On Tuesday afternoon Mr. Baron5 Hamilton and Justice Kilpatrick entered Carrick-on-Shannon, one after the other, in the company of the high sheriff, and a tremendous shower of rain, which drenched6 the tawdry liveries of the servants, and gave a most uncomfortable appearance to the whole affair.
The grand jury had been in the town since Monday morning — settling fiscal7 business — wrangling8 about roads — talking of tolls9 — checking county cesses — and performing those various patriotic10 offices, which they would fain make the uninitiated believe, require so much talent, industry, and energy; and as they were seen stepping over the running gutters11, and making the best of their way through the splashing streets, their physiognomies appeared ominous12 of nothing good to the criminals, whose cases had in the first instance to come before them.
Every lodging13 in the town was engaged, beds being let, sometimes three in a room, for the moderate sum of a guinea each for the week. The hotels, for there are two, were crowded from the garrets to the cellars. Happy the man at such a period, who enjoys a bed-room which he can secure with a key — for without such precaution the rightful possessor is not at all unlikely, on entering his own premises14, to find three or four somewhat rough looking strangers, perhaps liberated15 jurors, or witnesses just escaped from the fangs16 of a counsel, sitting in most undisturbed ease on his bed, eating bread and butter, and drinking bottled porter. Some huge farmer with dripping frieze17 coat will be squatted18 on his pillow, his towel spread as table-cloth on the little deal table which has been allotted19 to him as the only receptacle for his jug20, basin, looking-glass, brushes, and every other article of the toilet, and his carpet-bag, dressing-gown, and pantaloons chucked unceremoniously into a corner, off the chairs which they had occupied, to make way for the damp friends of the big farmer, who is seated on the bed. This man is now drawing a cork21 from a bottle of porter, the froth of which you are quite sure from the manner in which the bottle is held, will chiefly fall upon the sheets between which you are destined22 to sleep — unless some half drunken ruffian, regardless of rights of possession and negligent23 of etiquette24, deposits himself there before the hour at which you may think good to retire to rest.
Fruitless and vain would it be for you to endeavour to disturb that convivial25 party. Better lock up your bag, above all things not forgetting your brushes; and, as you are a witness yourself, go down to the court and admire the ingenious manner in which the great barrister, Mr. Allewinde, is endeavouring to make that unfortunate and thoroughly26 disconcerted young man in the witness box, swear to a point diametrically opposite to another point to which he has already sworn at the instigation of counsel on the other side — and thereby27 perjure28 himself. Never mind the bustling29 of eager, curious countrymen; never mind those noisy numerous policemen with their Sunday brass-chained caps; push on through them all, make your way into the centre of the court — go down there right on to the lawyers’ benches; never mind the seats being full — plunge30 in; if you hesitate, look timid — ask question, or hang back — you are lost, thrust out, expelled, and finally banished31 with ignominy into the tumultuous sea of damp frieze coats, which ?stuates in the outer court. But go on with noise, impudence32, and a full face; tread on people’s toes, and thrust them back with “by your leave,” and you will find yourself soon seated in direct view of the judge, counsel, witness and prisoner. You will be taken for an attorney, or, at any rate, for an influential33 court witness. If you talk somewhat loud, and frown very angrily in the face of the tallest policeman, you may by the ignorant even be taken for a barrister.
In fact, into court you must come, there is no other place open to receive you. The big room at the hotel, in which we have been three times on such different occasions, the long big room where McKeon presided over so many drunken spirits — where poor Feemy made her last arrangements with her lover at the ball — and where so soon afterwards she was brought forward to give her evidence touching34 his death, while his cold body was lying dead on the table before her — this long big room is now set apart for yet another purpose. The grand jury are to dine there, and already the knives and forks are laid out upon the long deal table. The little coffee-room — so called, though whiskey-room, or punch-room, or porter-room would be much the more appropriate name, unless indeed there is a kind of “lucus a non lucendo” propriety35 in the appellation36 — is full nearly to suffocation37. There is not an unoccupied chair or corner of a table to be found.
