Kitabı oku: «Only an Irish Girl», sayfa 4

CHAPTER VI

Kate Dundas's most bitter enemies cannot deny that she is a beautiful woman. Dangerous she may be – a modern Circe, many of whose admirers find their way to Kilmainham, but, above and before everything else, the woman is beautiful. But it is not her face nor her figure, lithe and lissom for all its ripe maturity, that so holds men's hearts in thrall. There is a charm about her, a curious magnetic power that is even more dangerous than her beauty.

"I would not care to see much of your Mrs. Dundas," an old squire once said, talking of her. "I never knew but one woman who had the same coaxing, fooling ways with her, and, begorra, sir, she was a demon in petticoats!"

But that was only the opinion of a blunt old farmer; Launce Blake knows her a great deal better, or thinks he does. In his own way he is almost as handsome as she is; a tall fair man, with eyes so dark a gray that they look black under their thick lashes and a smile as sweet as a woman's. But, as he sits in Mrs. Dundas's pretty room to-night, he is not smiling – he has come here from Colonel Frenche's, as his father guessed he would – he is looking very stern indeed, and "altogether unmanageable," as Kate Dundas says to herself. It is not the first time by many that she has seen him in this mood. Launce is not one of her humble adorers, and perhaps she likes him all the better on that account.

"I am sure I don't know why you should be so angry," she is saying, in her pretty soft voice, which has just a touch of the Devonshire accent in it. "The man is nothing to me; but since he brought a letter from the poor major's old friend, Major Cregan, I had to be civil to him. I couldn't – could I, now" – coaxingly – "send him back again?"

Launce listens gravely; it is quite a long speech for her to make – as a rule, her eyes, her slow sweet smiles, speak for her.

"That sounds very well – and it may be true, as far as it goes – but it is not all the truth."

"Oh, Launce, how unkind you are!" She is lying back in her chair, the lamplight falling upon her bare arms, her round white throat, and the diamond cross that sparkles on her bosom.

Her dress of some soft yellow stuff that shines like silk and drapes like velvet. She wears no flowers or ornaments of any kind, except the cross on her breast and some old-fashioned gold pins in her hair. Launce Blake, as he looks at her, feels the glamour of her beauty stealing over him like a spell.

His heart is beating furiously; his jealousy and distrust are waning fast before the passion of his love that is grown to be a part of his life.

"Is it any wonder that I am racked with fear? You are so beautiful, any man must love you! And this Hunter – who is he, that he should take his place in the house more like the master of it than a mere guest? And what right has he to keep every one away from you?"

"Dear" – she laughs softly; she has such an exquisite laugh – liquid, entrancing – "the man is ridiculous, I grant you. But then – so many men are ridiculous!"

Is she laughing at him? The eyes raised to his have just a touch of mockery in their lustrous depths, or he fancies they have. He is never quite sure of her – this woman who holds him by so strong a tie. There are times when he is driven half frantic by her "humor," just as there are times when he thinks himself the happiest man on earth because she loves him.

"We are all fools where a woman is concerned!" he says bluntly, and walks to one of the windows, setting it wide open, and letting the wind rush in with a shriek that makes Mrs. Dundas start in her chair.

"Oh, what a terrible night!" she says shivering. "I do not envy you your ride over the bog, if you take that road."

"Of course I shall take it, as usual! Why not?"

She is looking at him, a curious anxiety in her drooping eyes.

"But Launce, is it safe as things are now?"

"Safe or not, I choose to take it," he says coldly.

"But Mr. Hunter was saying only to-day that you are too venturesome."

"Mr. Hunter is an Englishman and, if he is not misjudged, a spy; it is only natural he should think so."

"A spy?" she repeats, paling a little and looking at him – she has risen, and is standing with him before the open window – with eager, questioning eyes. "Who says he is a spy?"

"More people than I could name are of that opinion."

"But do you think he is a spy, Launce?"

"Faith, I neither know nor care what he is! He is not a gentleman!

Anyone could see that with half an eye!"

She turns from him with a little passionate gesture, and her face – though he cannot see it – looks for an instant almost cruel in its anger.

"You are so fastidious, dear. We cannot all be Blakes of Donaghmore, you know."

"We can all speak the truth, I hope, and the fellow doesn't even do that."

