"Now," said he, pulling out a paper, "I have marked down here twelve names that I will read for you. They are to act as a jury; they are to thry them both for their lives--and then to let us hear their sentence."
He then read over the twelve names, every man answering to his name as he called them out.
"Now," he proceeded, "this is how you are to act; your silence will give consent to any question that is asked of you. Are you willin' that these twelve men should thry Valentine M'Clutchy and his son for their lives; and that the sentence is to be put in execution on them?" To this there was a profound and ominous silence.
"Very well," said he, "you agree to this. Now," said he to the jurors, "find your sentence."
The men met together, and whispered in the centre of the floor, for a few minutes--when he, who acted as foreman, turned towards O'Regan and said--"They're doomed."
"To what death?"
"To be both shot."
"Are you all satisfied with this sentence?"
Another silence as deep and ominous as before.
"Very well," said he, "you all agree. As for the sentence, it is a just one; none of you need throuble yourselves any farther about that; you may take my word for it, that it will be carried into execution. Are you willing it should?"
For the third time an unbroken silence. "That's enough," said he; "and now let us go quietly home."
"It is not enough," said a voice at the door; "let none depart without my permission, I command you;" and the words were no sooner uttered than the venerable Father Roche entered the house.
"Wretched and misguided men," said he, to what a scene of blood and crime have I just now been an ear witness? Are you men who live under my ministry?--who have so often heard and attended to my sincere and earnest admonitions? I cannot think ye are, and yet, I see no face here that is unknown to me. Oh, think for a moment, reflect, if you can, upon what you have been doing!--planning the brutal, ungodly murder of two of your fellow creatures! And What makes the crime still more revolting, these two fellow creatures father and son. What constituted you judges over them? If they have oppressed you, and driven many of you to ruin and distress, and even to madness, yet, do you not know that there is a just God above to whom they must be accountable for the deeds done in the flesh? Are you to put yourselves in the place of the Almighty?--to snatch the sceptre of justice and judgment out of his hands, and take that awful office into your own, which belongs only to him? Are ye indeed mad, my friends? Do you not know that out of the multitude assembled here this moment there is not one of you whose life would not be justly forfeited to the law? not one. I paused at the half closed door before I entered, and was thus enabled to hear your awful, your guilty, your blasphemous proceedings. Justice belongs to God, and in mocking justice you mock the God of Justice."
"But you don't know, Father Roche," said O'Regan, "you couldn't imagine all the villany he and his son have been guilty of, and all they've made the people suffer."
"I do know it too well; and these are grievances that God in his own good time will remove; but it is not for us to stain our souls with guilt in order to redress them. Now, my children, do you believe that I feel an interest in your welfare, and in your happiness hereafter? Do you believe this?"
"We do, sir; who feels for us as you do?"
"Well, then, will you give me a proof of this?"
"Name it, sir, name it."
"I know you will," continued the old man; "I know you will. Then, in the name of the merciful God, I implore, I entreat--and, if that will not do, then, as his servant, and the humble minister of his word and will--I command you to disavow the murderous purpose you have come to this night. Heavenly Father," said he, looking up with all the fervor of sublime piety, "we entreat you to take from these mistaken men the wicked intention of imbruing their guilty hands in blood; teach them a clear sense of Christian duty; to love their very enemies; to forgive all injuries that may be inflicted on them; and to lead such lives as may never be disturbed by a sense of guilt or the tortures of remorse!"
The tears flowed fast down his aged cheeks as he spoke, and his deep sobbings for some time prevented him from speaking. Those whom he addressed were touched, awakened, melted. He proceeded:--
"Take pity on their condition, O Lord, and in thine own good time, if it be thy will, let their unhappy lot in this life be improved! But, above, all things, soften their hearts, inspire them with good and pious purposes, and guard them from the temptations of revenge! They are my flock--they are my children--and, as such, thou knowest how I lave and feel for them!"
They were more deeply moved, more clearly awakened, and more penetratingly touched. Several sobs were heard towards the close of his prayer, and a new spirit was diffused among them.
"Now, my children," said he, "will you obey the old man that loves you?"
"We will," was the universal response, "we will obey you."
"Then," said he, "you promise in the presence of God, that you will not injure Valentine M'Clutchy and his son?"
"In the presence of God we promise," was the unanimous reply.
"Then, my children, may the blessing of Almighty God be with you, and guard and protect you wherever you go. And now proceed home, and sleep with consciences unburthened by guilt."
And thus were Valentine M'Clutchy and his son saved, on this occasion, by the very man whom they termed "a rebellious Popish priest."
It was observed, however, by most of those present that Owen O'Regan availed himself of the good priest's remonstrance to disappear from the meeting--thus evading the solemn obligation to refrain from crime, into which all the rest entered.
