The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 38

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

It was still about an hour after noon when Winny beheld from the parlor window at which she stood a very exciting cavalcade upon the road, slowly approaching the house. At once she became acquainted with the whole concern. "The chief" had fore-warned her that she might expect a visit from the magistrate the moment he returned; and her intelligence at once recognized the addition of the police and prisoners some distance in rear of the car.

Winny's heart beat quick and high as she saw them draw nigh and turn up the lane. It would be mock heroism to say that it did not. She knew {254} that Tom Murdock, the murderer of her husband, must be one of the prisoners, but she did not know why they were bringing him there--for the police had now made the turn. She thought the magistrate might have spared her that fresh excitement--that renewal of her hate. But the magistrate was one of those who had antic.i.p.ated the law by his sense of justice and his practice. He was one who gave every one of his majesty's subjects fair play, and it was therefore his habit to have the accused face to face with the accuser when informations were taken and read.

Poor Winny was rather fluttered and disturbed when they entered, notwithstanding "the chief" had considerately prepared her for the visit. She did not lose her self-possession, however, so much as to forget the respect and courtesy due to gentlemen, beside being officers of the law. She asked them down into the parlor, and requested of them to be seated. They accepted her civility in silence, seeing enough in her manner to show them that she was greatly distressed, and required a little time to compose herself'. She was, however, the first to speak.

"I suppose, gentlemen, you are come respecting this sad affair. I told this gentleman here all I knew about it yesterday."

"Yes, but matters are still worse today, although there was no hope even then that they would be better. Of course it will relieve you so far at once to tell you that we are aware of the position in which you now stand toward the deceased."

"Yes, sir. It was with a wish that the world might know it I took the step I did. I had Father Farrell's approval of it, and my own parish-priest's as well; but subsequently--"

"My good girl, we did not come here to question the propriety or otherwise of either your actions or your motives. Nor do I for one hesitate to say that I believe both to have been unexceptionable. But it will be necessary that you should make an information upon oath as to what took place from the first moment the men came to the door, until the shot was fired by which Edward Lennon came by his death."

"I suppose, sir, you must have much better evidence than mine as to the firing of the shot. I can only swear to the fact of two men having tied me up and carried me away on a cart, and that there was a third man on horseback with a mask upon his face; that when we came to Boher bridge, the deceased Edward Lennon and his father came to our rescue; that there was a long and distracting struggle at the bridge, which lasted with very doubtful hopes of success for my deliverance until Jamesy Doyle, our servant-boy, came up with the police; that the man on horseback with the mask, whom I verily believe to have been Thomas Murdock, turned to fly; that the deceased Edward Lennon fastened in his horse's bridle to prevent him; that a deadly struggle ensued between them, and that the man on horseback fired at the deceased, who fell, I may say, dead on the road. The sight left my eyes, sir, and except that we brought the dying man home on the cart, I know no more about it of my own knowledge, sir."

"A very plain, straightforward, honest story as I ever heard," said the magistrate. "But it will be necessary for you, when upon your oath, to state whether you know, that is, whether you recognized, the man on horseback at time."

"I could not recognize his features, sir, on account of the mask he wore; but I did recognize his voice as that of Tom Murdock, and I know his figure and general appearance."

"That will do now, Mrs. Lennon. I shall only trouble you to repeat slowly and distinctly what you have already said, so that I can write it down."

The magistrate then unlocked his leather writing-case, took out the necessary forms for informations, and was {255} not long embodying what Winny had to say in premier shape.

He then went through the same form with old Ned, with Biddy Murtagh, and with Jamesy Doyle.

When the magistrate had all the informations taken and arranged, he directed Sergeant Driscoll to bring in the prisoners, that he might read them over and swear the several informants in their presence.

Winny became very nervous and fidgety, and would have left the room, but the magistrate a.s.sured her that it was absolutely necessary that she should remain, at least while her own informations were being read. He would read them first, and she might then retire. He regretted very much that it was necessary, but he would not detain her more than a couple of minutes at most.

