Part 46 (2/2)
”Here then,” he replied, suiting the action to the word, and throwing a few halfpence into her lap; ”go to Peggy Finigan's an' buy yourself a couple of ounces, an' smoke rings round you; and listen to me, go down before you come back to Bamy Keeran's an' see whether he has my shoes done or not, an' tell him from me, that if they're not ready for me tomorrow mornin', I'll get him exk.u.mmunicated.”
When the crone had gone out, the pedlar proceeded:
”Don't be cast down yet, I tell you; there's still time enough, an' they may be here still.”
”Be here still! why, good G.o.d! isn't the thrial to come on to-morrow, they say?”
”So itself; you may take my word for it, that even if he's found guilty, they won't hang him, or any man of his years.”
”Don't be too sure o' that,” replied Hanlon; ”but indeed what could I expect afther dependin' upon a foolish dhrame?”
”Never mind; I'm still of the opinion that everything may come about yet. The Prophet's wife was with Father Hanratty, tellin' him something, an' he is to call here early in the mornin'; he bid me tell you so.”
”When did you see him?”
”To day at the cross roads, as he was goin' to a sick call.
”But where's the use o' that, when they're not here? My own opinion is, that she's either sick, or if G.o.d hasn't said it, maybe dead. How can we tell if ever she has seen or found the man you sent her for? Sure, if she didn't, all's lost.”
”Throth, I allow,” replied the pedlar, ”that things is in a distressin'
state with us; however, while there's life there's hope, as the Doctor says. There must be something extraordinary wrong to keep them away so long, I grant--or herself, at any rate; still, I say again, trust in G.o.d. You have secured Duncan, you say; but can you depend on the ruffian?”
”If it was on his honesty, I could not, one second, but I do upon his villainy and love of money. I have promised him enough, and it all depends on whether he'll believe me or not.”
”Well, well,” observed the other, ”I wish things had a brighter look up.
If we fail, I won't know what to say. We must only thry an' do the best we can, ourselves.”
”Have you seen the agint since you gave him the pet.i.tion?” asked Hanlon.
”I did, but he had no discoorse with the Hendherson's; and he bid me call on him again.”
”I dunna what does he intend to do?”
”Hut, nothing. What 'id he do? I'll go bail, he'll never trouble his head about it more; at any rate I tould him a thing.”
”Very likely he won't,” replied Hanlon; ”but what I'm thinkin' of now, is the poor Daltons. May G.o.d in his mercy pity an' support them this night!”
The pedlar clasped his hands tightly as he looked up, and said ”Amen!”
”Ay,” said he, ”it's now, Charley, whin I think of them, that I get frightened about our disappointment, and the way that everything has failed with us. G.o.d pity them, I say, too!”
The situation of this much tried family, was, indeed, on the night in question, pitiable in the extreme. It is true, they had now recovered, or nearly so, the full enjoyment of their health, and were--owing, as we have already said, to the bounty of some unknown friend--in circ.u.mstances of considerable comfort. Dalton's confession of the murder had taken away from them every principle upon which they could rely, with one only exception. Until the moment of that confession, they had never absolutely been in possession of the secret cause of his remorse--although, it must be admitted, that, on some occasions, the strength of his language and the melancholy depth of his sorrow, filled them with something like suspicion. Still such they knew to be the natural affection and tenderness of his heart, his benevolence and generosity, in spite of his occasional bursts of pa.s.sion, that they could not reconcile to themselves the notion that he had ever murdered a fellow creature. Every one knows how slow the heart of wife or child is to entertain such a terrible suspicion against a husband or a parent, and that the discovery of their guilt comes upon the spirit with a weight of distress and agony that is great in proportion to the confidence felt in them.
The affectionate family in question had just concluded their simple act of evening wors.h.i.+p, and were seated around a dull fire, looking forward in deep dejection to the awful event of the following day. The silence that prevailed was only broken by an occasional sob from the girls, or a deep sigh from young Con, who, with his mother, had not long been returned from Ballynafail, where they had gone to make preparations for the old man's defence. His chair stood by the fire, in its usual place, and as they looked upon it from time to time, they could not prevent their grief from bursting out afresh. The mother, on this occasion, found the usual grounds for comfort taken away from both herself and them--we mean, the husband's innocence. She consequently had but one principle to rely on--that of single dependence upon G.o.d, and obedience to His sovereign will, however bitter the task might be, and so she told them.
”It's a great thrial to us, children,” she observed; ”an' it's only natural we should feel it. I do not bid you to stop cryin', my poor girls, because it would be very strange if you didn't cry. Still, let us not forget that it's our duty to bow down humbly before whatever misfortune--an' this is indeed a woeful one--that it pleases G.o.d in His wisdom (or, may be, in His mercy), to lay in our way. That's all we can do now, G.o.d help us--an' a hard thrial it is--for when we think of what he was to us--of his kindness--his affection!----”
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