But, if Mr Austin did not look at the newspapers, others did, and amongst the latter was Major McShane, who, having returned from his tour, was sitting with O’Donahue and the two ladies in the library of his own house when the post came in. The major had hardly looked at the newspapers, when the name of Rushbrook caught his eye; he turned to it, read a portion, and gave a loud whistle of surprise.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Mrs McShane.
“Murder’s the matter, my jewel,” returned the major; “but don’t interrupt me just now, for I’m breathless with confusion.”
McShane read the whole account of the trial, and the verdict, and then without saying a word, put it into the bands of O’Donahue. As soon as O’Donahue had finished it, McShane beckoned him out of the room.
“I didn’t like to let Mrs McShane know it, as she would take it sorely to heart,” said McShane: “but what’s to be done now, O’Donahue? You see the boy has not peached upon his father, and has convicted himself. It would be poor comfort to Mrs McShane, who loves the memory of that boy better than she would a dozen little McShanes, if it pleased Heaven to grant them to her, to know that the boy is found, when he is only found to be sent away over the water; so it is better that nothing should be said about it just now: but what is to be done?”
“Well, it appears to me that we had better be off to Exeter directly,” replied O’Donahue.
“Yes, and see him,” rejoined the major.
“Before I saw him, McShane, I would call upon the lawyer who defended him, and tell him what you know about the father, and what our suspicions, I may say, convictions, are. He would then tell us how to proceed, so as to procure his pardon, perhaps.”
“That’s good advice; and now what excuse are we to make for running away?”
“As for my wife,” replied O’Donahue, “I may as well tell her the truth; she will keep it secret; and as for yours, she will believe anything you please to tell her.”