"Heaven's blessing on you, Feemy, my daughter; may you live many happy years with the man you love."
Feemy soon left him, and went to bed, and Katty, who had been dispatched to Drumsna, returned with her mistress's small box, and a kind message from Mrs. McKeon:—"Her kind love to Miss Macdermot; she hoped she had felt the walk of service to her, and she would call some time during the next week." She had asked no questions of the girl which could lead her to imagine that her mistress's departure from Drumsna had been unexpected, nor had she said a word to her own servants which could let them suppose that she was surprised at the circumstance.
For five or six days Feemy remained quiet at Ballycloran—spending the greater part of her time in her own room, but taking her meals, such as they were, with her father; she had no books to read, and she was unable to undertake needlework, and she passed the long days much as her father did—sitting from breakfast till dinner over the fire, meditating on the miseries of her condition. There was this difference, however, between them—that the old man felt a degree of triumph at his successful attempt to keep out his foes, whereas Feemy's thoughts were those of unmixed sorrow. She had great difficulty too in inducing Mary to leave her alone to herself. Had that woman the slightest particle of softness in her composition, anything of the tenderness of a woman about her, Feemy would have made a confidant of her, and her present sufferings would have been immeasurably decreased; but Mary was such an iron creature—so loud, so hard, so equable in her temper, so impenetrable, that Feemy could not bring herself to tell her tale of woe, which otherwise she would have been tempted to disclose. She had, therefore, the additional labour of keeping her secret from Mary's prying eyes, and Mary was nearly as acute as Mrs. McKeon.
About noon, on Monday, Feemy was horror-struck at being told by Katty that Father John was at the back door asking for her.
"Oh, Katty, tell him to wait awhile; say I'm ill, can't you—do, dear!"
"Why, Miss, I towld him as how you war up, and betther, thank God, since you war home."
It was clearly necessary that she should see the priest; but she insisted on his not being shown in till she had dressed herself; and she again submitted herself to those agonies which she trusted, for a time, would hide her disgrace, which at last must become known to all. When this was done, she seated herself on the sofa, and plucked up all her courage to go through the painful conversation which she knew she was to endure. She did not rise as he entered, but remained on the sofa with the hectic tint on her face almost suffused into a blush, and her hands clasping the calico covering of the cushion, as if from that she could get more strength for endurance.
Father John shook hands with her as he seated himself by her; the tears came into his eyes as he observed the sad change which so short a time had made in her. The flesh had fallen from her face, and the skin now hung loose upon her cheek and jaw bones, falling in towards the mouth, giving her that lean and care-worn look which misery so soon produces. Her healthy colour, too, had all fled; part of her face was of a dull leaden paleness, and though there was a bright colour round her eyes, it gave her no appearance of health. She looked ten years older than when he had seen her last. No wonder Mrs. McKeon pitied her so deeply; she appeared even more pitiable than her brother, who was awaiting his doubtful fate in gaol—though with nervous anxiety, still with unflinching courage.
"I am glad to hear you're better, Feemy. Mrs. McKeon thinks you a great deal better."
"Thank ye, Father John; I believe I'm well enough now."