such I now perceive you to be, could for a moment intimidate either them or me. Begone, sir, I despise and detest you—until this moment, I looked upon and treated you as a fool, but I now find you are a villain—begone, I say; I scorn and defy you.”
“You defy me, do you?”
“Yes, I have said it, I defy you.”
“Well, then, so be it,” he replied, “you must take the consequences, that's all, and let your favorite, M'Carthy, look to himself too.”
Having uttered these significant words, ha reentered the double ditch, along which a common pathway went, and in a minute or two was out of sight.
Mary, on her return, at once perceived, by the flushed cheek and kindled eye of her sister, that something had discomposed her. “Why, goodness me, dear Julia, you look disturbed or frightened; what is the matter?”
“Disturbed I am,” she replied, “but not at all frightened. This worthy lover of mine, whom nothing can abash, has honored me with another interview.”
“Is it after the scene between him and my brother to-day?”
“Certainly,” she replied, with a smile, for she now began once more to look upon the matter in a ludicrous point of view, “and has threatened not only myself, but the whole family with destruction, unless I favor his addresses—ha! ha! ha! He has one good quality in a lover, at all events—perseverance.”
“Say rather effrontery and impudence,” replied Mary.
“Yes, I admit that,” said her sister; “but at any rate, they very often go together, I believe.”
She then related the dialogue that took place, at which her sister, who was equally remarkable for courage, only laughed.
“The fellow after all is only a fool,” she observed. “If he were anything else, or if he had any serious intention of carrying such threats into effect, he most assuredly would not give expression to them, or put you on your guard against them. No, he is only a fool and not worth thinking about: let him go.”
They then proceeded to the cabin of poor Widow Cleary, to whom they administered the medicine with their own hands, and to whose children they brought their mother's orders to attend the house, that they might be relieved with that comfortable food which their destitute circumstances so much required.
On their return home, the relation of the incident which we have just narrated very much amused the family, with the exception of M'Carthy, who expressed himself not quite at ease after having heard English's threats. “There is an extraordinary mystery about that man,” he observed; “no one knows or can tell who he is; you can call him a fool, too, but take my word that there never hung mystery about a fool yet; I fear he will be found to be something much worse than a fool.”
“Nonsense,” replied the proctor. “The fellow is only ridiculous and contemptible; he and his clipped English are not worth thinking of—let him go to the deuce.”
M'Carthy still shook his head, as if of opinion that they underrated the Buck's power of injuring them, but the truth was that neither Purcel nor his sons were at all capable of apprehending either fear or danger; they, therefore, very naturally looked upon the denunciations of English with a recklessness that was little less than foolhardy.
During the last few years they had been accustomed to receive threats and written notices of vengeance, which had all ended in nothing, and, in consequence of this impunity, they had become so completely inured to them as to treat them only with laughter and scorn.
It has been already intimated to the reader that M'Carthy was residing, during a short visit to the country, at the house of O'Driscol, the newly-made magistrate. It was pretty late that evening when he took leave of the Purcels, but as the distance was not far he felt no anxiety at all upon the subject of his journey. The night, however, was so pitchy dark, that even although well acquainted as he was with the road, he found some difficulty in avoiding the drains and ditches that enclosed it. At length he had arrived within a couple of hundred yards of O'Driscol's house, when as he was proceeding along suddenly found himself come unexpectedly against some individual, who was coming from an opposite direction.
“Hillo! who is here?” said the voice, in a kind of whisper.
“A friend,” replied M'Carthy; “who are you?”
“What's your name?” inquired the strange voice, “and be quick.”
“My name is M'Carthy,” replied our friend; “why do you ask?”
“Come this way,” said the stranger; “you are Francis M'Carthy, I think?”
“Yes, that is my name—what is yours?”
“That doesn't matther,” replied the voice, “stand aside here, and be quiet as you value your life.”
M'Carthy thought at the moment that he heard the noise of many feet, as it were in the distance.
“You will not be safe,” said the voice, “if you refuse to take my advice;” and as he spoke he partly forced M'Carthy over to the side of the road where they both stood invisible from the darkness of the night, as well as from the shelter of a large whitethorn branch, which would, even in daylight, almost have concealed them from view. In a few minutes, a large body of people passed them with that tread which always characterizes the motions of undisciplined men. There was scarcely a word among them, but M'Carthy felt that, knowing them as he did to be peasants, there was something dreadful in the silence which they maintained so strictly. He could not avoid associating their movements and designs with some act of violence and bloodshed, that was about to add horror to the impenetrable gloom of night, whose darkness, perhaps, they were about to light up with the roof-tree of some unsuspecting household, ignorant of the fiery fate that was then so near them.
Several hundreds must have passed, and when the last sounds of their tread had died away, M'Carthy and his companion left their hiding-place, when the latter addressed him as follows:—
“Now, Mr. M'Carthy, I wish you to understand that you are wid a friend—mark my words—avoid the man they call Buck English, for of all men livin' he hates you the most; and listen, whenever you come to this country don't stop in procthor Purcel's, otherwise you may draw down ruin and destruction upon him and his; and, if I'm not mistaken, you're the last man livin' who would wish to do that.”
“By the way,” asked M'Carthy, “who is Buck English?”
“I don't know,” replied the stranger, “nor do I know any one that does.”
“And may I not ask who you are yourself?”
“No—for I've good raisons for not telling you. Good-night, and mark my words—avoid that man, for I know he would give a good deal to sit over your coffin—and you in it.”
We shall now allow M'Carthy to proceed to his friend's house, which he reached without any further adventure, and ask the reader to accompany the stranger, who in a few minutes overtook the body we have described, to which he belonged. They proceeded in the same way, still maintaining a silence that was fearful and ominous, for about a mile and a half. Whilst proceeding, they met several persons on the road, every one of whom they stopped and interrogated as to his name and residence, after which they allowed them to pass on.
“Why do they! stop and examine the people they meet?” whispered one of them a young lad about nineteen—to him who had just warned McCarthy.
“Why,” said the other, “is it possible you don't know that? It's aisy seen you're but young in the business yet.”
“This is my first night to be out,” replied the youth.
“Well, then,” rejoined our friend, “it's in the expectation of meetin' an enemy, especially some one that's marked.”
“An' what would they do if they did?”
“Do?