Thomas M'Mahon's family consisted of—first, his father, a grey-haired patriarch, who, though a very old man, was healthy and in the full possession of all his faculties; next, himself; then his wife; Bryan, the proprietor of Ahadarra; two other sons, both younger, and two daughters, the eldest twenty, and the youngest about eighteen. The name of the latter was Dora, a sweet and gentle girl, with beautiful auburn hair, dark, brilliant eyes, full of intellect and feeling, an exquisite mouth, and a figure which was remarkable for natural grace and great symmetry.
“Well, Bryan,” said the father, “what news from Ahadarra?”
“Nothing particular from Ahadarra,” replied the son, “but our good-natured friend, Jemmy Burke, had his house broken open and robbed the night before last.”
“Wurrah deheelish” exclaimed his mother, “no, he hadn't!”
“Well, mother,” replied Bryan, laughing, “maybe not. I'm afeard it's too true though.”
“An' how much did he lose?” asked his father.
“Between seventy and eighty pounds,” said Bryan.
“It's too much,” observed the other; “still I'm glad it's no more; an' since the villains did take it, it's well they tuck it from a man that can afford to lose it.”
“By all accounts,” said Arthur, or, as he was called, Art, “Hycy, the sportheen, has pulled him down a bit. He's not so rich now, they say, as he was three or four years ago.”
“He's rich enough still,” observed his father; “but at any rate, upon my sowl I'm sorry for him; he's the crame of an honest, kind-hearted neighbor; an' I believe in my conscience if there's a man alive that hasn't an ill-wisher, he is.”
“Is it known who robbed him?” asked the grandfather, “or does he suspect anybody?”
“It's not known, of course, grandfather,” replied Bryan, “or I suppose they would be in limbo before now; but there's quare talk about it. The Hogans is suspected, it seems. Philip was caught examinin' the hall-door the night before; an' that does look suspicious.”
“Ay,” said the old man, “an' very likely they're the men. I remember them this many a long day; it's forty years since Andy Hogan—he was lame—Andy Boccah they called him—was hanged for the murdher of your great-granduncle, Billy Shevlin, of Frughmore, so that they don't like a bone in our bodies. That was the only murdher I remember of them, but many a robbery was laid to their charge; an' every now and then there was always sure to be an odd one transported for thievin', an' house-breakin', and sich villainy.”
“I wouldn't be surprised,” said Mrs. M'Mahon, “but it was some o' them tuck our two brave geese the night before last.”
“Very likely, in throth, Bridget,” said her husband; “however, as the ould proverb has it, 'honesty's the best policy.' Let them see which of us I'll be the best off at the end of the year.”
“There's an odd whisper here an' there about another robber,” continued Bryan; “but I don't believe a word about it. No, no;—he's wild, and not scrupulous in many things, but I always thought him generous, an' indeed rather careless about money.”
“You mane the sportheen?” said his brother Art.
“The Hogans,” said the old man, recurring to the subject, as associated with them, “would rob anybody barrin' the Cavanaghs; but I won't listen to it, Bryan, that Hycy Burke, or the son of any honest man that ever had an opportunity of hearin' the Word o' God, or livin' in a Christian counthry, could ever think of robbin' his own father—his own father! I won't listen to that.”
“No, nor I, grandfather,” said Bryan, “putting everything else out of the question, its too unnatural an act. What makes you shake your head, Art?”
“I never liked a bone in his body, somehow,” replied Art.
“Ay, but my goodness, Art,” said Dora, “sure nobody would think of robbin' their own father?”
“He has been doin' little else these three years, Dora, by all accounts,” replied Art.
“Ay, but his father,” continued the innocent girl; “to break into the house at night an' rob him like a robber!”
“Well, I say, it's reported that he has been robbin' him these three years in one shape or other,” continued Art; “but here's Shibby, let's hear what she'll say. What do you think, shibby?”
“About what, Art?”
“That Hycy Burke would rob his father!”
“Hut, tut! Art, what puts that into your head? Oh, no, Art—not at all—to rob his father, an' him has been so indulgent to him!”
“Indeed, I agree with you, Shibby,” said Bryan; “for although my opinion of Hycy is changed very much for the worse of late, still I can't and won't give in to that.”
“An what has changed it for the worse?” asked his mother. “You an' he wor very thick together always—eh? What has changed it, Bryan?”
Bryan began to rub his hand down the sleeve of his coat, as if freeing it from dust, or perhaps admiring its fabric, but made no reply.
“Eh, Bryan,” she continued, “what has changed your opinion of him?”
“Oh, nothing of much consequence, mother,” replied her son; “but sometimes a feather will toll one how the wind blows.”
As he spoke, it might have been observed that he looked around upon the family with an appearance of awakened consciousness that was very nearly allied to shame. He recovered his composure, however, on perceiving that none among them gave, either by look or manner, any indication of understanding what he felt. This relieved him: but he soon found that the sense of relief experienced from it was not permitted to last long. Dora, his favorite sister, glided over to his side and gently taking his hand in hers began to play with his fingers, whilst a roguish laugh, that spoke a full consciousness of his secret, broke her pale but beautiful features into that mingled expression of smiles and blushes which, in one of her years, gives a look of almost angelic purity and grace. After about a minute or two, during which she paused, and laughed, and blushed, and commenced to whisper, and again stopped, she at last put her lips to his ear and whispered:—“Bryan, I know the reason you don't like Hycy.”
“You do?” he said, laughing, but yet evidently confused in his turn;—“well—an'—ha!—ha!—no, you fool, you don't.”
“May I never stir if I don't!”
“Well, an' what is it?”
“Why, bekaise he's coortin' Kathleen Cavanagh—now!”
“An' what do I care about that?” said her brother.