“It's a death 'keen'!” said a country gentleman, a magistrate named Goring; “something must have happened among the people?”
And now, none knew from what quarter arising, or by whom spoken, but the dreadful word “Murder” was heard through the room. Many issued forth to ask for tidings; some stayed to assure and rally the drooping courage of others; some, again, divested of the “motley,” moved hurriedly about, seeking for this one or that. All was terror, confusion, and dismay.
“Oh, here is Mr. Linton!” cried several, as, with his domino on his arm, pale, and like one terror-struck, he entered the room. “What is it, Mr. Linton? Do you know what has happened?”
“Get Mrs. Kennyfeck and the girls away,” whispered he to a friend, hurriedly; “tell them something—anything—but take them from this.”
“What!” exclaimed Meek, to whom Linton had whispered something, but in a voice too low to be clearly audible.
“Kennyfeck is murdered!” said Linton, louder.
As if the terrible tidings had floated on the air, in an instant it was on every tongue, and vibrating in every ear; and then, in heartrending screams of passionate grief, the cry of the widow and her children burst forth, cry following cry in wild succession. Seized with an hysteric paroxysm, Mrs. Kennyfeck was carried to her room; while of her daughters, the elder sat mute, speechless and, to all seeming, insensible; the younger struggling in convulsive passion to go to her father.
What a scene was that! How dreadful to mark the symbols of levity—the decorations by which pleasure would mock the stern realities of life—surrounded as they now were by suffering and sorrow! to see the groups as they stood; some ministering to one who had fainted, others conversing in low and eager whispers. The joyous smiles, the bright glances were gone, as though they had been by masks assumed at will; tears furrowed their channels through the deep rouge, and convulsive sobs broke from beneath corsets where joy alone had vibrated before. While in the ballroom the scene was one of terror and dismay, a few had withdrawn into a small apartment adjoining the garden, to consult upon what the emergency might require. These were drawn together by Linton, and included Sir Andrew MacFarline, the Chief Justice, Meek, and a few others of lesser note. In a few words Linton informed them that he heard the tidings as he passed through the hall; that a peasant, taking the mountain path to Scariff, had come upon the spot where the murder was committed, and found the body still warm, but lifeless—“he also found this weapon, the bore of which was dirty from a recent discharge as he took it up.”
“Why, this pistol is Mr. Cashel's!” exclaimed Sir Andrew, examining the stock closely; “I know it perfectly—I have fired with it myself a hundred times.”
“Impossible, my dear Sir Andrew!” cried Linton, eagerly. “You must be mistaken.”