There was now always something cranky and unpleasant in Tom's manner. He was often from home for days together, and, when at home, often out at night until very late; and if questioned in the kindest manner by his father upon the subject, his answers were snappish and unsatisfactory. Poor old Mick—deluded Mick—laid down both his wanderings and his crankiness to the score of his love for Winny Cavana, and the uncertainty of his suit.
From one or two encouraging and cheery expressions his father had addressed to him, Tom knew this to be the view his father had taken of his case, and he was quite willing to indulge the delusion. Now that matters had come to an open rupture between him and Winny—for notwithstanding his father's hopes, he had none—it was convenient for him that his father should continue of the same mind—nay, more, his father himself had suggested a step, which, if he could manage with his usual ability, might turn to his profit, and relieve to a certain extent some of the perplexities by which he was beset.
Old Mick had spent a long and fatiguing day, not merely in his peregrinations through the farm, but from anxiety and watching, having observed Winny go out earlier than usual, and seeing that Tom soon after had followed her down the road. He was rather surprised in about an hour afterward to see Winny return alone, and at not having seen Tom for nearly two hours later in the day, when he returned cross and disappointed, as we have seen. The "untoward circumstances," detailed in the conversation after dinner with his son, had not the same depressing effects upon the old man as upon Tom; for he really believed that they were not only not past cure, but according to his notions of how such matters generally went on, that they were on a fair road to success. He therefore enjoyed a night's sound sleep, while Tom lay tossing and tumbling, and planning and scheming,—and occasionally cursing Edward Lennon, whom he could not persuade himself was not, as his father said, at the bottom of all this. It was near morning, therefore, before he had fretted himself to sleep.
Early the next day old Mick determined to ascertain the actual state of facts. He was up betimes, and having seen what was necessary to be done for the day upon the farm, he set the operations going, and returned to breakfast. Tom had not yet stirred; and as Nancy had told the old masther that she "heered him struggling with the bed-clothes, an' talkin' to himself until nearly morning," he would not allow her to call him, but went to breakfast by himself, telling her to have a fresh pot of tay, an' a dacent breakfast for him when he got up. "Poor fellow," he said to himself, "I did not think that girl had so firm a hoult of him."
Old Mick's anticipations of how matters really stood, and his confidence in Ned Cavana's firmness, were doomed to be shaken, if not altogether disappointed. Old Ned saw him hanging "about the borders" with a watchful look directed toward his house. He took it for granted that Tom had mentioned something of what had occurred to him, and he knew at once what he was lingering about for.
Ned had undoubtedly led old Murdock to suppose that he would be "as stout as a bull" with Winny about marrying his son; but when Ned had spoken thus sternly upon the subject, he had not anticipated any opposition upon Winny's part to the match. He did not see how she could object, nor did he see why. Mick had imbibed some slight idea of the kind from what Tom had told him; but Ned had combated this idea with great decision, and some sternness; more by way of showing his neighbor how he could exercise his parental authority, than from any great dread that he would ever be called on to assert it.
But Ned Cavana knew not the nature Class his own heart. He had miscalculated the extent of his love for Winny, or the influence her affectionate and devoted life could exercise over that love, in a case where such a dispute might come between them. Thus we have seen him yield to that influence almost without argument, and certainly without a harsh or angry word. When it came to the point that he had to confront her tears, where was the fury with which he met old Murdock's insinuations and suggestions?—where the threats of cutting her off, not with but without a shilling, and leaving it all to the Church?—where the steady determination with which he had resolved to "bring her to her senses?"—all, all lost in the affectionate smile which beamed upon her pleading love.
Ned Cavana knew now that old Murdock was on the watch for him. He believed that Tom had told him what had taken place between him and Winny; and although he did not dread any alteration in his promise to his daughter, he felt that he could deal more stoutly with old Murdock with the recollection of Winny's tears fresh on her cheeks, than if the matter were to lie over for any time. He therefore strolled through the farmyard, and out on the lane we have already spoken of, and turned down toward the fields at the back of his garden. This movement was not, of course, unnoticed by the man who was on the watch for some such, and accordingly he sloped down toward the gate, at which he and his son had held the conversation—a conversation which had confirmed Winny in her preconceived opinion of Tom Murdock's character and motives.
The two old men thus met once again at the same spot at which the reader first saw them together.