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.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

The reader will recollect that the incidents recorded in the two last chapters took place toward the latter end of June. We will, therefore, have time, before the a.s.sizes come on, to let him know how far Winny's fancy map was perfected.

For herself, then, first. She had determined to become a member of a convent in the north of Ireland, giving up the world with all its vanities--she knew nothing of its pomps--and devoting her time, her talents, and whatever money she might finally possess, to religious and charitable purposes. She had not delayed long after the magistrate and "the chief" had left, and she had experienced a refreshing sleep, in taking her father into her confidence to the fullest extent of her intuitions, not only as regarded herself, but with respect to those friends whom she had set down upon the map to be provided for.

"Father," she said, continuing a conversation, "there is no use in your moving such a thing to me. It is no matter at what time you project it for me; my mind is made up beyond even the consideration of the question. I will never marry. Do not, like a dear good father that you have ever been, move it to me any more."

"Indeed, Winny, I could not add a word more than I have already sed; an' if that fails to bring you round, share I'm dumb, Winny asth.o.r.e. G.o.d's will be done! I'm dumb."

"It is his will I am seeking, father. What matter if we are the last of the Cavanas, as you say? Beside, my children would not be Cavanas; recollect that, father."

"I know that, Winny jewel; but they'd be of th' ould stock all the same. Their grandfather would be a Cavana, if he lived to see them."

"Be thankful for what you have, father dear. There never was a large clan of a name but some one of them brought grief to it."

"Ay, Winny asth.o.r.e; but there is always wan that makes up for it by their superior goodness. Look at me that never had but the wan, an'

wasn't she, an' isn't she, a threasure to me all the days of my life?

Look at that, Winny."

"And there is your next-door neighbor, father, never had but the one, and instead of a treasure, has he not been a curse? Look you at that, father."

Old Ned was silent for some moments, and Winny did not wish to interrupt his thoughts. She hoped he was coming quite round to her way of thinking with respect to her never "getting married;" and she was right.

"Well, Winny asth.o.r.e," he said, after a pause, "shure you're doin' a good turn for your sowl hereafther at any rate; an' I'll be led an'

sed by your own sinse of goodness in the matther. For myself, Winny, wheresomever you go I'll go, where I'll see you sometimes--as often as you can, Winny. Be my time long or short, I know that you will never see me worse, if not betther nor what I always was. But it isn't aisy to lave this place, Winny asth.o.r.e, where I'm livin' since I was the hoith of your knee with your grandfather an' your grandmother--G.o.d rest their sowls! There isn't a pebble in the long walk in the garden, nor a pavin'-stone in the yard, that I couldn't place upon paper forenent you there this minnit, and tell you the color of them every wan. There's scarcely a blade of gra.s.s in the pasthure-fields that I couldn't remember where it grows in my dhrames. There isn't a furze-blossom in the big ditch but what I'd know it out iv the bud it c.u.m from. There isn't a thrush nor a blackbird about the place but what I know themselves an' their whistles as well as I know your own song from Biddy Murtagh's or Jamesy Doyle's. Not a robin-redbreast in the garden, Winny, that doesn't know me as well as I know you; an' I could tell you the difference between the very chaffinches--I could, Winny, I could."

"I know all that, father dear, and I know it will not be easy to break up all them happy thoughts in your mind. But then you know, father dear, I could not stop here looking across at the house where that man lived. G.o.d help me, father, I do not know what to do!"

Poor old Ned saw that she was distressed, and was sorry he had drawn such a picture of his former happiness at Rathcash. The recollection of these little matters had run upon his tongue, but it was not with any intention of using them as an argument to change Winny's plans.

"Winny," he said, "I didn't mane to fret you; shure I know what you say is all thrue. I could not stop here myself no more nor what you could, Winny, afther what has happened. Dear me, Winny jewel, how soon you seen through that fellow, an' how glad I am that you didn't give in to me! But now, Winny asth.o.r.e, let us quit talking of him, and listen to what I have to say to you. 'Tis just this. My landlord, who you know is member for the county, tould me any time I had a mind to sell my intherest in Rathcash, that he'd give me a hundred pounds more for it than any one else. I'll write to him tomorrow, plaise G.o.d, about it. You know Jerry Carty? Well, he is afther offerin' me seven hundred pounds into my fist for my good-will of the place. As good luck would have it, I did not put any price upon it when my landlord spoke to me about sellin' it. I can tell him now that I have a mind to sell it, an' I won't hide the raison aidher. I can let him know what Carty is willin' to give me for it, an' he's sure to give me eight hundred pounds. You know, Winny, that your six hundred pounds is in the bank b'arin' intherest for you, an' what you don't dhraw is added to it every half year. But that's naidher here nor there, Winny, for it will be all your own the very moment this place is sould, an', as I sed before, you may make ducks and dhrakes iv it. Shure I know, Winny, that'll you never see me want for a haporth while I last, be it long or short. But, Winny dear, let us live in the wan house; that's all I ax, mavourneen macree."

"That will be about fourteen hundred pounds in all, father."

"A thrifle more nor that, I think, Winny. Maybe you did not know how much or how little it was, when you laid it out the way you tould me."

"No, not exactly, father; but I knew I must have been very much within the mark; I took care of that."

"Go over it again for me, Winny dear, af it wouldn't be too much throuble."

