Part 101 (1/2)

'That's the first shot!' muttered Kearney to himself, while he gave a little cough to avoid reply.

'Father Luke has been telling me, Mathew, that before I go this long journey I ought to take care to settle any little matter here that's on my mind. ”If there's anybody you bear an ill will to,” says he; ”if there's any one has wronged you,” says he, ”told lies of you, or done you any bodily harm, send for him,” says he, ”and let him hear your forgiveness out of your own mouth. I'll take care afterwards,” says Father Luke, ”that he'll have to settle the account with _me_; but _you_ mustn't mind that.

You must be able to tell St. Joseph that you come with a clean breast and a good conscience ”: and that's'--here she sighed heavily several times--'and that's the reason I sent for you, Mathew Kearney!'

Poor Kearney sighed heavily over that category of misdoers with whom he found himself cla.s.sed, but he said nothing.

'I don't want to say anything harsh to you, Mathew, nor have I strength to listen, if you'd try to defend yourself; time is short with me now, but this I must say, if I'm here now sick and sore, and if the poor boy in the other room is lying down with his fractured head, it is you, and you alone, have the blame.'

'May the blessed Virgin give me patience!' muttered he, as he wrung his hands despairingly.

'I hope she will; and give you more, Mathew Kearney. I hope she'll give you a hearty repentance. I hope she'll teach you that the few days that remain to you in this life are short enough for contrition--ay--contrition and castigation.'

'Ain't I getting it now,' muttered he; but low as he spoke the words her quick hearing had caught them.

'I hope you are; it is the last bit of friends.h.i.+p I can do you. You have a hard, worldly, selfish nature, Mathew; you had it as a boy, and it grew worse as you grew older. What many believed high spirits in you was nothing else than the reckless devilment of a man that only thought of himself.

You could afford to be--at least to look--light-hearted, for you cared for n.o.body. You squandered your little property, and you'd have made away with the few acres that belonged to your ancestors, if the law would have let you. As for the way you brought up your children, that lazy boy below-stairs, that never did a hand's turn, is proof enough, and poor Kitty, just because she wasn't like the rest of you, how she's treated!'

'How is that: what is my cruelty there?' cried he.

'Don't try to make yourself out worse than you are,' said she sternly, 'and pretend that you don't know the wrong you done her.'

'May I never--if I understand what you mean.'

'Maybe you thought it was no business of yours to provide for your own child. Maybe you had a notion that it was enough that she had her food and a roof over her while you were here, and that somehow--anyhow--she'd get on, as they call it, when you were in the other place. Mathew Kearney, I'll say nothing so cruel to you as your own conscience is saying this minute; or maybe, with that light heart that makes your friends so fond of you, you never bothered yourself about her at all, and that's the way it come about.'

'What came about? I want to know _that_.'

'First and foremost, I don't think the law will let you. I don't believe you can charge your estate against the entail. I have a note there to ask McKeown's opinion, and if I'm right, I'll set apart a sum in my will to contest it in the Queen's Bench. I tell you this to your face, Mathew Kearney, and I'm going where I can tell it to somebody better than a hard-hearted, cruel old man.'

'What is it that I want to do, and that the law won't let me?' asked he, in the most imploring accents.

'At least twelve honest men will decide it.'

'Decide what! in the name of the saints?' cried he.

'Don't be profane; don't parade your unbelieving notions to a poor old woman on her death-bed. You may want to leave your daughter a beggar, and your son little better, but you have no right to disturb my last moments with your terrible blasphemies.'

'I'm fairly bothered now,' cried he, as his two arms dropped powerlessly to his sides. 'So help me, if I know whether I'm awake or in a dream.'

'It's an excuse won't serve you where you'll be soon going, and I warn you, don't trust it.'

'Have a little pity on me, Miss Betty, darling,' said he, in his most coaxing tone; 'and tell me what it is I have done?'

'You mean what you are trying to do; but what, please the Virgin, we'll not let you!'

'What is _that_?'

'And what, weak and ill, and dying as I am, I've strength enough left in me to prevent, Mathew Kearney--and if you'll give me that Bible there, I'll kiss it, and take my oath that, if he marries her, he'll never put foot in a house of mine, nor inherit an acre that belongs to me; and all that I'll leave in my will shall be my--well, I won't say what, only it's something he'll not have to pay a legacy duty on. Do you understand me now, or ain't I plain enough yet?'