Tom Murdock and the other prisoner were then brought in; and Winny having identified the other man, her informations were read in a loud, distinct voice by the magistrate, and she acknowledged herself bound, etc, etc.

"You may now retire, Mrs. Lennon," said the magistrate; and she hastened to leave the room.

Tom Murdock stood near the door out of which she must pa.s.s, his hands crossed below his breast in consequence of the handcuffs. He knew that there was no chance of escape, no hope of an alteration or mitigation of his doom in this world. Everything was too plain against him. There were several witnesses to his deed of death, and the d.a.m.ning words by which it was accompanied, and he knew that the rope must be his end.

Well, he had purchased his revenge, and he was willing to pay for it.

He determined, therefore, to put on the bravado, and glut that revenge upon his still surviving victim.

"Emon-a-knock is dead. Miss Cavana," said he, as Winny would have pa.s.sed him to the door, her eyes fastened on the ground; "but not buried yet", he added, with a sardonic smile. "I wish I were free of these manacles, that I might follow his _remains_ to Shanvilla chapel-yard."

"You would go wrong," she calmly reply. "He is indeed dead, but not buried yet. But he is my dead husband, and will lie with the Cavanas in the chapel-yard of Rathcash, and rise again with them; and I would rather be possessed of the inheritance of the six feet of gra.s.s upon his grave than be mistress of Rathcash, and Rathcashmore to boot.

Where will you be buried, Tom Murdock? Within the precincts of--the jail? To rise with-but no! I shall not condemn beyond the grave; may G.o.d forgive you! I cannot."

Even Tom Murdock's stony heart was moved. "Winny Cavana, do you think G.o.d can?" he said, turning toward her; but she had pa.s.sed out of the door.

The magistrate then read the informations of the other witnesses, while Tom Murdock and the other prisoner, stood apparently listening, though they heard not a word.

Jamesy Doyle's informations were word for word characteristic of himself. He insisted upon having the flash of lightning inserted therein, as an undoubted fact, "if ever he saw one knock a man down in his life."

The magistrate and "the chief" had then some conversation with old Ned and Winny, who had returned at their request to the parlor. It was of a general character, but still respecting the melancholy occurrence, or indeed occurrences, the magistrate said, for he had heard of the death of the man who had been killed by the "watch-dog." Ere they left they took Jamesy aside upon this subject, as the only person who knew anything of this part of the business, and the magistrate requested him to state distinctly what he knew of the transaction.

Jamesy was _distinct_ enough, as the reader will believe, from the specimens he has already had of his style of communicating facts.

"Tell me, my good boy," said the magistrate, "did you _set_ the dog at {256} the deceased?" laying a strong emphasis on the word.

"Beghorra, your honor, Bully-dhu didn't want any settin' at all. The minnit he seen the man inside in the kitchen, he stuck in his thrapple at wanst. I knew he'd hould him till I come back, an' I med off for the police."

"Are you aware, my young champion, that if you set the dog at the deceased you would be guilty of manslaughter at least, if not murder?"

"Of murdher, is id? Oh, tare anages, what's this for? Begorra, af that be law it isn't justice. Didn't they tie th' ould masther neck an'

heels? Didn't they tie Miss Winny and carry her off to murdher her, or maybe worse? Didn't they tie Biddy Murtagh? and wouldn't they ha' tied me af they could get hoult of me? an' would you want Bully-dhu to sit on his boss, lookin' on at all that, your honor?"

"That may be all true, Jamesy, but I do not think the law would exonerate you, for all that, if you set the dog at the deceased man."

