There was nothing now for it with those to whom Tom was indebted but to go to his father, in hopes of some arrangement being made to even secure them in their money. Several bills of exchange--some overdue, and some not yet at maturity--with his name across them, were brought to old Mick for sums varying from ten to fifteen and twenty pounds. Old Mick quietly pronounced them one and all to be forgeries. Tom and he had had some very sharp words before he went away. He had called the poor old man a "----old niggard" to his face, and he heard the words "cannot lost very long," as Tom slapped the door behind him.
Old Mick would have only fretted at all this had his son returned in a reasonable time to his home, and, as usual, made promises of amendment, or had even written to him. It was the first time that ever a forged acceptance had been presented to him for payment, and Tom's prolonged absence without any preconcerted object to account for it weighed heavily upon the old man's heart as to his son's real character. Tom was all this time, as the reader is aware, planning a bold stroke to secure Winny Cavana's fortune to pay off these forgeries. But we have seen with what a miserable result.
It was impossible to hide the glaring fact of Tom Murdock's apprehension and committal to jail upon the dreadful charge of murder from his father. It rang from one end of the parish to the other. But instead of rushing to meet his son, clapping his hands, and exclaiming, "Oh! wiristhrue, wiristhrue! what's this for?" poor old Mick was completely prostrated by the news; and there he lay in his bed, unable to move hand or foot from the poignancy of his grief and disgrace.
If Tom Murdock has broken his poor old father's heart, and he never rises from that bed, it is only another item in his great account.
CHAPTER XXXV.
The reader will recollect that the incidents recorded in the two last chapters took place toward the latter end of June. We will, therefore, have time, before the assizes come on, to let him know how far Winny's fancy map was perfected.
For herself, then, first. She had determined to become a member of a convent in the north of Ireland, giving up the world with all its vanities--she knew nothing of its pomps--and devoting her time, her talents, and whatever money she might finally possess, to religious and charitable purposes. She had not delayed long after the magistrate and "the chief" had left, and she had experienced a refreshing sleep, in taking her father into her confidence to the fullest extent of her intuitions, not only as regarded herself, but with respect to those friends whom she had set down upon the map to be provided for.
"Father," she said, continuing a conversation, "there is no use in your moving such a thing to me. It is no matter at what time you project it for me; my mind is made up beyond even the consideration of the question. I will never marry. Do not, like a dear good father that you have ever been, move it to me any more."
"Indeed, Winny, I could not add a word more than I have already sed; an' if that fails to bring you round, [{258}] share I'm dumb, Winny asthore. God's will be done! I'm dumb."
"It is his will I am seeking, father. What matter if we are the last of the Cavanas, as you say? Beside, my children would not be Cavanas; recollect that, father."