Large men half wet through — reeking38, smelling most unwholesomely as the rain steams up from their clothes — are keeping the cold out of their stomachs by various spirituous appliances. The room is half covered with damp straw, which has been kicked in from the passage; the windows are closed, and there is a huge fire burning on the other side of that moist mass of humanity. On entering the room you feel that you breathe nothing but second-hand39 rain; a sojourn40 there you find to be impossible; the porter drinkers are still in your bed-room, even on your bed up-stairs. What are you to do? where are you to go? Back home you cannot. You have a summons in your pocket; you have been unfortunately present when Mr. Terence O’Flanagan squeezed the fair hand of Miss Letitia Murphy; false Mr. Terence O’Flanagan would not come to the matrimonial altar when required; fair Miss Letitia Murphy demands damages, and you must swear to the fact of the hand having been squeezed as aforesaid. Who can tell when the case may come on? Rumour41 comes from the clerk of the peace, town clerk, or some other clerk who sits there in pride of place, always conspicuous42 under the judge’s feet, and whispers that Letitia Murphy, spinster, is coming on next. Attorneys’ clerks have been round diligently43 to all witnesses, especially as it seems to yourself, warning you that the important hour is at hand — that on no account may you be absent, so much as ten minutes’ walk from the court. Vainly you think to yourself that it can hardly be of such vital import that you, her father’s friend, saw little Letty Murphy’s hand ensconced one evening in the brawny44 palm of that false Lothario O’Flanagan; yes, of serious import is it — if not to Letty, or to Terence — yet to that facetious45 barrister, Mr. O’Laugher, who, at your expense, is going to amuse the dull court for a brief half-hour — and of importance to yourself, who are about to become the laughing-stock of your county for the next twelve months. It is, therefore, evident that you cannot leave the filthy46 town with its running gutters — the filthy inn with its steamy stinking47 atmosphere, and bed-room porter drinkers for good and all, and let Lothario O’Flanagan, Spinster Letty, Lawyers Allewinde and O’Laugher, with Justice Kilpatrick, settle the matter by themselves their own way; but that you must, willy nilly, in spite of rain, crowd, and offensive smell, stay and help to settle it with them. Into court therefore return, unfortunate witness; other shelter have you none; and now being a man of strong nerves — except when put into a chair to be stared at by judge, bar, grand jury, little jury, attorney, galleries, &c., &c. — you can push your way into a seat, and listen with attention to the quiddities of the legally erudite Mr. Allewinde, as on behalf of his client he ingeniously attempts — nay48, as he himself afterwards boasts to the jury, succeeds in making that disconcerted young gentleman in the witness chair commit perjury49.
Mr. Allewinde is a most erudite lawyer. He has been for many years employed by the crown in its prosecutions50, and with great success. He knows well the art of luring51 on an approver, or crown witness, to give the information he wants without asking absolutely leading questions; he knows well how to bully52 a witness brought up on the defence out of his senses, and make him give evidence rather against than for the prisoner; and it is not only witnesses that he bullies53, but his very brethren of the gown. The barristers themselves who are opposed to him, at any rate, the juniors, are doomed54 to bear the withering55 force of his caustic56 remarks.
“No, really, I cannot suffer this; witness, don’t answer that question. The learned gentleman must be aware that this is irregular; my lord, I must appeal to you. Stop, stop; that can never be evidence,” and so on:— the unfortunate junior, who fondly thought that with the pet witness now in the chair, he would be surely able to acquit57 his client, finds that he can hardly frame a question which his knowing foe58 will allow him to ask, and the great Mr. Allewinde convicts the prisoner not from the strength of his own case, but from his vastly superior legal acquirements.
How masterly is he in all the points of his profession as evinced in a criminal court. With what “becks, and smiles, and wreathed nods,” he passes by his brethren on the prosecuting59 side, and takes his seat of honour. How charmingly he nods to the judge when his lordship lays down the law on some point in conformity60 with the opinion expressed by himself. How rapidly he throws to the wind the frivolous61 excuses of some juror wishing to escape the foreseen long night’s confinement62. How great is he on all points of panels — admissible and inadmissible evidence — replying and not replying. How thoroughly he knows the minute practice of the place; how he withers63 any attorney who may dare to speak a word on his own behalf, whilst asking questions of a witness on behalf of an otherwise undefended prisoner. How unceremoniously he takes the word out of the mouth of the, in his opinion, hardly competent junior barrister who is with him. How Demosthenic is his language when addressing the jury on the enormity of all agrarian64 offences; with what frightful65, fearful eloquence66 does he depict67 the miseries68 of anarchy69, which are to follow nonpayment of tithes70, rents, and taxes; and with what energy does he point out to a jury that their own hearths71, homes, and very existence depend on their vindicating72 justice in the instance before them.
