Chapter 5. Who Robbed Jemmy Burke?

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_ CHAPTER V. Who Robbed Jemmy Burke?

On the second morning after the night described in the last chapter, Bryan M'Mahon had just returned to his father's house from his farm in Ahadarra, for the purpose of accompanying him to an Emigration auction in the neighborhood. The two farms of Carriglass and Ahadarra had been in the family of the M'Mahon's for generations, and were the property of the same landlord. About three years previous to the period of our narrative, Toal M'Mahon, Bryan's uncle, died of an inflammatory attack, leaving to his eldest nephew and favorite the stock farm of Ahadarra. Toal had been a bachelor who lived wildly and extravagantly, and when he died Bryan suceeeded to the farm, then as wild, by the way, and as much neglected as its owner had been, with an arrear of two years' rent upon it. In fact the house and offices had gone nearly to wreck, and when Bryan entered into occupation he found that a large sum of money should be expended in necessary improvements ere the place could assume anything like a decent appearance. As a holding, however, it was reasonable; and we may safely assert that if Toal M'Mahon had been either industrious or careful he might have lived and died a wealthy man upon it. As Ahadarra lay in the mountain district, it necessarily covered a large space; in fact it constituted a townland in itself. The greater portion of it, no doubt, was barren mountain, but then there were about three hundred acres of strong rough land that was either reclaimed or capable of being so. Bryan, who had not only energy and activity, but capital to support both, felt, on becoming master of a separate farm, that peculiar degree of pride which was only natural to a young and enterprising man. He had now a fair opportunity, he thought, of letting his friends see what skill and persevering exertion could do. Accordingly he commenced his improvements in a spirit which at least deserved success. He proceeded upon the best system then known to intelligent agriculturalists, and nothing was left undone that he deemed necessary to work out his purposes. He drained, reclaimed, made fences, roads, and enclosures. Nor did he stop here. We said that the house and offices were in a ruinous state when they came into his possession, and the consequence was that he found it necessary to build a new dwelling house and suitable offices, which he did on a more commodious and eligible site. Altogether his expenditure on the farm could not have been less than eight hundred pounds at the period of the landlord's death, which, as the reader knows is that at which we have commenced our narrative.

Thomas M'Mahon's family consisted of--first, his father, a grey-haired patriarch, who, though a very old man, was healthy and in the full possession of all his faculties; next, himself; then his wife; Bryan, the proprietor of Ahadarra; two other sons, both younger, and two daughters, the eldest twenty, and the youngest about eighteen. The name of the latter was Dora, a sweet and gentle girl, with beautiful auburn hair, dark, brilliant eyes, full of intellect and feeling, an exquisite mouth, and a figure which was remarkable for natural grace and great symmetry.

"Well, Bryan," said the father, "what news from Ahadarra?"

"Nothing particular from Ahadarra," replied the son, "but our good-natured friend, Jemmy Burke, had his house broken open and robbed the night before last."

"Wurrah deheelish" exclaimed his mother, "no, he hadn't!"

"Well, mother," replied Bryan, laughing, "maybe not. I'm afeard it's too true though."

"An' how much did he lose?" asked his father.

"Between seventy and eighty pounds," said Bryan.

"It's too much," observed the other; "still I'm glad it's no more; an' since the villains did take it, it's well they tuck it from a man that can afford to lose it."

"By all accounts," said Arthur, or, as he was called, Art, "Hycy, the sportheen, has pulled him down a bit. He's not so rich now, they say, as he was three or four years ago."

"He's rich enough still," observed his father; "but at any rate, upon my sowl I'm sorry for him; he's the crame of an honest, kind-hearted neighbor; an' I believe in my conscience if there's a man alive that hasn't an ill-wisher, he is."

"Is it known who robbed him?" asked the grandfather, "or does he suspect anybody?"

"It's not known, of course, grandfather," replied Bryan, "or I suppose they would be in limbo before now; but there's quare talk about it. The Hogans is suspected, it seems. Philip was caught examinin' the hall-door the night before; an' that does look suspicious."

"Ay," said the old man, "an' very likely they're the men. I remember them this many a long day; it's forty years since Andy Hogan--he was lame--Andy Boccah they called him--was hanged for the murdher of your great-granduncle, Billy Shevlin, of Frughmore, so that they don't like a bone in our bodies. That was the only murdher I remember of them, but many a robbery was laid to their charge; an' every now and then there was always sure to be an odd one transported for thievin', an' house-breakin', and sich villainy."

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Mrs. M'Mahon, "but it was some o' them tuck our two brave geese the night before last."

