She was lying down with her face buried in her hands, tormenting herself with such thoughts, when Biddy came to tell her that dinner was on the table. Feemy did not dare to refuse to go in lest something should be suspected; so she rubbed her red eyes till they were still redder, and went into the parlour, where she alleged that she had a racking headache, which would give her no peace; and having sat there for a miserable half hour till her father and Thady had finished their dinner, she went up stairs to her bed-room, and after laying awake half the night, at last succeeded in crying herself to sleep.
When Thady came from the kitchen, on being told that Father John was waiting for him at the hall-door, he left his pipe behind him, swallowed a draught of water to take off the smell of the spirits, and prepared to listen to the priest's lecture, as he expected, with sullenness and patience; but he was surprised out of his determined demeanour by the kindness of the priest's address. He came forward, and taking his hand, said.
"What, Thady, are you ill? What ails you?"
"Not much, then, Father John; only a headache."
"Are you too bad, my boy, to take a turn with me? I've a word or two I want to say; but if you're really sick, Thady, and are going to bed, I'll come down early to-morrow morning. Would you sooner I did so?"
Father John said this because he thought that Thady really looked ill. And so he did; his face was yellow, his hair unbrushed, his eyes sunken, and the expression of his countenance sad and painful; but he was overcome by the kindness of the priest's manner, and replied.
"Oh no! I'm not going to bed. I believe, Father John, I did not come up to you because I was ashamed to see you afther last night."
"So I thought, my boy; and that's why I came down. I'm not sorry for your shame, though there was not much cause for it. If it was a usual thing with you to be drinking too much, you wouldn't be thinking so much of it yourself the next day."
"But I believe I said something to yourself, Father John."
"Something to me! Egad, I forget what you said to me, or whether you said anything. Oh no! you weren't so bad as that; but you were going to eat Ussher about something. But never mind that now; don't get tipsy again, if you can help it, and that's all about it. It's not the drinking I'm come to talk to you about; for you're no drunkard, Thady; and indeed it's not as your priest I want to talk to you at all, but as one friend to another. And now, my dear boy, will you take what I've to say in good part?"
These gentle words were the first comfort that had reached Thady's heart that day, and tears were in his eyes as he answered.
"Indeed I will, Father John, for you're the only friend I have now."
It was a fine moonlight evening, and they were on the road leading to the Cottage.
"Walk up this way, Thady; we'll be less likely to be interrupted in the little parlour than here;" and they walked on to the priest's house, Father John discoursing the while on the brightness of the moon and the beauty of the night, and Thady alternately thinking with pleasure of his kindness, and with dread of the questions he was about to be called upon to answer.
When they were in the parlour, and Thady had refused his host's offers of punch, tea, or supper, and the door was close shut, Father John at once struck into the subject at his heart.
"I told you, Thady, that I thought but little of your having been drinking yesterday evening; not but that I think it very foolish for a man to make himself a beast; but what I did think of was the company you were drinking in. Now I heard – and I know you won't contradict me unless it's untrue – that the party consisted of you, and Brady, and Joe Reynolds, and Byrne, and Corney Dolan, and one or two others from Drumleesh, your own or your father's tenants, and the very lowest of them – all of them infamous characters – men never, or seldom, seen at mass – makers of potheen – fellows who are known to be meeting nightly at that house of Mrs. Mulready, at Mohill, and who are strongly suspected to be Ribbonmen, or Terryalts, or to call themselves by some infernal name and sect, by belonging to which they have all become liable to death or transportation."
The priest paused; but Thady sat quite still, listening, with his eyes fixed on the fender.
"Now, Thady, if this is so, what could you gain by mixing with them? You weren't drunk when you went among them, or I should think nothing about it – for a drunken man doesn't know what he does; and it wasn't from chance – for a man never seeks society so much beneath himself from chance; and it wasn't from habit – for I know your habits well enough, and that's not one of them; but I fear you were there by agreement. If so, what could you get by a secret meeting with such men as those? You know their characters and vices; are you fool enough to think that you will find comfort in their society, or assistance in their advice?"
"I didn't think so, Father John."