Mr. Allewinde was never greater than in the case now before the court. A young farmer of the better class had been served with some disagreeably legal document on account of his non-payment of an arrear73 of rent; he had at the time about twenty acres of unripe74 oats on the ground for which the arrear was due; and he also held other ground for which he owed no arrear. On ascertaining75 that a distraint was to be put on the ground which owed the rent, he attended there with a crowd of countrymen, and would not allow the bailiff to put his foot upon the lands; the next day the bailiff came again with police in numbers at his heels, and found the twenty acres which had yesterday been waving with green crops, utterly76 denuded77. Every blade had been cut and carried in the night, and was then stacked on the ground on which no distraint could be levied78. In twelve hours, and those mostly hours of darkness, twenty acres had been reaped, bound, carted, carried, uncarted, and stacked, and the bailiff and the policemen had nothing to seize but the long, green, uneven79 stubble.
The whole country must have been there — the field must have been like a fair-green the whole night — each acre must have taken at least six men to reap — there must have been thirty head of cattle, of one sort or other, dragging it home; and there must have been upwards80 of a hundred women and children binding81 and loading. There could at any rate be no want of evidence to prove the fact. One would think so, with two or three hundred people with their tools, horses, and cars. But yet, when the landlord determined on prosecuting the tenant82, there was not a person to be found who had seen the corn removed; — not one. In fact people who had not seen, as the bailiff had, the corn covering the broad field one day, and the same field bare the next, began to think that the fact was not so; and that the miraculous83 night’s work was a fable84. It was certain that the bailiff had been deterred85 from entering on the ground, but it was also certain that nothing but words had been used to deter3 him; he had not been struck or even pushed; he had only been frightened; and it seemed somewhat plain that his faint heart only had prevented him from completing his seizure86 — either that or some pecuniary87 inducement. Things were going badly with the bailiff, particularly when in answer to Mr. O’Laugher, he had been obliged to confess that on the morning on which the seizure should have been made he had taken — a thrifle of sperrits! a glass, perhaps — yes, maybe, two — yes he had taken two; three, suggested Mr. O’Laugher with a merely raised eyebrow88; he couldn’t say that he had not taken three; four? again inquired Mr. O’Laugher; he didn’t think he had taken four. Could he swear he had not taken four? He would not swear he hadn’t. He would not even swear he had not taken five; — nor even six, so conscientious89 a bailiff was he; but he was nearly sure he hadn’t, and would swear positively90 he had not swallowed seven. Whereupon Mr. O’Laugher most ill-naturedly put down his morning dram at three quarters of a pint91, and asked the unhappy bailiff whether that quantity was not sufficient to make him see a crop of oats in an empty field. It was going badly with the landlord and bailiff, and well with the energetic, night-working, fraudulent tenant; — and would have gone well with him, had he not determined to make assurance doubly sure.
A young man had been dining out, and had returned home at twelve o’clock on the night of the supposed miraculous reaping; he had at that hour walked home along the lane which skirted the field, and had seen no men — heard no noise — nor perceived either reapers92, cars, horses, or any signs of work; yet he had passed the very gate of the field through which the corn must have come out, had it come out at all. Such was the effect of this young gentleman’s evidence, when he was handed over to Mr. Allewinde by Mr. O’Laugher, with a courteous93 inquiry94 of his brother whether he wished to ask that gentleman any questions. Mr. Allewinde said that he would ask him a few questions, and the young gentleman began to tremble.
“Mr. Green, I think your name is,” began Mr. Allewinde.
“Yes sir.”
And then it appeared that Mr. Green absolutely remembered the night of the 12th September; had heard the rumour of the corn having been removed, but had not observed it growing there when he went to dinner; had dined at the house of the prisoner’s father, about a mile beyond the field; had certainly passed the very field; could positively swear he was perfectly95 sober; was certainly not carried by drunk; had not observed the field especially; could not say he had looked at the field as he passed; had heard of the bailiff’s retreat that morning; did not think to look at the ground where the mob had been; did not observe the place; will positively swear he heard nothing; was not walking in his sleep; could not swear whether the oats were standing96 at the time or not — whether the gate was open or shut — whether or no men were in the field; only he saw none; he believed it was moonlight.