"Very likely, in throth, Bridget," said her husband; "however, as the ould proverb has it, 'honesty's the best policy.' Let them see which of us I'll be the best off at the end of the year."

"There's an odd whisper here an' there about another robber," continued Bryan; "but I don't believe a word about it. No, no;--he's wild, and not scrupulous in many things, but I always thought him generous, an' indeed rather careless about money."

"You mane the sportheen?" said his brother Art.

"The Hogans," said the old man, recurring to the subject, as associated with them, "would rob anybody barrin' the Cavanaghs; but I won't listen to it, Bryan, that Hycy Burke, or the son of any honest man that ever had an opportunity of hearin' the Word o' God, or livin' in a Christian counthry, could ever think of robbin' his own father--his own father! I won't listen to that."

"No, nor I, grandfather," said Bryan, "putting everything else out of the question, its too unnatural an act. What makes you shake your head, Art?"

"I never liked a bone in his body, somehow," replied Art.

"Ay, but my goodness, Art," said Dora, "sure nobody would think of robbin' their own father?"

"He has been doin' little else these three years, Dora, by all accounts," replied Art.

"Ay, but his father," continued the innocent girl; "to break into the house at night an' rob him like a robber!"

"Well, I say, it's reported that he has been robbin' him these three years in one shape or other," continued Art; "but here's Shibby, let's hear what she'll say. What do you think, shibby?"

"About what, Art?"

"That Hycy Burke would rob his father!"

"Hut, tut! Art, what puts that into your head? Oh, no, Art--not at all--to rob his father, an' him has been so indulgent to him!"

"Indeed, I agree with you, Shibby," said Bryan; "for although my opinion of Hycy is changed very much for the worse of late, still I can't and won't give in to that."

"An what has changed it for the worse?" asked his mother. "You an' he wor very thick together always--eh? What has changed it, Bryan?"

Bryan began to rub his hand down the sleeve of his coat, as if freeing it from dust, or perhaps admiring its fabric, but made no reply.

"Eh, Bryan," she continued, "what has changed your opinion of him?"

"Oh, nothing of much consequence, mother," replied her son; "but sometimes a feather will toll one how the wind blows."

As he spoke, it might have been observed that he looked around upon the family with an appearance of awakened consciousness that was very nearly allied to shame. He recovered his composure, however, on perceiving that none among them gave, either by look or manner, any indication of understanding what he felt. This relieved him: but he soon found that the sense of relief experienced from it was not permitted to last long. Dora, his favorite sister, glided over to his side and gently taking his hand in hers began to play with his fingers, whilst a roguish laugh, that spoke a full consciousness of his secret, broke her pale but beautiful features into that mingled expression of smiles and blushes which, in one of her years, gives a look of almost angelic purity and grace. After about a minute or two, during which she paused, and laughed, and blushed, and commenced to whisper, and again stopped, she at last put her lips to his ear and whispered:--"Bryan, I know the reason you don't like Hycy."

"You do?" he said, laughing, but yet evidently confused in his turn;--"well--an'--ha!--ha!--no, you fool, you don't."

"May I never stir if I don't!"

"Well, an' what is it?"

"Why, bekaise he's coortin' Kathleen Cavanagh--now!"

"An' what do I care about that?" said her brother.

"Oh, you thief!" she replied; "don't think you can play upon me. I know your saycret."

"An' maybe, Dora," he replied, "I have my saycrets. Do you know who was inquirin' for you to-day?"

"No," she returned, "nor I don't care either--sorra bit."

"I met James Cavanagh there below"--he proceeded, still in a whisper, and he fixed his eyes upon her countenance as he spoke. The words, however, produced a most extraordinary effect. A deep blush crimsoned her whole neck and face, until the rush of blood seemed absolutely to become expressive of pain. Her eye, however, did not droop, but turned upon him with a firm and peculiar sparkle. She had been stooping with her mouth near his ear, as the reader knows, but she now stood up quickly, shook back her hair, that had been hanging in natural and silken curls about her blushing cheeks, and exclaimed: "No--no. Let me alone Bryan;" and on uttering these words she hurried into another room."

"Bryan, you've vexed Dora some way," observed her sister. "What did you say to her?"

"Nothing that vexed her, I'll go bail," he replied, laughing; "however, as to what I said to her, Shibby, ax me no questions an' I'll tell you no lies."

"Becaise I thought she looked as if she was angry," continued Shibby, "an', you know, it must be a strong provocation that would anger her."

