He then talked of his sister, and began to speak more feelingly of Ussher, and to allude to the deed which had brought him to his dreadful doom, with more freedom than he had ever done before. The facts of his last month's residence at Ballycloran seemed to be made less obscure than they had been, to his mind's eye, by the distance through which he looked at them. He appeared to comprehend more clearly both Feemy's conduct and that of her lover, and he spoke with the greatest affection of the former, and with justice to the latter.
"Oh! Father John," he continued, after they had been talking together for hours, and when they had become so habituated to the presence of the turnkey as almost to forget it, "no one but yourself can ever know how far murder was from my thoughts that day!—nor all that I had suffered for having listened for one moment to the plots which them boys were making for his death. But who can wonder that I hated him! God knows I have forgiven him for all that he has brought on us—both me and Feemy; but who can wonder that I didn't love him then? I knew in my heart he never meant to marry her. And oh! Father John, av I hadn't seen her that night, what would she have been now? I did hate him then;—and hadn't I cause? And for that one night at the wedding, when I was mad with the name they had called my sisther; I did think I'd be glad av the boys that hated him so should murther him at last. But when I woke in the morning and remembered that the sounds of murther had been in my ears, I felt as though I could never more be quiet or at ase in this world. And I never was; every man's hand was against me since then, Father John, except yours. I felt, as I walked through the fields that morning, that it was here I should spend my last days, and here I am. And I was warned of it too; I was warned of what would come of it, av I meddled with them boys that night at Mrs. Mehan's. He himself called me out that night when I first got there, and tould me what it was Brady was afther. And I believed him, and yet I went; for my heart was full of hatred for the man who warned me. Oh! why, Father John, could he not let us alone. We were poor, but we were no worse; but there's an end of us now altogether, and perhaps it's for the betther as it is!"
He then earnestly begged Father John to attend to his sister's burial, and to take some little heed of his father during his few remaining years; and all this the priest promised. He spoke of the property, and of the chance there might be of saving something out of it for the old man's support. Father John, however, told him that for his, Thady's sake, and for the love he bore him, his father should never want till he wanted himself; and though this promise, for many long months, entailed a heavy burden on the priest, he most religiously kept his word.
Thady then spoke of his own coming death; and though he had made up his mind to die, and could think, without regret, of leaving the world where he had known so many sorrows and so few joys, still he shuddered when he remembered the gaping crowd which would be assembled to see his expiring convulsions, and the horror which he could not but feel, when the executioner's hands should touch his neck, and the dreadful cap should be drawn over his eyes. Oh! that that horrid moment might be over—when he would still be alive—still sensible to the thoughts of life—but when the light of the sun would have been for ever excluded, and his last thoughts would be wandering between doubtful hopes of Heaven's mercy, and awful fears of his coming agony.
The cold sweat stood upon his brow as he endeavoured to explain his feelings to the priest. And assiduously, patiently, warmly, and kindly, did that friend endeavour to allay his sufferings, and make him feel as confident of God's pardon for his sins as he was of the executioner's doom. He told him also that, if possible, no crowd should be assembled to gaze at his death; and he promised himself to stand by him, and hold his hand to the last moment of his life.
At six the priest left him promising to see him again on the Sunday, and on every day till it was all over. He then returned to McKeon's, where he dined.
At about ten they were sitting together with Mrs. McKeon by the fire talking over the affairs of Ballycloran, and consulting as to what had better be done with Larry after the execution, when the girl entered and said a man was waiting outside wishing to speak to Mr. McKeon. Tony accordingly went out; and standing at the back-door, for he would not enter the kitchen, with his hat slouched over his face, he found Pat Brady. He was very much astonished at seeing this man; more especially so, as since the trial Brady's name had been mentioned with execration by almost every one, and particularly by those, who like McKeon, had taken every opportunity of showing themselves Macdermot's friends; and it would have been thought therefore that McKeon's house was one of the last places to which he would be likely to come.
Pat was the first to speak.
"There's a word or two I want to spake to you, Mr. McKeon."
"To speak to me," said Mr. McKeon; "well, what is it?"