“Why man! what did you see?” asked Mr. Allewinde.
“Nothing particular.”
“Had you your eyes open?”
No answer.
“Now by virtue97 of your oath were your eyes open?”
No answer.
“Come, sir, I must, and will have an answer; on your solemn oath were your eyes open when you walked by that field?”
At last, after various renewed questions, the witness says, “No.”
“Did you shut them by accident?”
After that question had been sufficiently98 often repeated, the witness again said, “No; he had been blinded;” and in the same way it was at last extracted from him that his ears had been stopped also, and that he had been led along the road by the field, that he might be able to swear that he had passed the place during the night without either seeing or hearing what was at the moment taking place there.
Oh that miserable99 witness! One could swear from the glassy look of his eyes that then also, during those awful questions, he could see nothing. The sweat rolled down his miserable face. That savage100 barrister appeared to him as a devil sent direct from the infernals, for his express behoof; so unmercifully did he tear him, and lacerate him; twenty times did he make him declare his own shame in twenty different ways. Oh! what a prize for a clever, sharp, ingenious, triumphant101 Counsellor Allewinde, that wicked false witness, with his shallow, detected device. He played with him like a cat does with a mouse — now letting him go for a moment, with the vain hope that he was to escape — then again pouncing102 on him, and giving him a fresh tear; till at last, when the young man was desired to leave the chair, one was almost inclined to detest103 the ingenuity104 of the ferocious105 lawyer more than the iniquity106 of the false witness.
This case was now over; the bailiff again held up his head; the landlord gained his cause; the farmer was sent to prison, and the blind and deaf witness sneaked107 out of town in shame and disgrace. This came of not letting well alone.
The Wednesday was now advanced, and it was settled that there would not be time for the great murder case, as poor Thady’s affair was called. Besides, Mr. Allewinde was also to conduct that, and he wanted some rest after his exertions108; and as he walked out with triumph, some minor109 cases were brought forward for disposal, and Mr. O’Laugher rushed into the other court to defend Terence O’Flanagan before Mr. Justice Kilpatrick, against the assaults made upon his pocket by that willow-wearing spinster, Letitia Murphy.
In rushed also all the loungers from the other court. In such a place as Carrick-on-Shannon, a breach110 of promise of marriage case is not an every day treat, and, consequently, men are determined to make the most of it. Counsellor O’Laugher runs his hands through his dark grey hair, opens wide his light blue eye, pulls out the needful papers from that bottomless bag, and though but the other moment so signally defeated in the other court, with sure trust in his own resources prepares for victory.
The case is soon stated. Mr. Terence O’Flanagan, with five hundred a-year, profit rents, out of the town and neigbourhood of Mannhamilton, has, to the palpable evidence of the whole and next baronies, been making up, as the phrase goes, to Letty Murphy, for the last six months. This has been no case of Bardell v. Pickwick, but a real downright matter of love-making on the one side, and love made on the other. Letters, too have been written, and are now to be read in court, to the great edification of the unmarried jury, and amusement of the whole assemblage; and the deceitful culprit has gone so far as to inform the father, Murphy, that he has a thousand pounds saved to settle, if he, the father, has another to add to it. All these things Mr. O’Malley puts forward on behalf of the injured Letty, in his opening speech, and then proceeds to bring evidence to prove them.
In the first place the father gives his evidence, and is cross-examined with great effect by Mr. O’Laugher; then the letters are read, and are agreed by all to be very affectionate, proper, agreeable love-letters; there is no cross-questioning them, for though answered, they will not answer; and our friend, who escaped but just now melancholy111 from the porter drinkers in his bed-room, is brought forward to prove the love-makings of the delinquent112.
All Mr. O’Malley’s questions he answers with great readiness and fluency113, for it was for the purpose of answering them that he came forward. He states without hesitation114 that love-making to a considerable extent has been going on; that to his knowledge, and in his presence, most particular attentions have been paid by Mr. Terence to Miss Letty; that they have sat together, talked together, walked together, and whispered together to such an extent, that in his, the witness’s, mind, they had for some time past been considered to be a regularly engaged couple; and that, moreover, he had himself seen Mr. Terence O’Flanagan squeezing the hand of Miss Letty. Having declared so much on behalf of the lady, he also was handed over to Mr. O’Laugher to be made to say what he could on behalf of the gentleman.