"Ah, you're fishin' now, Shibby," he replied, "and many thanks for your good intentions. It's a saycret, an' that's all you're going to know about it. But it's as much as 'll keep you on the look out this month to come; and now you're punished for your curiosity--ha!--ha!--ha! Come, father, if we're to go to Sam Wallace's auction it's time we should think of movin'. Art, go an' help Tom Droogan to bring out the horses. Rise your foot here, father, an' I'll put on your spur for you. We may as well spake to Mr. Fethertonge, the agent, about the leases. I promised we'd call on Gerald Cavanagh, to--an' he'll be waitin' for us--hem!"

His eye here glanced about, but Dora was not visible, and he accordingly seemed to be more at his ease. "I think, father," he added, "I must trate you to a pair of spurs some of these days. This one, it's clear, has been a long time in the family."

"Throth, an' on that account," replied M'Mahon, "I'm not goin' to part wid it for the best pair that ever were made. No, no, Bryan; I like everything that I've known long. When my heart gets accustomed to anything or to anybody"--here he glanced affectionately at his wife--"I can't bear to part wid them, or to think of partin' wid them."

The horses were now ready, and in a brief space he and his son were decently mounted, the latter smartly but not inappropriately dressed; and M'Mahon himself, with his right spur, in a sober but comfortable suit, over which was a huge Jock, his inseparable companion in every fair, market, and other public place, during the whole year. Indeed, it would not be easy to find two better representatives of that respectable and independent class of Irish yeomanry of which our unfortunate country stands so much in need, as was this man of high integrity and his excellent son.

On arriving at Gerald Cavanagh's, which was on their way to the auction, it appeared that in order to have his company it was necessary they should wait for a little, as he was not yet ready. That worthy man they found in the act of shaving himself, seated very upright upon a chair in the kitchen, his eyes fixed with great steadiness upon the opposite wall, whilst lying between his legs upon the ground was a wooden dish half filled with water, and on a chair beside him a small looking-glass, with its backup, which, after feeling his face from time to time in an experimental manner, he occasionally peeped into, and again laid down to resume the operation.

In the mean time, Mrs. Cavanagh set forward a chair for Tom M'Mahon, and desired her daughter Hannah to place one for Bryan, which she did. The two girls were spinning, and it might have been observed that Kathleen appeared to apply herself to that becoming and feminine employment with double industry after the appearance of the M'Mahons. Kate Hogan was sitting in the chimney corner, smoking a pipe, and as she took it out of her mouth to whiff away the smoke from time to time, she turned her black piercing eyes alternately from Bryan M'Mahon to Kathleen with a peculiar keenness of scrutiny.

"An' how are you all up at Carriglass?" asked Mrs. Cavanagh.

"Indeed we can't complain, thank God, as the times goes," replied M'Mahon.

"An' the ould grandfather?--musha, but I was glad to see him look so well on Sunday last!"

"Troth he's as stout as e'er a one of us."

"The Lord continue it to him! I suppose you hard o' this robbery that was done at honest Jemmy Burke's?"

"I did, indeed, an' I was sorry to hear it."

"A hundre' an' fifty pounds is a terrible loss to anybody in such times."

"A hundre' an' fifty!" exclaimed M'Mahon--"hut, tut!--no; I thought it was only seventy or eighty. He did not lose so much, did he?"

"So I'm tould."

"It was two--um--it was two--urn--urn--it was--um--um--it was two hundre' itself," observed Cavanagh, after he had finished a portion of the operation, and given himself an opportunity of speaking--"it war two hundre' itself, I'm tould, an' that's too much, by a hundre' and ninety-nine pounds nineteen shillings an' eleven pence three fardens, to be robbed of."

"Troth it is, Gerald," replied M'Mahon; "but any way there's nothin' but thievin' and robbin' goin'. You didn't hear that we came in for a visit?"

"You!" exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh--"is it robbed? My goodness, no!"

"Why," he proceeded, "we'll be able to get over it afore we die, I hope. On ere last night we had two of our fattest geese stolen."

"Two!" exclaimed Mrs. Cavanagh--"an' at this saison of the! year, too. Well, that same's a loss."

"Honest woman," said M'Mahon, addressing Kate Hogan, "maybe you'd give me a draw o' the pipe?"

"Maybe so," she replied; "an' why wouldn't I? Shough! that is here!"

"Long life to you, Katy. Well," proceeded the worthy man, "if it was a poor person that wanted them an' that took them from hardship, why God forgive them as heartily as I do: but if they wor stole by a thief, for thievin's sake, I hope I'll always be able to afford the loss of a pair betther than the thief will to do without them; although God mend his or her heart, whichever it was, in the mane time."

During this chat Bryan and Hanna Cavanagh were engaged in that good-humored badinage that is common to persons of their age and position.