"Then why were you with them? I know the most of your sorrows, Thady, and the most of your cares; and I also know and appreciate the courage with which you have tried to bear them; and if you would make me your friend, your assistant, and your counsellor, though I mightn't do much for you, I think I could do more, or show you how to do more, than you are likely to learn from the men you were with yesterday; and at any rate, I shall not lead you into the danger which will beset you if you listen to them, and which, you may be sure, would soon end in your disgrace and destruction. Can you tell me, Thady, why you were with them, or they were with you?"
"I was only just talking to them about – " Thady began; but he felt that he was going to tell his friend a falsehood, and again held his tongue.
"If you'll not tell me why you were there, I'll tell you; at least, I'll tell you what my fears are. You went to them to talk over your father's affairs respecting Keegan and Flannelly; you went to induce those poor misguided men not to pay their rent to him; and oh! Thady, if what I've heard is true, you went there to consult with them respecting a greater crime than I'll now name, and to instigate them to do that which would lead to their and your eternal shame and punishment."
Thady now shook in his chair, as though he could hardly keep his seat; he felt the perspiration stand upon his brow, and he wiped it off with his sleeve; he did not dare to deny that he had done this, of which Father John was accusing him, though he felt that he had been far from instigating them to any crime like murder. Father John continued:
"If you have joined these men, – if you have bound yourself to these men by any oath, – if there is any league between you and them, let me implore you to disregard it; nothing can be binding, that is only to bind you to greater wickedness. I do not ask you to tell me any of their secrets or plans, though, God knows, what you tell me now would be as sacred as if I heard it in the confessional; but if you have such secrets, if you know their signs, whatever may be the consequence, at once renounce them."
"I know no secrets or signs, Father John, and I don't belong to any society."
"Then, if you don't, you can have nothing to bind you. Is it true that you were rash enough, mad enough, to speak to these men about murdering Keegan? Tell me; have you a plan made to murder Keegan? Have you had such a crime in your thoughts?"
It had been in his thoughts all day: what answer should he make? should he lie, and deny it all? or should he confess it all, just as it was?
"If you'll not tell me, I must, for Mr. Keegan's sake, take some step to secure his safety. Come, Thady, come; you know it's not by threats I wish to guide you; you know I love you. I know well enough your patient industry – your want of selfishness. I know, if you have for a moment thought of this crime, you have now repented it: tell me how far you have gone, and if you are in danger; – if you have done that which was very, very wicked. I will still try and screen you from the effects of a sin, which I am sure was not premeditated. Is there any plot to murder Keegan?"
"There is not."
"As you are a living man, there's none?"
"There is not."
"What were you saying about Keegan, then, to those men yesterday?"
"I don't know what I said – I don't know I said anything; they were threatening him, if he came on Drumleesh for rent; if they have a plot, I don't know it."
"But, Thady, are you to join them again? do you mean again to renew your revellings of last night? have you agreed to see them again?"
"I have."
"And where?"
"At Mulready's in Mohill."
"And when?"
"They sent to-day to say it was to-morrow night, but I have refused to go."
"You have refused?"
"Yes, Father John. I got the message from them just before dinner, and I said I'd not go to-morrow."
"But have you said you'd never join them again? have you sent to them to say you'd never put your foot in that hole of sin? did you say you were mad when you promised it, and that you would never keep that promise? did you say, Thady, that you would not come? or are you still, in their opinion, one of their accursed set?"
"I'll niver go there, Father John. I've not had one moment's ase since I said I would; it's been on my heart like lead all the morning; indeed, indeed, Father John, I'll niver go there."
"I will not doubt you, Thady; but still, that you may feel how solemnly you are bound not to peril your life and soul by joining them who can only wish to lead you into crime, give me your honour, on the sacred word of God, that you will never go to that place; – or join those men in any lawless plans or secret meetings."
And Thady swore most solemnly, on the sacred volume, that he would do as the priest directed him respecting these men.
