“How the devil should you? There are neither declarations to draw, nor affidavits to swear, no motions, nor rules, nor replies, no declarations, no special juries! No, Bicknell, I never suspected your approval of my plan. It would not cost a single skin of parchment.”
Though Daly spoke this sarcasm bitterly, it produced no semblance of irritation in the man of law, who was composedly occupied in perusing a document before him.
“I have made memoranda,” said Bicknell, “of certain points for counsel's opinion, and as soon as we can obtain some information as to the authenticity of young Darcy's signature, we shall see our way more clearly. The case is not only a complicated but a gloomy one; our antagonists are acute and wealthy, and I own to you the prospect is far from good.”
“The better counsel mine,” said Daly, sternly; “I have little faith in the justice that hangs upon the intelligence of what you facetiously call twelve honest men; methinks the world is scarcely so well supplied with the commodity that they are sure to answer the call of the sheriff. It is probable, however,—nay, it is more than probable,—Darcy will be of your mind, and reject my advice; if so, there is nothing for it but the judge and jury, and he will be despoiled of his property by the law of the land.”
Bicknell knew too well the eccentric nature of Daly's character, in which no feature was more prominent than his hatred of everything like the recognized administration of the law, to offer him any opposition, and merely repeating his previous determination to seek the advice of able counsel, he took his leave.
“There is some deep mystery in this business,” said Daly to himself, as he paced the room alone; “Bicknell is right in saying that Gleeson would not have committed an act of unnecessary cruelty, nor, if he had paid the money, would he have failed to leave the bond among his papers. Every circumstance of this fellow's flight is enveloped in doubt, and Freney, the only man who appears to have suspected his intention, by some mischance is not now to be found; Sandy has not succeeded in meeting with the boy, notwithstanding all his efforts. What can this be owing to? What machinery is at work here? Have the Hick-mans their share in this?” Such were the broken sentences he muttered, as, in turn, suspicions tracked each other in his mind.
Daly was far too rash, and too impetuous in temper, to be well qualified for an investigation of so much difficulty. Unable to weigh probabilities with calmness, he was always the victim of his own prejudices in favor of certain things and people; and to escape from the chaotic trouble of his own harassed thoughts, he was ever ready to adopt some headlong and desperate expedient, in preference to the quieter policy of more patient minds.
“Yes, faith,” said he, “my plan is the best after all; and who knows but by showing the bold front we may reduce old Hickman's pretensions, or at least make a compromise with him. There are plenty of arms and ammunition,—eight stout fellows would hold the inner gate tower against a battalion,—we could raise the country from Mur-risk to Killery Harbor; and one gun fired from the Boat Quay would bring the fishermen from Clare Island and Achill to the rescue,—we 'd soon make a signal they 'd recognize; old Hickman's house, with all its porticos and verandas, would burn like tinder. If they are for law, let them begin, then.”
The door opened as he spoke these words, and Sandy entered cautiously. “There is a countryman without wha says he's come a long way to see your honor, and maun see you this night.”
“Where from?”