"I didn't see you at Mass last Sunday, Bryan?" said she, laughing; "an' that's the way you attend to your devotions. Upon my word you promise well!"

"I seen you, then," replied Bryan, "so it seems if I haven't betther eyes I have betther eyesight."

"Indeed I suppose," she replied, "you see everything but what you go to see."

"Don't be too sure of that," he replied, with an involuntary glance at Kathleen, who seemed to enjoy her sister's liveliness, as was evident from the sweet and complacent smile which beamed upon her features.

"Indeed I suppose you're right," she replied; "I suppose you go to say everything but your prayers."

"An' is it in conversation with Jemmy Kelly," asked Bryan, jocularly, alluding to her supposed admirer, "that you perform your own devotions, Miss Hanna?"

"Hanna, achora," said the father, "I think you're playin' the second fiddle there--ha! ha! ha!"

The laugh was now general against Hanna, who laughed as loudly, however, as any of them.

"Throth, Kathleen," she exclaimed, "you're not worth knot's o' straws or you'd help me against this fellow here; have you nothing," she proceeded, addressing Bryan, and nodding towards her sister, "to say to her? Is everything to fall on my poor shoulders? Come, now," with another nod in the same direction, "she desarves it for not assistin' me. Who does she say her devotions with?"

"Hem--a--is it Kathleen you mane?" he inquired, with rather an embarrassed look.

"Not at all," she replied ironically, "but my mother there--ha! ha! ha! Come, now, we're waitin' for you."

"Come, now?" he repeated, purposely misunderstanding her--"oh, begad, that's a fair challenge;" and he accordingly rose to approach her with the felonious intent of getting a kiss; but Hanna started from her wheel and ran out of the house to avoid him.

"Throth, you're a madcap, Hanna," exclaimed her mother, placidly--"an antick crather, dear knows--her heart's in her mouth every minute of the day; an' if she gets through the world wid it always as light, poor girl, it'll be well for her."

"Kathleen, will you get me a towel or praskeen of some sort to wipe my face wid," said her father, looking about for the article he wanted.

"I left one," she replied, "on the back of your chair--an' there it is, sure."

"Ay, achora, it's you that laves nothing undone that ought to be done; an' so it is here, sure enough."

"Why, then, Gerald," asked Tom M'Mahon, "in the name o' wonder what makes you stick to the meal instead o' the soap when you're washin' yourself?"

"Throth, an' I ever will, Tom, an' for a good raison--becaise it's best for the complexion."

The unconscious simplicity with which Cavanagh uttered this occasioned loud laughter, from which Kathleen herself was unable to refrain.

"By the piper, Gerald," said M'Mahon, "that's the best thing I h'ard this month o' Sundays. Why, it would be enough for one o' your daughters to talk about complexion. Maybe you paint too--ha! ha! ha!"

Hanna now put in her head, and asked "what is the fun?" but immediately added, "Kathleen, here's a message for you."

"For me!" said Kathleen; "what is it?"

"Here's Peety Dhu's daughter, an' she says she has something to say to you."

"An' so Rosha Burke," said Mrs. Cavanagh, "has taken her to live wid them; I hope it'll turn out well for the poor thing."

"Will you come out, Kathleen," said Hanna, again peeping in; "she mustn't tell it to anyone but yourself."

"If she doesn't she may keep it, then," replied Kathleen. "Tell her I have no secrets," she added, "nor I won't have any of her keeping."

"You must go in," said Hanna, turning aside and addressing the girl--"you must go in an' spake to her in the house."

"She can tell us all about the robbery, anyway," observed Mr. Cavanagh. "Come in, a-colleen--what are you afeard of?"

"I have a word to say to her," said the girl--"a message to deliver; but it must be to nobody but herself. Whisper," she proceeded, approaching Kathleen, and about to address her.

Kathleen immediately rose, and, looking on the messenger, said, "Who is it from, Nanny?"

"I mustn't let them know," replied the girl, looking at the rest.

"Whatever it is, Or whoever it's from, you must spake it out then, Nanny," continued Kathleen.

"It's from Hycy Burke, then," replied the girl; "he wants to know if you have any answer for him?"

"Tell Hycy Burke," replied Kathleen, "that I have no answer for him; an' that I'll thank him to send me no more messages."

"Hut tut! you foolish girl," exclaimed her mother, rising up and approaching her daughter; "are you mad, Kathleen?"

"What's come over you," said the father, equally alarmed; "are you beside yourself, sure enough, to send Hycy Burke sich a message as that? Sit down, ma colleen, sit down, an' never mind her--don't think of bringin' him back sich a message. Why, then," he added, "in the name o' mercy, Kathleen, what has come over you, to trate a respectable young man like. Hycy Burke in that style?"