Father John then gradually drew from him in conversation what had really taken place. He told him what he had heard from McGovery – how he had quieted that man and Cullen – and advised him by his own demeanour to his tenants, to pass over what had been said, as though it had been a drunken frolic. He asked him, however, whether he considered that Mr. Keegan or Ussher were in any real danger; and Thady assured him that he did not think they were – that there was no plot laid – that the men were angry and violent, but that, unless further instigated, he did not think they would commit any act of absolute violence. These opinions were not given spontaneously, but in answer to various questions from the priest, who at last satisfied himself that in confirming the horror with which Thady evidently regarded what he had already done, and in preventing him from following any further the course he was about to pursue, he had done all that was possible in the case to prevent crime.
Whether he thought that either of those who had been named as the object of hatred to these unruly men might ultimately fall a victim to the feeling to which their actions had given rise in the country, is another question. If he did, he could not prevent it – nor was it his especial business to attend to it; but he felt tolerably sure that to whatever bad feelings hardships and cruelty might have given rise in Thady's breast, he would not now gratify them by such atrocious means as those which McGovery's statement had induced him to apprehend.
Under this impression he bade him good night, with another kind shake of the hand; telling him that though, at present, there might be much to sadden and distress him, if he confronted his difficulties with manly courage and honest purposes, he would be sure sooner or later to overcome them.
Thady returned home more comfortable than he had been in the morning, but he could not bring himself to that state of mind in which Father John had hoped to dismiss him. He felt, that though he was determined not to go to Mrs. Mulready's, the affair could not rest there. He felt himself to be, in some horrible manner, in the power of Brady and Joe Reynolds – as though he could not escape from them. A general despondency respecting all his prospects weighed him down, and when he reached Ballycloran, he was nearly as unhappy as he had been in leaving it.
CHAPTER XVII
SPORT IN THE WEST
Carrick-on-Shannon, the assize town of County Leitrim, though an assize town, is a very poor place. It consists of one long narrow, irregular street, lying along the Shannon, in which slated houses and thatched cabins delightfully relieve each other, and prevent the eye from being annoyed with sameness or monotony. The houses are mostly all shops, and even the cabins profess to afford "lodging and entherthainment;" so that it is to be presumed that the poverty of the place is attributable to circumstances and misfortune, and not to the idleness of the inhabitants. The prevailing feeling, however, arising in any human mind, on entering the place, would be that of compassion for the judges, barristers, attorneys, crown clerks, grand jury, long panel, witnesses, &c., who have to be crammed into this little place, and lodged and fed for five or six days, twice a year during the assizes.
There is, however, a tolerably good hotel in the place, and we at present beg to take our reader with us into the largest room therein, which was usually dignified by the name of the Ball Room. It was not, however, by any means dedicated solely to the worship of Terpsichore: all the public dinners eaten in Carrick were eaten here; all the public meetings held in Carrick were held here; all the public speeches were spoken here. Here committees harangued; Gallagher ventriloquised; itinerant actors acted; itinerant concert-givers held their concerts; itinerant Lancashire bell-ringers rang their bells. Here also were carried on the mysteries of the Carrick-on-Shannon masonic lodge, with all due zeal and secrecy.
On the present occasion the room was, or rather had been, devoted to the purpose of feeding; an ordinary had been held here previous to the races; and most of those who were in any way interested in the coming event were there. The cloth had been just taken away, decanters of whiskey and jugs of boiling water alternated each other down the table, and large basins of white sugar were scattered about unsparingly. The party were evidently about to enjoy themselves. There were about thirty of them there, some of them owners of horses, some of them riders, some of them backers; the rest were eaters, drinkers, and spectators.
The chair was filled by Major McDonnell, one of the stewards – a little man, who had probably never crossed a horse himself, and had nothing of the sportsman about him. He had, however, lately inherited an estate in the neighbourhood, and having some idea of standing for the county on the Tory interest at the next election, was desirous of obtaining popularity, and had consequently given forty pounds to be run for – had agreed to wear a red coat at the races, and call himself a steward – sit at the top of the table and carve for thirty hungry sportsmen to-day, with each of whom he had to drink wine – and get partners for all the ugly girls, if there be any in County Leitrim, on the morrow. This was certainly hard work; in reward for which he was probably destined to have his head broken at the next election, if he should have sufficient courage to show himself as a Tory candidate for the county.
