“Most certainly not, Finnerty,” replied the other; “I shall be escorted by no person or persons ashamed to show their faces. If you refuse to come, you break your word with me; but, in any event, I shall not travel with these men. I am too well aware of the disturbed state of the country, and that, being a friend of Mr. Purcel, I may not be popular. I consider myself, however, under your protection and under the protection of your roof, and for this reason I shall hold you accountable for my safety; and, at all events, unless you insist on expelling me, I shall remain where I am until morning.”
“Why, if you insist upon it, I’ll go,” replied Finnerty, and four friends about you will be betther and safer than one; but in troth, to tell you the truth, Mr. M’Carthy, I’m a’most fairly knocked up myself, havin’ been down the counthry and through the hills the greater part of the day. I have a great number of cattle to look afther, an’ am seldom off my foot.”
“Don’t, sir,” said his wife, in tones which were now perfectly intelligible to him, “don’t ax poor Frank to go wid you tonight; you’ll be as well widout him, especially as the night’s so bright and clear; he’s tired indeed, and, be the same token, I don’t like to be here in the clouds of the night, wid nobody wid me but myself.”
“If you’re a gentlemen, sir,” said the friendly voice, “you won’t take this honest man from his wife at such an hour o’ the night. If you take my advice too, I’d recommend you to come along wid ourselves at wanst.”
There was no mistaking the friendly voice embodied in these words, as well as in those of Mrs. Finnerty. M’Carthy accordingly replied:—
“Very, well, Finnerty, I will proceed with these men. I should indeed be sorry to cause you any additional fatigue, or to fetch you from your house at such an hour. I will therefore put myself under the protection and guidance of these worthy fellows, who, I hope, will remember that although a friend to Mr. Purcel personally, yet I am none to any harshness he may have resorted to for the recovery of his tithes.”
“There’s nobody here,” replied the still friendly voice, “inclined to offer you any offense, bekaise you happen to be a friend to Mr. Purcel”—and there was a marked emphasis laid upon the name—“so now,” the voice proceeded, “you may make your mind aisy on that head.”
A singular but significant laugh proceeded, from the other two, which, however, was repressed by a glance from “the friend,” who said, “Come, boys, turn out; now, sir, the sooner we get over this journey the betther.”
“Well, Finnerty,” said M’Carthy, “many thanks for the hospitable shelter of your house, and to you also, Mrs. Finnerty, for your kindness and the trouble I have occasioned you.”
Mrs. Finnerty’s voice had now nearly abandoned her; and, as our young sportsman, after having shaken hands with her husband, now paid that compliment to herself, he perceived that the poor creature’s hand was literally passive and cold as ice, whilst the words she attempted to utter literally died away unspoken on her lips.