"Simply, father, because I don't wish to receive any messages at all from him."

"But your mother an' I is of a different opinion, Kathleen. We wish you to resave messages from him; an' you know you're bound both by the laws of God an' man to obey us an' be guided by us."

"I know I am, father," she replied; "an' I hope I haven't been an undutiful child to either of you for so far."

"That's true, Kathleen--God sees it's truth itself."

"What message do you expect to bring back, Nanny?" said the mother, addressing the girl.

"An answer," replied the girl, seeing that everything must be and was above board--"an answer to the letther he sent her."

"Did he send you a letther?" asked her father, seriously; "an' you never let us know a word about it?--did he send you a letther?"

Kathleen paused a moment and seemed to consult Hanna's looks, who had now joined them. At length she replied, slowly, and as if in doubt whether she ought to speak in the affirmative or not--"no, he sent me no letter."

"Well now, take care, Kathleen," said her mother; "I seen a letther in your hands this very mornin'."

Kathleen blushed deeply; but as if anxious to give the conversation another turn, and so to relieve herself, she replied, "I can't prevent you, mother, or my father either, from sending back whatever answer you wish; but this I say that, except the one I gave already, Hycy Burke will never receive any message or any answer to a message from me; an' now for the present let us drop it."

"Very well," said her mother; "in the mane time, my good girsha, sit down. Is it thrue that Jemmy Burke's house was robbed a couple o' nights ago?"

"True enough," said the girl.

"And how much did he lose?" asked M'Mahon; "for there's disputes about it--some say more and some say less."

"Between seventy and eighty pounds," replied Nanny; "the masther isn't sure to a pound or so; but he knows it was near eighty, any way."

"That's just like him," said Cavanagh; "his careless way of managin'. Many a time I wondher at him;--he slobbers everything about that you'd think he'd beggar himself, an' yet the luck and prosperity flows to him. I declare to my goodness I think the very dirt under his feet turns to money. Well, girsha, an' have they any suspicion of the robbers?"

"Why," said the girl, "they talk about"--she paused, and it was quite evident from her manner that she felt not only embarrassed, but distressed by the question. Indeed this was no matter of surprise; for ever since the subject was alluded to, Kate Hogan's black piercing eyes had not once been removed from hers, nor did the girl utter a single word in reply to the questions asked of her without first, as it were, consulting Kate's looks.

A moment's reflection made Cavanagh feel that the question must be a painful one to the girl, not only on her own account, but on that of Kate herself; for even then it was pretty well known that Burke's family entertained the strongest suspicion that the burglary had been committed by these notorious vagabonds.

"Well, ahagur," said Cavanagh, "no matter now--it's all over unless they catch the robbers. Come now," he added, addressing M'Mahon and his son, "if you're for the road I'm ready."

"Is it true, Mrs. Burke," asked Bryan, "that you're goin' to have a Kemp in your barn some o' these days?"

"True enough, indeed," replied the good woman, "an' that's true, too, tell the girls, Bryan, and that they must come."

"Not I," said the other, laughing; "if the girls here--wishes them to come, let them go up and ask them."

"So we will, then," replied Hanna, "an' little thanks to you for your civility."

"I wish I knew the evenin'," said Bryan, "that I might be at Carriglass."

"When will we go, Kathleen," asked her sister, turning slyly to her.

"Why, you're sich a light-brained cracked creature," replied Kathleen, "that I can't tell whether you're joking or not."

"The sorra joke I'm jokin'," she replied, striving suddenly to form her features into a serious expression. "Well, then, I have it," she proceeded. "Some Thursday, Bryan, in the middle o' next week--now you know I'm not jokin', Kathleen."

"Will you come, Kathleen?" inquired Bryan.

"Why, if Hanna goes, I suppose I must," she replied, but without looking up.

"Well then I'll have a sharp look-out on Thursday."

"Come now," said Gerald, "let us move. Give the girsha something to ate among you, for the credit of the house, before she goes back," he added. "Paddy Toole, girth that horse tighter, I tell you; I never can get you to girth him as he ought to be girthed."

On bidding the women good-bye, Bryan looked towards Kathleen for a moment, and her eye in return glanced on him as he was about to go. But that simple glance, how significant was its import, and how clearly did it convey the whole history of as pure a heart as ever beat within a female bosom! _

Read next: Chapter 6. Nanny Peety Looks Mysterious

Read previous: Chapter 4. A Poteen Still-House At Midnight--Its Inmates

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