There, however, he sat on this day, very unfit to take the chief part among the spirits by whom he was surrounded.
Opposite to him, at the other end of the room, sat our big and burly friend, McKeon, a very different character. Whenever six or eight were talking aloud together, his voice might always be heard the loudest. Whenever a shout of laughter arose – and that was incessantly – his shout was always the longest. It seemed that every bet that was offered was taken by him, and that every bet taken by any one else had been offered by him. He was always scribbling something in that well-worn book of his, and yet he never had his hand away from his tumbler – except when it was on the decanter. All the waiters came to him for orders, and he seemed perfectly competent to attend to them. If any man finished his punch and did not fill again, McKeon reminded him of his duty – and that not only by preaching, but by continual practice. In fact, he was just in his element, and enjoying himself.
There was an empty chair next Mr. McKeon, where his friend Mr. Gayner had been sitting – I won't say during his dinner, for he had not swallowed a mouthful. He was now standing up against the fireplace, sucking a lemon. He had a large great coat on, buttoned up to the neck, and a huge choker round his throat. He was McKeon's jockey, and was to ride Playful for the forty pounds on the morrow.
Bob Gayner, as he was usually called, was one of the best gentlemen riders in the country. He came from County Roscommon, – the county, by the by, which can probably boast the best riders in Ireland, – where he had a small property of his own, near Athlone; but the chief part of his time was spent in riding races and training for them. He had been at it all his life – and certainly, if there be any merit in the perfection of such an art, Bob was entitled to it, for he rode beautifully. It was not only that he could put his horse at a fence without fear, and sit him whilst he was going over it – any man with practice could do that; but Bob had a sympathy with the animal he was riding, which enabled him not only to know what he could do himself, but also what the horse could do. He knew exactly where a horse wanted assistance from his rider. And he had another knack too, not unfrequently made use of in steeple-chases – Bob seldom let his own horse baulk, but he very generally made those that others were riding do so. And then, at a finish, how admirable was Bob! In leap races the finish is seldom so near a thing as in flat races; but when it did come to be neck and neck at the post, there was no man in Ireland could give a horse a stretch and land him in a winner like Bob. He had also an exquisite genius for tumbling. Horses will occasionally fall, and when they do, riders must follow them; but no one fell so safely, recovered so actively, and was again so instantly in the saddle as our friend; and, consequently, wherever there was a steeple-chase to be run, where pluck, science, and practice were wanting, there Bob was in requisition, and there he usually was found. It was a great thing to secure his services; and knowing this, Tony McKeon had, in his own way, long since, made Gayner his fast friend; how, I cannot say, for Bob was much above being bought, and though, no doubt, he made money by his races, he would have thought little of shooting any one who was bold enough to offer to pay him for riding. When in his cap, jacket, boots, and breeches, he would, if he thought occasion required or his interests demanded it, wrangle like a devil. Though its back were turned to him, he could see a horse go on the wrong side of a post; and woe betide the man who came to the scales as a winner an ounce below the weight. Bob, from long practice, knew all these dodges, and he made the most of them. But when once his cap was off, and his coat was on, he was a quiet, easy, unassuming fellow – liked and petted by all he knew; for he never spoke little of others nor bragged of himself.
He was now talking to another member of the same confraternity, but of a very different character. He also had been sitting dinnerless, – for both these gentlemen, in the pursuit of their amusement, were obliged to starve and sweat themselves down to a certain standard, about twenty pounds below their ordinary weight, – and he was now also sucking a lemon. George Brown was the second son of Jonas Brown, of Brown Hall, the magistrate by whom Tim Reynolds and the others had been committed to Ballinamore, and, like his father, was most unpopular in his own country. He was arrogant, overbearing, conceited, and passionate – without any rank which could excuse pride, or any acquirement that could justify conceit. It is, however, as a gentleman jockey that we are at present to make his acquaintance, and in that capacity he was about as much inferior to the grooms by whom the horses were trained as Bob was superior to them. He had courage enough, however, and would ride at anything; and as his own relations and friends, for whom he rode, were tolerably wealthy, and he was therefore generally well mounted, he sometimes won; but he had killed more horses under him than any man in Ireland – and no wonder, for he had a coarse hand and a loose seat; and it was no uncommon thing to see George coming the first of the two over a fence headlong into the next field as if he had been flung there by a petard, leaving the unfortunate brute he had been riding panting behind him, with his breast cut open, or his knees destroyed by the fence, over which his rider had had neither skill nor patience to land him. He was now going to ride his own horse, Conqueror, and had talked himself, and had been talked, into the belief that it was impossible that anything could beat him.
