Fee didn't answer, only sat staring in front of her with beads of sweat along her upper lip, eyes stilled to a desperately rational pain, as if within herself she was marshaling every resource she possessed not to scream. "Daddy, Daddy!" Meggie called sharply, frightened. The tone of her voice brought him out still fastening his flannel undershirt, with Bob, Jack, Hughie and Stu behind him. Meggie pointed wordlessly at her mother.
Paddy's heart seemed to block his throat. He bent over Fee, his hand picking up one limp wrist. "What is it, dear?" he asked in tones more tender than any of his children had ever heard him use; yet somehow they knew they were the tones he used with her when they were not around to hear. She seemed to recognize that special voice enough to emerge from her shocked trance, and the big grey eyes looked up into his face, so kind and worn, no longer young.
"Here," she said, pointing at a small item of news toward the bottom of the page.
Stuart had gone to stand behind his mother, his hand lightly on her shoulder; before he started to read the article Paddy glanced up at his son, into the eyes so like Fee's, and he nodded. What had roused him to jealousy in Frank could never do so in Stuart; as if their love for Fee bound them tightly together instead of separating them.
Paddy read out loud, slowly, his tone growing sadder and sadder. The little headline said: BOXER RECEIVES LIFE SENTENCE.
Francis Armstrong Cleary, aged 26, professional boxer, was convicted today in Goulburn District Court of the murder of Ronald Albert Cumming, aged 32, laborer, last July. The jury reached its verdict after only ten minutes' deliberation, recommending the most severe punishment the court could mete out. It was, said Mr. Justice FitzHugh-Cunneally, a ****** open-and-closed case. Cumming and Cleary had quarreled violently in the public bar of the Harbor Hotel on July 23rd. Later the same night Sergeant Tom Beardsmore of the Goulburn police, accompanied by two constables, was called to the Harbor Hotel by its proprietor, Mr. James Ogilvie. In the lane behind the hotel the police discovered Cleary kicking at the head of the insensible Cumming. His fists were bloodstained and bore tufts of Cumming's hair. When arrested Cleary was drunk but lucid. He was charged with assault with intent to commit grievous bodily harm, but the charge was amended to murder after Cumming died of brain injuries in the Goulburn District Hospital next day. Mr. Arthur Whyte, K.C., entered a plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, but four medical witnesses for the Crown stated unequivocally that under the provisions of the M'naghten rules Cleary could not be called insane. In addressing the jury,Mr. Justice FitzHugh-Cunneally told them there was no question of guilt or innocence, the verdict was clearly guilty, but he requested them to take time considering their recommendation for either clemency or severity, as he would be guided by their opinion. When sentencing Cleary, Mr. Justice FitzHugh-Cunneally called his act "subhuman savagery," and regretted that the drunken unpremeditated nature of the crime precluded hanging, as he regarded Cleary's hands as a weapon quite as deadly as a gun or knife. Cleary was sentenced to life imprisonment at hard labor, the sentence to be served in Goulburn Gaol, this institution being one designed for violently disposed prisoners. Asked if he had anything so say, Cleary answered, "Just don't tell my mother."
Paddy looked at the top of the page to see the date: December 6, 1925. "It happened over three years ago," he said helplessly. No one answered him or moved, for no one knew what to do; from the front of the house came the gleeful laughter of the twins, their high voices raised in chatter. was "Just-don't-tell my mother,"" said Fee numbly. "And no one did! Oh, God! My poor, poor Frank!"
Paddy wiped the tears from his face with the back of his free hand, then squatted down in front of her, patting her lap gently. "Fee dear, pack your things. We'll go to him."
She half-rose before sinking back, her eyes in her small white face starred and glistening as if dead, pupils huge and gold-filmed. "I can't go," she said without a hint of agony, yet ****** everyone feel that the agony was there. "It would kill him to see me. Oh, Paddy, it would kill him! I know him so well-his pride, his ambition, his determination to be someone important. Let him bear the shame alone, it's what he wants. You read it. "Just don't tell my mother." We've got to help him keep his secret. What good will it do him or us to see him?"
Paddy was still weeping, but not for Frank; for the life which had gone from Fee's face, for the dying in her eyes. A Jonah, that's what the lad had always been; the bitter bringer of blight, forever standing between Fee and himself, the cause of her withdrawal from his heart and the hearts of his children. Every time it looked as if there might be happiness in store for Fee, Frank took it away. But Paddy's love for her was as deep and impossible to eradicate as hers was for Frank; he could never use the lad as his whipping boy again, not after that night in the presbytery. So he said, "Well, Fee, if you think it's better not to attempt to get in touch with him, we won't. Yet I'd like to know he was all right, that whatever can be done for him is being done. How about if I write to Father de Bricassart and ask him to look out for Frank?"
The eyes didn't liven, but a faint pink stole into her cheeks. "Yes, Paddy, do that. Only make sure he knows not to tell Frank we found out. Perhaps it would ease Frank to think for certain that we don't know."