"Not in the least, father. You know I took Kate Mulvey first, and determined to settle three hundred pounds upon her for a fortune against 'she meets with some young man,' as the song says. And I believe, father, Phil M'Dermott, the whitesmith, will be about the man. He is very fond of Kate, but he would not marry any woman until he had saved enough of money to set up a house comfortly and decently upon. Three hundred pounds fortune with Kate will set them up in good style, and I shall see the best friend I ever had happy. Then, father, there are the Lennons, my poor dear husband's parents, whom I shall next consider. Pat Lennon, poor Emon's father, risked his life most manfully in my defence. Were it not for his resolute attack upon the two men with the cart, and the obstruction he gave them, they would have carried me through the pa.s.s long before the police and Jamesy Doyle came up; and the probability is that you would never have seen your poor Winny again. I purpose purchasing the good-will of that little farm and house from which the Murphys are about to emigrate, and settle a small gratuity upon them during their lives."

"Annuity, I suppose you mane, Winny; but it's no matther. How much will that take, Winny?"

"About two hundred pounds, father, including the--what is it you call it, father?'

"Annuity, Winny, annuity; I didn't think you were so--"

"Annuity," she repeated before he had got the other word out, and he was glad afterward.

"Well, Winny, that's only five hundred out of somethin' over six."

"Then I'll give Biddy Murtagh a hundred pounds, and she must live as cook and house-maid with Kate; and I'll lodge twenty pounds in the savings-bank for Jamesy Doyle. Perhaps I owe him more than the whole of them put together."

"That will be the first duck, Winny."

"How is that, father?'

"Why, it's well beyant the six hundred, Winny, which was all you were goin' upon at first; but you may now begin with whatever we get by the sale of Rathcash."

"Well, father, I would only wish to suggest the distribution of that, for you know I have no call to it, and G.o.d grant that it may be a long day until I have."

"Faix, an' Winny, af that be so, you've left yourself bare enough. But don't be talkin' nonsense, child. What would I want with it? Won't you take care iv me, Winny asth.o.r.e? an' won't you want the most iv it where you are agoin? an' didn't you tell me already that you'd like me to let you give it to the charities of that religious establishment? Shure, there's no use in my askin' you any more not to go into it."

"None indeed, father, for I am resolved upon it. But you shall live in the town with me, and I can take care of you the same as if I was in the house with you. There shall be nothing that you can want or wish for that you shall not have, and no day that it is possible that I will not see you."

"What more had I here, Winny, except the crops coming round from the seed to the harvest, an' the cattle, an' the gra.s.s, an' the birds in the bushes? Dear, oh dear, yes! Hadn't I yourself, Winny asth.o.r.e, forenent me at breakust, dinner, an' supper; an' warn't you for ever talkin' to me of an evenin', with your st.i.tchin' or your knittin'

across your lap; an', Winny jewel, wasn't your light song curling through the yard, an' the house, afore I was up in the mornin'? But now--now--Winny--oh, Winny asth.o.r.e, mavourneen macree! but your poor old father will miss yourself, no matther how kind your plans may be for his comfort. Shure, the very knowledge that you were asleep in the house with me was a blessin'."

"Father," she said, "G.o.d bless you! I will be back with you in a few minutes--do not fret;" and she left him, and shut herself up in her room.

But he did fret; and he was no sooner alone than the big tears burst uncontrollably forth into a pocket-handkerchief, which he continued to sop against his face.

Winny had thrown herself upon her knees at the bedside, and prayed to G.o.d to guide her. Her thoughts and prayers were too dignified and holy for tears. But they had made a free course to the pinnacle of the mercy-seat, and she rose with her soul refreshed by the glory which had responded to her cry for guidance.

She returned to her father, a radiant smile of antic.i.p.ated pleasure playing round her beautiful lips. There was no sign of grief, or even of emotion, on her cheeks.

"Father," she said, "I have been seeking guidance from the Almighty in this matter; and the old saying that 'charity begins at home'--that is moral charity in this instance--has been suggested to my heart. We shall not part, father, even temporarily. Where you live, I shall live. I have been told, father, just now, while upon my knees, that to do all the good I have projected need not oblige me to join as an actual member of any charitable or religious society. No, father, I can carry out all my plans without the necessity of living apart from you; we will therefore, father dear, still live together. But let us remove when this place is sold to B----, where the establishment I have spoken of is situated, and there, with my knitting or my st.i.tching on my lap before you in the evenings, I can carry on all my plans in connection with the inst.i.tution without being an actual member, which might involve the necessity of my living in the house.

But, father dear, I hope you do not disapprove of any of them, or of the distribution of the money, so far as I have laid it out."

It was then quietly and finally arranged between them that as soon as Rathcash was sold, and the stock and furniture disposed of, they would remove to B----, in a northern county. They there intended to take a small house, either in the town or precincts--the latter old Ned preferred--where Winny could join the Sisters of Charity, at least in her acts, if not as a resident member. The money was to be disposed of as Winny had laid out, and legal deeds were to be prepared and perfected; and poor Winny, notwithstanding the sudden cloud which had darkened the blue heaven of her life, was to be as happy as the day was long.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

Within a month from the scene between Winny and her father described above, Rathcash bad been purchased and paid for. There had been "a great auction" of the stock, crops, and furniture. The house was shut up, the door locked, and the windows bolted. No smoke curled from the brick chimneys through the poplars. No sleek dark-red cows stood swinging their tails and licking their noses, while a fragrant smell of luscious milk rose through the air. No c.o.c.k crew, no duck quacked, no Turkey gobbled, and no goose gabbled. No dog bayed the moon by night. Bully-dhu was at the flitting. The corn-stands and haggard were naked and cold, and the gra.s.s was beginning to grow before the door.

The whole place seemed solitary and forlorn, awaiting a new tenant, or whatever plans the proprietor might lay out for its future occupation.

Winny and her father had torn themselves from the spot hallowed to the old man by years of uninterrupted happiness, and to the young girl by the memory of a blissful childhood and the first sunshine of the bright hope which is nearest to a woman's heart, until that fatal night when vengeful crime broke in and snapt both spells asunder.