These two were standing talking at the fireplace, and as they also had their little books in their hands, it is to be presumed that they were mixing business with amusement.
There were others there, sitting at the table, who were to ride to-morrow, but whose usual weight allowed them to do so, without the annoyance to which Gayner and Brown had to subject themselves. There was little Larry Kelly, from Roscommon, who could ride something under eight stone; Nicholas Blake, from the land of the Blakes, Burkes, and Bodkins; Pat Conner, with one eye, from Strokestown, who had brought his garron over under the speculation that if the weather should come wet, and the horses should fall at the heavy banks, she would be sure to crawl over, – knowing, too, that as the priest was his second cousin, he could not refuse him the loan of a stable gratis.
There was Ussher there also, sitting next to George Brown, who was a friend of his – much more intent, however, on his own business than that which had brought the others here; and Greenough, the sub-inspector of police, from Ballinamore; and young Fitzpatrick, of Streamstown, who kept the subscription pack of harriers; and a couple of officers from Boyle, one of whom owned a horse, for which he was endeavouring to get a rider, but which none of those present seemed to fancy; and there was Peter Dillon, from beyond Castlebar, who had brought up a strong-looking, long-legged colt, which he had bred in County Mayo, with the hope that he might part with it advantageously in a handicap, to some of those Roscommon lads, who were said to have money in their pockets; and there were many others apparently happy, joyous fellows, who seemed not to have a care in the world; and last, but not least, there was Hyacinth Keegan, attorney at law, and gent.
There he was, smiling and chatting, oily and amiable; getting a word in with any one he could; creeping into intimacy with those who were not sharp enough to see what he was after; jabbering of horses, – of which he considered himself a complete judge, – and of shooting, hunting, and racing, as if the sports of a gentleman had been his occupation from his youth upwards.
"Well, boys!" said McKeon; "I suppose we're to have an auction. What's it to be? the owld thing – half-a-crown each, I suppose?"
"An auction, Mr. McKeon!" said the chairman. "What's an auction?"
"We'll show you, Major. All you've to do is to give me half-a-crown."
Now, as many may be as ignorant as Major McDonnell respecting an auction in sporting phraseology, I will, if I can, explain what it is.
It has but little reference or similitude to those auctions from which Sir Robert Peel has removed the duty.
Supposing there may be twenty members, each having half-a-crown; and six horses to run. Twenty bits of paper are placed in a hat, on six of which are written the names of the running horses – the others are blanks – and they are then drawn, as lots, out of the hat. The tickets bearing the horses' names are sold by the auctioneer; the last bidder has to pay twice the sum he bids – one moiety to the man who drew the horse, the other is added to the fund composed of the twenty half-crowns. After the race, the happy man holding the ticket bearing the name of the winning horse receives the whole. There are, therefore, different winners in this transaction; the man drawing the name of the favourite horse of course wins what is bid for the ticket; any one drawing the name of any horse would probably win something, as his chance, if the beast have more than three legs, must be worth at least five shillings. Such, however, is an auction, and on the present occasion it was a very animated one.
The thirty half-crowns were now collected and handed over to McKeon; the names of the eight horses expected to start scrawled in pencil on the backs of fragments of race-bills; and those, together with the blanks, deposited in the hat, which was carried round by one of the party.
"Ah! now, Pat, come to me last," said Gayner; "I've never any luck with the first haul; never mind, I'll take it," and he drew a lot, "and, by the Virgin, Tony, I've got my own mare!"
"Have you got Playful, Gayner?" said a dozen at once. This made their chance less, for Playful was second favourite.