"Ah!" she says coldly. "Then it would be useless to ask you to stay to dinner and spend the evening in such company?"

It is what he has been longing to do; but something in her voice or her face as she turns aside jars upon him. As they stand there they can hear the thud of horses' hoofs coming at a rapid pace down the Boyne road – it is Mrs. Dundas's guests returning. It is getting dark fast now, and the wind is already furious in its strength as it sweeps down from the mountains.

"Do shut that window, Launce, or we shall have all the lamps blown out!"

He does her bidding mechanically; then he turns and looks at her standing beside him in her pretty gown, the one woman, so he tells himself, who is all in all to him.

Nearer and nearer come the hoof-beats; the precious moments are flying fast; and if they are to make up their little quarrel to-night there is no time to lose.

"I am going now, Kate. Am I to go like this?"

"You are so cross, Launce," she murmurs.

"Nay, give things their right names! Say I am jealous – madly jealous, because I am in love!"

"Oh, if you are only jealous, dear – "

"You know I am as jealous as ever poor Othello was."

"And with as little cause," she whispered softly, nestling her cheek against his shoulder.

The riders are at the gate now; in another minute they will be in the house; taking her in his arms, Launce kisses her and lets her go.

"My darling, how could I live till to-morrow if we had parted in anger now?" he whispers, looking at her with eager impassioned eyes.

Is it fancy, or does the face raised to his suddenly become harsh and wan? He looks down at her, startled; but there is no time for questions – the gentlemen are in the hall now, all talking and laughing at once, it would appear, by the noise they make, and he must go.

A light rain is falling as he passes out at the gate; he will have to walk home, for he sent his horse back by the groom more than an hour ago. The road is intensely dark; but that is nothing to him – he knows every inch of the way, just as he knows every inch of the dangerous path across the bog which he will have to take to reach Donaghmore. In spite of the wind there is a mist – a low clinging gray mist which hides the fields, nay, the very hedgerows between which he walks, and carries sounds – the bark of a dog, the shout of some lad out after his cattle[,] even the echoes of steps far ahead of him on the road – in the most marvelous manner. He is just turning aside to step down into the bog path when a dim shape flits out, like a ghost, from the midst and bars his way.

"Who is there?" he says gruffly. "What do you want?"

"Thank goodness, it's your honor's self!" a woman's voice answers timidly. "I am Patsy McCann, Mr. Launce. Ye mind me?"

"To be sure, Patsy! But what on earth brings you here at this hour, and in such a storm too? I hope you don't come so far from home to do your courting, Patsy?"

"Troth, an coorting's not in my head, yer honor! I've other and blacker thoughts to trouble me!"

"I'm sorry for that, Patsy."

He speaks kindly – it is his nature to speak kindly to a woman – but he is impatient to get home.

"Whist!" the girl whispers, pressing closer to him, till he can see her eyes raised eagerly to his. "Don't go for to cross the bog to-night, Misther Launce. Shure the longest way round is the shortest way home! Don't press a poor girl to speak plainer, but turn back, as you vally your life, Misther Launce!"

"Tut, tut, my girl! I'm far too tired to walk round by Drum at this hour."

"Walk till yer drop, Misther Blake, but don't cross the bog this night."

"Then you must tell why."

But the girl only wrings her hands and moans. She had not expected to meet with opposition of this kind. She took it for granted that when he heard it would not be safe to cross the bog he would go back. She did not know the temper of the Blakes of Donaghmore.

"There, get home, Patsy," he says at last, out of patience; and he is feeling tired after his long day's sport too. "It's time all honest girls were at their own firesides."

"Sorra an inch will I stir till yez promise not to put yer foot on the bog this night! Shure the boys are out, not by twos nor threes, but by scores; yez would be shot down before yez could get half-way over!"

"Ah!" he says, and draws a deep breath. It is not a pleasant prospect, but the hot blood of a fighting race is running fiercely in his veins.

At this moment the sound of men marching in step comes through the stillness. Yielding to an impulse for which he could find no reason, Launce draws back a step – the girl has disappeared as if the earth had opened and swallowed her – and in another second a small party of men, walking two abreast, is close beside him – county police unmistakably; and a tall, upright man is a little in advance of the rest. He is speaking in a low voice as they come up, but Launce hears every word.