In answer to different questions, he stated that he himself was a middle-aged115 gentleman, about forty — a bachelor moving in good society — sufficiently so to be acquainted with its usages; that he was in the habit of finding himself in company with ladies — married ladies and single; he confessed, after some interlocutions, that he did prefer the company of the latter, and that he preferred the good-looking to the plain — the young to the old; he would not state whether he had made up his own mind on the subject of matrimony, and had a very strong objection to inform the jury whether he was engaged. Was his objection insurmountable? Yes, it was; whereupon it was decided116 by the court that the witness need not answer the question, as he could not be called on to criminate himself. He had, probably, however, been in love? suggested Mr. O’Laugher; but he wouldn’t say that he had. A little smitten117, perhaps? Perhaps he had. Was, perhaps, of a susceptible118 heart? No answer. And accustomed to Cupid’s gentler wounds? No answer. Hadn’t he usually in his heart a prepossession for some young lady? Mr. O’Laugher must insist on having an answer to this question; as it was absolutely necessary the jury should know the nature of a witness’s temperament119, whose evidence was chiefly one of opinion, and not of facts; how could they otherwise know what weight to give to his testimony120? Hadn’t he usually a prepossession in his heart for some young lady? There was a great deal of hesitation about this question, but at last he was got to inform the jury on his oath that he usually — in fact always — did entertain such a prepossession. Was he not fond of conversing121 with the lady who for the time might be the object of this feeling? He supposed he was. Of walking with her? No, not particularly of walking with her. Did he never walk with his loved one? He didn’t think he ever did, except by accident. Weren’t such happy accidents of frequent occurrence? They might be. Weren’t they gratifying accidents when they did occur? Why, yes; he supposed they were. Then he was fond of walking with his loved one? Why, taking it in that way, he supposed he was. Mr. O’Laugher supposed so too. Did he never whisper to this loved object? No, never. What, never? Never. What; could he swear that he had never whispered to the present object of his adoration122? He had no object of adoration. Well, then, object of love? He had no object of love; that is, he wouldn’t say whether he had or not. He thought it very hard that he should be asked all these questions. Well, then, object of prepossession. Could he swear that he had never whispered with the present object of his prepossession? Never — except in church; that was to say, he couldn’t tell. Never except in church — never walk with her except by accident! Mr. O’Laugher surmised123 that the witness was a very cautious fellow — quite an old bird — not to be caught with chaff124. Did he never sit by her? Sit by who? By the object of his prepossession? He supposed he might, at dinner, or at a party, or a concert or a ball.
“What! sit by the object you love best at a concert, and not whisper to her between the tunes125 — and you a Connaught man!” said Mr. O’Laugher. “Come, mend your reputation a little; wasn’t that a slip you made, when you said now you’d never whispered to her at a concert?” Perhaps he had at a concert. “Well, now, I thought so. I thought by your complexion126 you wouldn’t sit by a pretty girl, and take no notice of her. Did you never squeeze a girl’s hand while you were whispering to her?” He couldn’t remember. “Now, on your oath did you never squeeze a girl’s hand?” He might have done so. “Did you never put your arm round a girl’s waist?” At last the witness owned he might have done even that. “And now, one question, and I’ve done. Did you never kiss a girl?” No answer. “Come, that’s the last. After all you’ve owned you needn’t haggle127 at that; out with it, man, it must come at last. Did you never kiss a girl?” Alas128 for the sake of morality, the witness was at length obliged to own that he had perpetrated the enormity. “And,” asked Mr. O’Laugher with a look of great surprise, “were you never proceeded against for damages? Was an action for breach of promise of marriage never brought against you?”
No, never; the witness had never been in such a predicament.
“What, never? You who have declared, I won’t say unblushingly, for heaven knows you have blushed enough about it, but openly and on your oath, that you have always some different object of affection, with whom you walk, sit, talk, and whisper; whose hand you squeeze, round whose waist you put your arm (a crime, by the by, never imputed129 to my client), whom you even confess that you kiss; and yet you sit here secure, unassailed, unsolicited for damages, unengaged, as you lead us to suppose. What are the fathers and brothers of Connaught doing to let such a hydra-headed monster as thou near their doors — such a wolf into their sheep-pens? Go down, thou false Lothario. Go down, thou amorous130 Turk, and remember that a day of retribution may yet come for yourself.”
