On reaching the hall-door of Mrs. McKeon's house Feemy looked cautiously about her, but seeing that no one belonging to the house was in sight, she passed on through the little garden into the street. She pulled her old veil down over her face, and walked on through the village as quickly as she could. She felt that every one's eye was on her; that all the country was looking at her; but she had made up her mind to go through it all, and she persevered. The last time she had been out of the house was the day she had been taken from Ballycloran to the inquest. That was a horrid day, but the present seemed worse; she had now a greater sorrow than any of which she was then conscious, and she had to bear it alone, unpitied and uncomforted. Indeed, her only rest, her only respite from absolute torture was now to consist in being alone; and yet bad as the present was, there was a worse,—she felt that there was a worse in store for her. She already anticipated the tortures of that day, when she would again be dragged out from her resting-place before the eyes of all mankind, and placed in the very middle of the crowd, conspicuous above the rest, to be stared at, bullied, and questioned horridly about that dread subject, which it even racked her mind to remember. Would she be able on that long, long day—days, for what she knew—to conceal her shame from all who would be looking at her, and to bear in patience the agonies which it would be necessary for her to endure? She walked on quickly, and was soon out of Drumsna, and in the lane leading by the cottage to Ballycloran. By the time she had walked half a mile she was in a dreadful heat, although it was still in March, for she was so weak and ill that her exertion, in proportion to her strength, had been immense. She sat down by the side of the road for a time, and then continued; and then again sat down. Her sufferings were soon so great that she was unable to walk above two hundred yards at a time, and she began to fear that she would be utterly unable to get to the house. Once when she was sitting, panting on the bank by the road-side, one of the labouring peasants recognised her—saw she was ill—and offered to get her a country car. Oh, what an agonising struggle she made to answer the man cheerfully, when she assured him that she was quite well—that she was only sitting there for her pleasure—that she required no assistance, and that she should walk home directly. The man well knew that she was not there for her pleasure—that her brother was in gaol, her father on the point of losing his property, and that she was weak and in need of rest; but he saw that she would sooner be alone, and he had the good tact to leave her, without pressing his offer for her accommodation.
At length she reached the avenue, and had to pass the spot where she had sat so long on that fatal night listening for the sound of her lover's horse, and watching her brother as he stood swinging his stick before the house. She shuddered as she did so, but she did walk by the tree where she had then sat shivering, and at last once more stood on the steps of her father's house.
The door was fastened inside, and she had to knock for admittance. This she did three times, till she thought she should have fainted on the flags, and at last the window of her own sitting-room was raised, and Mary McGovery's head was slowly protruded. Feemy was sitting on the low stone wall, which guarded the side of the flags, as she heard Mary say in a sharp voice—
"Who's that?—and what are ye wanting here? Oh! by the mortials, but av it aint Miss Feemy herself come back I declare!"
And Mary ran round, and began to draw the bolts of the front door. Up jumped Larry at the unwelcome sound, from his accustomed seat by the fire.
"What in the divil's name are ye afther? What are ye doing? Ye owld hag, will ye be letting the ruffians in on me?" And he caught violently hold of Mary's gown to drag her back, before she had accomplished the liberation of the rusty bolts.
"Now go in, sir, and sit down," said Mary. "Go in, sir, will you; I tell you it's yer own daughter, and no ruffian whatever. Dra—— the owld man, but he'll have every rag off the back of me! Don't I tell you, it's Miss Feemy. Will you be asy now?—do you want to have me stark naked?"
"Come away, woman, I tell you; don't I know Feemy's gone off, away from me; she'll niver, niver come back; it's Keegan and his hell-hounds you're letting in on me."
By this time Mary had accomplished her object of undoing the door in spite of the old man's exertions, and Feemy entered weary and worn, soiled with the road, and pale and wan in spite of the hectic flush which reddened a portion of her cheek.
"Father," she said when she saw the old man standing astonished and stupified in the hall, "father, don't ye know me—won't ye spake to me?"