"Good idea to think of following young Blake. They are sure to assault him; they have been waiting for a chance like this for weeks past. Then we must just close in and catch as many of the rascals as we can. Look out for this Magill – a tall fellow in a soft felt hat. I would give fifty pounds to land that fellow safe and sound in Kilmainham."

As Launce listens a furious anger stirs within him – a rage so strong that it is as much as he can do to refrain from springing out upon the cowardly speaker. He knows the man now – he would recognize those smooth false tones among a thousand – it is Mr. Hunter, Mrs. Dundas's guest and friend, the man whom from the first he has disliked and distrusted. A horrible suspicion, a chill doubt, makes him shake from head to foot. Did Kate know of this? Could it be that the woman he loved had seen him go out, a predestined victim, so that this spy might lodge one or two more rebels in Kilmainham jail? A bitter word breaks from his lips as he thinks of it. This poor girl – for now that the police have passed Patsy has reappeared, like a phantom, out of the darkness – in her ignorance and helplessness has been more true to him than the woman he has loved so passionately.

"You have saved my life, Patsy, and I'll not forget it; but I'm not sure that it would not have been better for me to have gone on in my ignorance and taken my chance!" he says grimly.

"The saints be thanked!" the girl answers solemnly. "I have done what I said I would do, and my heart is aisy this night!"

CHAPTER VII

A chill gray dawn is breaking when Honor Blake opens her eyes. She is in bed in her own room, and her father is siting beside her, watchful and anxious. At first she wonders to see him there, then slowly a dim sense of pain and fear comes back to her.

"You are better?" he says cheerily. "That's right! I'll go away now, and you'll get a sleep; but Aileen shall stay in the room, in case you should feel faint again."

"Faint?" she repeats, with a smile. "Have I been faint then?"

"Faith and you have, my dear! I never knew any one stay so long in a swoon before. I half thought you were dead when I saw you first; but you are better now, and we'll talk no more about it."

As he rises, she sees that he carries his left arm in a sling and that he looks tired and pale. Then suddenly every detail of the past night comes back to her, and she feels for a few seconds as if she should sink back into unconsciousness again.

"It's nothing – a mere scratch; but they insisted on dressing it up like this!" her father cries hastily, seeing the change that has crept into her face. "No one is much hurt but that rascally groom of yours. He's got a skinful that will keep him quiet, or I'm mistaken!"

"Father," the girl whispers faintly, "some one was in it last night who – who must be saved at any price. It would kill me, I think" – pantingly – "if harm came to him."

Her father's face, as he listens, has grown as hard as a face cut out of granite; and she knows, before a word is spoken, that her plea has fallen upon deaf ears.

"They must take their chance," he says grimly; "I would not stir a finger to save the life of any one of them."

Honor knows that there is no more to be said; but as she sinks back among her pillows, a passionate determination to save this man whom she loves rises in her heart. But does she love him? He has been very dear to her all her life; but now a great gulf has opened between them – they can never be to each other as they have been. The past is as dead as the love that made it so bright and so beautiful; but, for the sake of that dead past, she feels that she must save him from the consequence of this mad folly into which he has been led or driven.

The birds are singing, now, the sky has grown suddenly rosy, and the new day is as calm and bright as the night was wild and stormy. But to Honor Blake no peace comes, no brightness. It seems to her she shall never know peace again.

As she is turning into the morning-room, a heavy step on the tiled floor makes her look round; and Launce stands before her. With a glad cry the girl flies to him.

"Oh, Launce," she sobs, "we thought you were shot last night; and we – "

But he stops her almost impatiently.

"And what happened here last night? What is the meaning of that – and that?" – pointing at bullet-holes in the walls and the door.

"Why, Launce, have you not heard?"

"I have heard nothing," he says shortly, "about Donaghmore."

She looks at him wonderingly – at his soiled dress, his haggard face and fierce eyes, so unlike the face and eyes of her favorite brother.

"Where have you been all night, Launce? And what has happened to make you look so dreadfully ill and – and strange?"

He has followed her into the morning-room and closed the door behind them.

"I have been to Drum with the body of that fellow who was shot on the moss."

"Oh, Launce, who was he?"

He sinks down upon a chair before he answers her – a man tired in body and mind. Utterly worn out he looks now in the clear strong light.