The unfortunate witness hurried out of court — ran through the pelting131 rain to the inn — crammed132 his brushes and pantaloons into the carpet-bag in spite of damp, farmers, and burly porter drinkers — paid a guinea for the bed in which he had never slept, and hiring a post-car, hurried from the scene of his disgrace, regardless of the torrents133 which were falling.
On the Wednesday morning, for it had been forgotten till then, a summons was served on Hyacinth Keegan to attend as a witness at Thady’s trial, on the prisoner’s behalf; and as he was living in the town the service was quite in sufficient time, and there was no possible means by which he could avoid the disagreeable duty which was thus imposed upon him. He was much annoyed, however, for he felt that there were no questions, which he could be asked on the subject, which it would not annoy him to answer. He had been out but little since the day on which he had been so savagely134 treated at Drumleesh — indeed he had not been able to go out till quite lately; and he now most thoroughly wished that he was bad enough to obtain a medical certificate, which would prevent the necessity of his attending in court. That, however, was impossible, and he, therefore, sat himself to consider what answers he would give to the questions they would be most likely to ask him. Regard for his oath he had none; but there were some most disagreeable questions which, if asked him, he would be obliged to answer with the truth, for on those subjects he would be unable to lie without detection. His rancour against Thady was unabated. Unless young Macdermot were hung he would be unable to avenge135 the mutilated stump136 which crippled all his exertions, and now rendered his existence miserable.
He flattered himself, however, that Brady’s evidence would render that event certain; and whatever annoying questions might be put to himself on the defence, he was determined that Brady should swear to enough on the direct examination to ensure his purpose.
On the Wednesday evening it was decided that Thady’s case was to come on first in the criminal court on Thursday morning, and on the same Wednesday evening Keegan sent for Brady into his office.
Pat was now regularly installed as the attorney’s managing man on the property, and there was therefore nothing very remarkable137 in his sending for him, although he was going to be a witness on the morrow.
“Did you hear, Brady,” said the master, “that they’ve summoned me for the trial tomorrow?”
“Iss, yer honour; they war telling me so up at the court; there’s Dolan is summoned too.”
“Who’s Dolan?”
“He’s one of the boys, Mr. Keegan, as war in it that night at Mrs. Mehan’s.”
“Well, and what can he say? he can’t say Macdermot wasn’t there. He can’t do any harm, Pat; for if he was to swear that he wasn’t there, there’s enough to prove that he was.”
“No, yer honour, it isn’t that he’ll be saying, but he’ll be saying Captain Ussher’s name wasn’t mentioned, or may be that the boys were merely taking their drink, innocent like; that’s what I be afeared — and that’s what Corney’ll say; you’ll see av he don’t; he’s the biggest liar138 in Drumleesh.”
“Oh, they’d soon knock all that out of him; besides, isn’t he one of these potheen boys?”
“Faix he is so, Mr. Keegan.”
“Then they’ll not believe him — they’ll believe you a deal sooner than him that way; but you must be plain about this, Brady, that they were talking about Ussher that night — d’ye hear? Be d —— d but if you let them shake you about that you’re lost. D’ye hear? Why don’t you answer me, eh?”
“Oh! shure, your honour, I’ll be plain enough; certain sure the Captain’s name war mentioned.”
“Mentioned! yes, and how was it mentioned? Didn’t you tell me that Reynolds and young Macdermot were talking broadly about murdhering him? Didn’t they agree to kill him — to choke him in a bog139 hole — or blow his brains out?”
“It war your honour they war to put in a bog hole.”
“D——n them! I’ll have ’em before I’ve done. But don’t you know that Macdermot, Reynolds, and the other fellow agreed to put an end to Ussher? Why you told me so twenty times.”
“I b’lieve they did; but faix, I ain’t shure I heard it all rightly myself, yer honour; I warn’t exactly one of the party.”
“That won’t do, Brady; you told me distinctly that Reynolds and Macdermot swore together to kill the man; and you must swear to that in court. Why the barrister has been told that you can prove it.”