Brown was next, and he got a blank; and the next, and the next.
"I've drawn Brickbat," said Fitzpatrick, "a d – d good horse; he won the hunters' plate at Tuam last year."
"Oh! I wish you joy," said Gayner, "for he won't start to-morrow, my boy: he's at Tuam now."
"Begad! he'll start as soon as yourself, Bob," said little Larry; "he came to Castleknock last night, and he's at Frenchpark now: Murphy from Frenchpark is to ride him."
These details brought Brickbat up in the market.
"They might have left him at Tuam then, and saved themselves money," said Gayner. "Why, he hadn't had a gallop last Tuesday week; I was in his stable myself. If Burke's cattle had been as fat at Ballinasloe, he'd have got better prices."
"I say, McKeon," said Fitzpatrick, "what odds will you bet Bob doesn't buy Brickbat himself?"
The hat went round, and others got blanks. Ussher got Miss Fidget, Larry Kelly's mare, and was advised in a whisper by that cunning little gentleman – who meant to buy Conqueror by way of a hedge, and who therefore wanted to swell the stakes – to be sure and buy the mare himself, for she didn't know how to fall; "and," he added, "you know she's no weight on her;" and when Ussher looked at Larry Kelly, who was to ride her himself, he couldn't but think the latter part was true.
Then Nicholas Blake drew Kickie-wickie, the officer's mare, whereupon the gallant Captain, who knew Blake was a sporting fellow, thought this was a good opportunity to sound that gentleman about getting him a rider, and began whispering to him all the qualities of the mare; how she could do everything a mare should do; how high she was bred and how well she was trained, and how she was like the poacher, and could "leap on anywhere;" for all which, and Kickie-wickie herself, with her owner into the bargain, Blake did not care a straw; – for he was confident of winning himself with the Galway horse, Thunderer.
Then some one else drew Thunderer; and Peter Dillon got Conqueror, greatly to his joy, for he reckoned that his expenses from Castlebar would thus be mostly paid, even if he couldn't sell the long-legged colt. The Major drew Crom-a-boo, a Carrick horse, who had once been a decent hunter, and whose owner had entered it at the instigation of his fellow townsmen, and by the assurance that these sort of races were often won by your steady old horses; and Mr. Stark, the owner, since he had first made up his mind to pay the £5 stake, had gradually deceived himself into the idea that he should probably win; and having never before even owned a horse – for this was a late purchase, or rather the beast had been taken in lieu of a debt – had now, for the last three weeks, talked of nothing but sweats, gallops, physics, training, running, and leaping: and having secured the services of a groom for the day, who was capable of riding his horse, had entirely given himself up to the delights of horse-racing. Lucky was it for Mr. Stark that Crom-a-boo was sure to lose; for had he won, Stark would have been a ruined man; nothing would have kept him from the Curragh and a conviction that the turf was his proper vocation.
The Major was delighted at his prize; he had not drawn a blank, and that was sufficient for him.
Then, at last, Keegan got Pat Conner's mare from Strokestown. She was called Diana, and his was the last paper drawn.
"Faith, Keegan, you're in luck," said McKeon, "for the mare can't but run well. Pat's been training her since May last. I was over there going to Castlereagh, and I saw Pat at her then."
"'Deed, then, Mr. McKeon," said Conner, "maybe she'll beat your own mare, much as you think of her."
"Oh! I'm sure she will; there's so much running about her. Was she at plough after last winter, Pat?"
"She had other work to do, then, for she had to carry me twice a week through the season; and that she did – and that's not light work, I think."
"Carry you, Pat!" said Gayner; "why, you don't mean to say you hunt that old garron you call Diana? Faith, man, you're too bold; your friends ought to look to you; what would the country do if you broke your neck?"
"It's your own is in most danger, I'm thinking," replied Pat; "faith, I wouldn't take all the pick up to-morrow, to ride that devil you're to ride over the course."
"And I'll take devilish good care you're not asked," said McKeon: "but now, boys, as I fear the Major's hardly up to it, I'll dispose of the prizes. Come, which shall I put up first? which was drawn first?"
"Your own mare, Tony; Gayner got Playful at the first start."