"Well, begorra, I pointed at the man, your honor; but I tell you Bully-dhu wanted no settin' at him at all; af he did I'd have given it to him; and I think the law would onerate me for that same. See here now, your honor. Af th' ould masther had a double-barrel gun, an' shot the two men as dead as mutton that was goin' to tie him up, wouldn't the law be well plaised wid him? and if I had a pistol, an' shot every man iv 'em, wouldn't your honor make a chief iv me at least, instead of sending me to jail? and why wouldn't Bully-dhu, who had on'y a pair of double-barrel tusks, do his part an' help us? I'm feedin' an'

taichin' that dog, your honor, since he was a whelp, an' he never disappointed me yet--there now!"

There was certainly natural logic in all this, which the magistrate, with all his experience of the law, found it difficult to contradict.

A notion had come into his head at one time that if Jamesy Doyle had set the dog at John Fahy, he might be guilty of his death, notwithstanding the said John Fahy had been committing a felony at the time. But there was no proof that he had set the dog at the man beyond his own admission, and the question had not been raised. Jamesy was willing to avow his responsibility, as far as it went, in the most open and candid manner, and not only that, but to _justify_ it, which he had indeed done in a most extraordinary, clever manner. Then what had been his conduct all through? Had it not been that of a courageous, faithful boy, who had risked his own life in obstructing the escape of the murderer? and was he not the most material witness they had--the only one who had never lost sight of the man who had shot Edward Lennon, until he himself had secured him for the police?

"No, no," reflected the magistrate; "it would be absurd to hold Jamesy Doyle liable for anything, but the most qualified approbation of his conduct from first to last."

"Well, Jamesy," said he, out of these thoughts, "we will take your own opinion in favor of yourself for the present. There is no doubt of your being forthcoming at the next a.s.sizes?"

"Begorra, your honor, I'll stick to the ould masther and Miss Winny, an' I don't think they're likely to lave this."

"That will do, Jamesy. Come, Mr.----, I think we have taken up almost enough of these poor people's time. We may be going."

A word or two about old Mick Murdock ere we close this chapter, as the reader, not having seen or heard of him for some days, will no doubt be curious to know what he had been doing, and how he comported himself during so trying and exciting a scene.

During the period which Tom had spent in the obscure little public-house {257} upon the mountain road in the county Cavan, his own report that, he had gone to the north had done him no service; for the addition which he had tacked to it, about "going to get married to a rich young lady," was not believed by a single person for whose deception it had been spread abroad. That sort of thing had been so often repeated without fulfilment that people reversed the cry of the wolf upon the subject.

There was nothing now for it with those to whom Tom was indebted but to go to his father, in hopes of some arrangement being made to even secure them in their money. Several bills of exchange--some overdue, and some not yet at maturity--with his name across them, were brought to old Mick for sums varying from ten to fifteen and twenty pounds.

Old Mick quietly p.r.o.nounced them one and all to be _forgeries_. Tom and he had had some very sharp words before he went away. He had called the poor old man a "----old n.i.g.g.ard" to his face, and he heard the words "cannot lost very long," as Tom slapped the door behind him.

Old Mick would have only fretted at all this had his son returned in a reasonable time to his home, and, as usual, made promises of amendment, or had even written to him. It was the first time that ever a forged acceptance had been presented to him for payment, and Tom's prolonged absence without any preconcerted object to account for it weighed heavily upon the old man's heart as to his son's real character. Tom was all this time, as the reader is aware, planning a bold stroke to secure Winny Cavana's fortune to pay off these forgeries. But we have seen with what a miserable result.

It was impossible to hide the glaring fact of Tom Murdock's apprehension and committal to jail upon the dreadful charge of murder from his father. It rang from one end of the parish to the other. But instead of rushing to meet his son, clapping his hands, and exclaiming, "Oh! wiristhrue, wiristhrue! what's this for?" poor old Mick was completely prostrated by the news; and there he lay in his bed, unable to move hand or foot from the poignancy of his grief and disgrace.

If Tom Murdock has broken his poor old father's heart, and he never rises from that bed, it is only another item in his great account.