as the two girls wor frighted with ’im, an’ as I am, maybe, a bit sthronger, an’ a thrifle owlder nor they, Father John said I’d better step down an’ mind him a bit; an’ when all was settled, that he would see my expinses war paid.”
“Well, Mary, good night! Be kind and gentle with the owld man, for he’s enough on him jist now to unsettle his mind, av it were sthronger than it iver was; and don’t tell him you see me here, for it would only be making him more onasy.”
“Good night, thin, an’ God bless you, Mr. Thady,” said Mary. “You’ve a peck of throubles on yer head, this night,” she added to herself, as she walked up the avenue, “an’ it’s little you did to desarve ’em, onless working hard night an’ day war a sin. Well, God forgive us! shure you’re betther off still, than the gay man you stretched the other night;” and she went on to commence her new business — that of watching and consoling Larry Macdermot in his idiotcy.
Thady pursued his road to the Cottage, without meeting anyone else, and with some hesitation knocked at the priest’s door. His heart palpitated violently within him as he waited some little time for an answer. It was about eleven, and he knew that at that hour Father John would still be up, if he were at home, though Judy would probably have retired to her slumbers. He was right in his calculation; for in a short time he heard the heavy step of Father John in the hall, and then the rusty door-key grated in the lock. Thady’s knees shook beneath him as he listened to the rising latch. How should he meet Father John’s eyes after what he had done? How should he find words to tell him that he had broken the solemn vow that he had taken on the holy scriptures, and had, in his first difficulty, flown to the disreputable security to be found in the haunts of such men as Joe Reynolds and Dan Kennedy. However, this he would have to tell him; for the door was now open, and there stood the priest, with his eyes fixed on Thady’s sad face and soiled appearance.
Thady had not had his clothes off for the last two nights, and they now bore all the soil and stains of his two midnight walks; his countenance was pale in the extreme, and, never full or healthy, now seemed more thin and wan, than forty-eight hours’ sorrow could possibly have made it. He was much fatigued, for his shoes had become soaked with water in the moist grounds through which he had passed and repassed, and his feet were blistered with his long and unaccustomed walks.
When Father John saw him, his heart melted within him at the sight of the young man’s sad and melancholy figure. We already know that from the moment he had first heard of the catastrophe, he had made excuses in his own heart for Thady; and when he had heard, as he did at the inquest, that his sister had been with Ussher when he lifted his stick against him, he had not only acquitted him in his own estimation, from anything like the crime of murder, but he also felt certain that had he been in the same situation, he would most assuredly have done the same as Thady had done. He had been much surprised at the Coroner’s verdict; he could not think how twelve men on their oath could call Ussher’s death murder, when it so evidently appeared to him that the man stigmatised by that verdict as a murderer, had only been actuated by the praiseworthy purpose of defending his sister from disgrace and violence; and when, moreover, it was so plain that Thady’s presence on the scene at the moment was accidental, and that the attack could not have been premeditated.
The jurors, however, had not been Thady’s friends, as Father John was, nor were they inclined to look upon such a deed with the same lenient eyes. It appeared to them that Ussher was not using any violence to the young lady, who had herself admitted in her evidence, that she was a willing party to Ussher’s proceedings. Doubtless, there might be circumstances, which at the prisoner’s trial would be properly put forward in palliation of the murder, by his counsel; but with that the jury before the Coroner could have nothing to do; and on these considerations, the jurors with very little delay had come to the conclusion which had so surprised and grieved Father John. Still, however,............