CHAPTER XXVI.--Harman's Interview with Mary M'Loughlin
--An Execution for Rent Forty Years ago--Gordon Harvey's Friendly Remonstrance with his Brother Orangemen.
The development, by Poll Doolin, of the diabolical plot against Mary M'Loughlin's character, so successfully carried into effect by Phil and Poll herself, took a deadly weight off Harman's heart. Mary, the following morning, little aware that full justice had been rendered her, was sitting in the parlor with her mother, who had been complaining for a day or two of indisposition, and would have admitted more fully the alarming' symptoms she felt, were it not for the declining health of her daughter. If there be one misery in life more calculated than another to wither and consume the heart, to make society odious, man to look like a blot in the creation, and the very providence of God doubtful, it is to feel one's character publicly slandered and misrepresented by the cowardly and malignant, by the skulking scoundrel and the moral assassin--to feel yourself loaded with imputations that are false, calumnious, and cruel. Mary M'Loughlin felt all this bitterly.
In her heart; so bitterly, indeed, that all relish for life had departed from her. She was now spiritless, hopeless, without an aim or object, or anything to sustain her, or to give interest to existence. Philosophy, which too often knows little about actual life, tells us that a consciousness of being innocent of the social slanders that are heaped upon an individual, is a principle that ought to support and console him. But the truth is, that this very consciousness of innocence is precisely the circumstance which sharpens and poisons the arrow that pierces him, and gives rancor to the wound.
On the morning in question, Mary sat by her mother who lay reclining on a sofa, each kindly attempting to conceal from the other the illness which she felt. Mary was pale, wasted, and drooping; the mother, on the contrary, was flushed and feverish.
"I wish, my dear mother," said she, "that you would yield to me, and go to bed: you are certainly worse than you wish us to believe."
"It won't signify, Mary; it's nothing but cold I got, and it will pass away. I think nothing of myself, but it grieves my heart to see you look so ill; why don't you strive to keep up your spirits, and to be what you used to be? But God help you, my poor child," said she, as the tears started to her eyes, "sure it's hard for you to do so."
"Mother," she replied, "it is hard for me; I am every way surrounded with deep and hopeless affliction. I often wish that I could lay my head quietly in the grave; but then, I should wish to do so with my name unstained--and, on the other hand, what is there that can bind me to life? I am not afraid of death, but I fear to die now; I know not, mother, what to do, I am very much to be pitied. Oh," she added, whilst the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks, "after all, I feel that nothing but death can still the thoughts that disturb me, and release me from the anguish that weighs me down and consumes me day by day."
"My dear child," replied her mother, "we must only trust to God, who, in his own good time, will set everything right. As it is, there is no respectable person in the neighborhood who believes the falsehood, with the exception of some of the diabolical Wretch's friends."
Mary here shuddered, and exhibited the strongest possible symptoms of aversion, even to momentary sickness.
"If," pursued the mother, "the unfortunate impression could be removed from poor, mistaken Harman, all would be soon right."
The mention of Harman deeply affected the poor girl; she made no reply, but for some minutes wept in great bitterness.
"Mother," said she, after a little time, "I fear you are concealing the state of your own health; I am sure, from your flushed face and oppressive manner of speaking, that you are worse than you think yourself, or will admit."
"Indeed, to tell the truth, Mary, I fear I am; I feel certainly very feverish--I am burning."
"Then, for heaven's sake, go to bed, my dear mother; and let the doctor at once be sent for."
"If I don't get easier soon, I will," replied her mother, "I do not much like going to bed, it looks so like a fit of sickness."
At this moment a tap at the door announced a visitor, and almost immediately Harman entered the parlor. It is scarcely necessary to say, that Mary was quite unprepared for his appearance, as indeed was her mother. The latter sat up on the sofa, but spoke not, for she scarcely knew in what terms to address him. Mary, though much moved previous to his entrance, now assumed the appearance of a coldness, which in her heart she did not feel. That her lover, who ought to have known her so well, should have permitted himself to be borne away by such an ungenerous suspicion of her fidelity, was a reflection which caused her many a bitter pang. On the other hand, when she looked back upon the snare into which she had been drawn, it was impossible not to admit that the force of appearances made a strong case against her. For this reason, therefore, she scarcely blamed Harman, whilst, at the same time, she certainly felt that there was something due to her previous character, and the maidenly delicacy of her whole life.
"You are surprised, Mary, to see me here," said Harman; "and you, Mrs.
M'Loughlin, are no doubt equally so?"
"I think it is very natural we should be, James," replied Mrs.
M'Loughlin. "I must confess that your visit is an unexpected one certainly, and my anxiety now is, to know the cause to which we may attribute it. Sit down."