“But, Mr. Keegan, do you wish me now to go and hang myself? You would not wish a poor boy to say anything as’d ruin hisself?”
“Be d —— d, but some one has been tampering140 with you. You know you’ll be in no danger, as well as I do; and by heavens if you flinch141 now it’ll be worse for you. Mind, I want you to say nothing but the truth. But you know Ussher’s death was settled among them; and you must say it out plainly — d’ye hear? And I tell you what, Brady, if you give your evidence like a man you’ll never be the worse of those evenings you spent at Mohill at Mrs. Mulready’s, you know. But if you hesitate or falter142, as sure as you stand there, they’ll come against you; and then I’ll not be the man to help you out of the scrape.”
“But, Mr. Keegan, yer honour, they do be saying that iv I brings out all that, it’ll hang the young masther out and out, and then I’ll have his blood upon my conscience.”
“Have the divil on your conscience. Isn’t he a murderer out and out? and, if so, shouldn’t you tell the truth about it? Why, you fool, it’s only the truth. What are you afraid of? after telling me so often that you would go through with it without caring a flash for any one!”
“But you see there’s so much more of a ruction about it now through the counthry than there war. Counsellor Webb and all thim has made Mr. Thady’s name so great, that there’d be no pace for a boy at all av he war to say a word agin him.”
“Then it’s a coward you are afther all, Brady?”
“No, yer honour, I’m no coward; but it’s a bad thing living in a counthry, where all the boys is sworn to stretch you.”
“Nonsense, Pat; did they ever stretch me? and haven’t I done as bad and worse to them twenty times. They’re trying to frighten you out of your duty, and you’re going to let them. Any way, I see you are not the man for me. I thought you had more pluck in you.”
“Why thin, Mr. Keegan, I’ve pluck enough; but faix, I don’t like hanging the young man thin — and now it’s out.”
“Very well — then you’ll be transported for perjury, that’s all; all the things you’ve to swear to have been sent written out to the Counsellor; and when you contradict in court what you have already declared to be the truth they’ll prosecute143 you for perjury, and a deal of good you’ll do young Macdermot afther all!”
After a few more arguments of a similar nature, Brady was again reduced to his allegiance, and at last was dismissed, having promised to swear stiffly both that Ussher’s death had been agreed on at the meeting at Mrs. Mehan’s, and also that in private conversation with him (Pat Brady) Macdermot had frequently expressed his determination of being revenged on Ussher for the injury he was doing to his sister. And Hyacinth Keegan betook himself to the company of the fair partner of his prosperity and misfortunes, comforting himself with the idea that he was sure of success in his attempts to secure Thady’s conviction, and flattering himself that Mr. O’Malley could at the worst only ask him some few teasing questions about the property.
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1
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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2
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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3
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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4
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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6
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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7
fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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9
tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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12
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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13
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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17
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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18
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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22
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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23
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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24
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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25
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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26
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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perjure
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| v.作伪证；使发假誓 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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30
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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31
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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33
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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34
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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37
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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38
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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39
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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40
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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41
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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42
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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43
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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44
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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45
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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46
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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47
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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48
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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49
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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50
prosecutions
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| 起诉( prosecution的名词复数 )； 原告； 实施； 从事 | |
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51
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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52
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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53
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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54
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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55
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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56
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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57
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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58
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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59
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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60
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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61
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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62
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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63
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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64
agrarian
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| adj.土地的，农村的，农业的 | |
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65
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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66
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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67
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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68
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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69
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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70
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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71
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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72
vindicating
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的现在分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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73
arrear
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| n.欠款 | |
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74
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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75
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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76
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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77
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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78
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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79
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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80
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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81
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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82
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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83
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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84
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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85
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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87
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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88
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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89
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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90
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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91
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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92
reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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93
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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94
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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95
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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96
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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97
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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98
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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99
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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100
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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101
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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102
pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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103
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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104
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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105
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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106
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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107
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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108
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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109
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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110
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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111
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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112
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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113
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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114
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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115
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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116
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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117
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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118
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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119
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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120
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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121
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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122
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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123
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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124
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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125
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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126
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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127
haggle
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| vi.讨价还价，争论不休 | |
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128
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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129
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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131
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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133
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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134
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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135
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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136
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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137
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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138
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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139
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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140
tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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141
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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142
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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143
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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