"He was Mrs. Dundas's friend and guest – her lover, for all I can tell," he says scornfully. "I hope she is proud of him and of the end he has come to. He was shot down like a dog. I heard the cry he gave, I was so close behind him."

The tears are rolling down Honor's cheeks; she is trembling so that she can scarcely stand.

"Oh, Launce," she cries piteously, "and it might have been you!"

"It ought to have been," her brother says, with a low harsh laugh that echoes dismally through the quiet sunny room. "That is where the mistake comes in!" Honor looks at him in dismay. He is so unlike himself that he frightens her. "I was to have gone first – according to their program – so that the men might attack me and give the police the chance of coming down upon them unawares. She saw me go out of her house to what she thought would be certain death, and she never lifted a finger to keep me back. That was womanly, wasn't it?"

The girl cannot answer him. She has never liked this woman – she has shrunk from and distrusted her always; but she never dreamed she could be capable of treachery so base and cruel as this.

"And whom do you think they were after?" Launce says, after a pause. "Power Magill! To think of a man like that being mixed up with the rabble rout that was out last night! But they missed him; and, though I hate the fellow, I was glad that they did."

The girl has crossed the room and is standing close beside him now, her hand on the arm of his chair, her white face bent toward him.

"No, Launce, they did not miss him – he was taken here!" He listens; but it is evident that he does not understand. "Yes, in this house," the girl goes on coldly, "where he has been a welcome guest and friend all his life! He came in with the rest to threaten and rob – and murder, too, if need be, I have no doubt! We have been fortunate in our friends and neighbors, Launce!"

"By Jove!" he gasps, and sits and stares at her – a man thoroughly startled and distressed.

Not to him need she apply for help in the plan that has already vaguely formed itself in her mind. She knows quite well that he would rather hinder then help her in any effort to save Power Magill. If he is to be saved at all, it must be at once, before they have time to remove him to Dublin; and the girl's heart throbs and her brain grows dizzy as she tries to think out her simple yet daring scheme. It is that some one – as near his height and build as possible – should get leave to visit him, and then that they should change clothes, and Power Magill should walk out in place of his visitor. She has read of such things being done before; why should they not be done again? But the question is, What man in the county would willingly take the place of Power Magill?

"It must be done," the girl says to herself, as she listens to the talk going on about her; for of course every one is talking of the men taken in the affray of the past night, and their chances of heavy punishment. "Some one can be got surely, to run the risk – if not for love, then for money!"

Brian Beresford is away at Drum; and she is glad of it – it would be awkward to have him about the house at the present crisis.

About a mile from Donaghmore, on the Boyne road, stands a cottage that, in the summer season, is almost hidden from sight by the masses of wild roses and jasmine that cover its old walls. It is a picturesque little place enough, and wondrously clean for an Irish cottage; but it is not in good repute in the place. Magistrates shake their heads when they hear of meetings held on the quiet at Hugh Scanlan's; and more than once terror and disaster have been carried into quiet homes by order of the men who meet there.

Scanlan is a man over eighty, but erect and vigorous, and full of subtle cunning. It is to this man Honor turns in trouble and perplexity. He is no friend of hers – all her life she has been taught to look upon him as an evil man and a bad neighbor, who would do any harm that lay in his power to her or hers. But to this she never gives a thought now. Power must be helped; and, if any man in Donaghmore can help him, it is Scanlan.

The afternoon sun shines brightly upon the strip of garden as she opens the gate and walks up to the half-closed door. From the threshold she can see all round the one room that the place contains. It is low, and would be dim but for the great fire burning, hot as the day is, on the low hearth. The owner of the cottage has been sitting before the fire smoking; but, at the sight of Honor standing on his doorstep, he rises to his feet.

"Good-evening!" the girl says in her low clear voice. "I want very much to speak to you! May I come in?"

For an instant the ready tact of his race seems to forsake the old man, and he stares at her stupidly.

"Robert Blake's daughter asking to come into my house?" he mutters, raising his withered hands with a gesture of the most intense surprise.

"Yes," the girl answers gently. "I am in trouble; and I want you to help me, if you will."

She has stepped forward uninvited, and is close beside him now, looking up into his face with eyes that have not a shadow of fear or even distrust in them.

"There are more than yourself in the deep trouble this day, miss."

"Yes; and it is about one who is in deep trouble that I have come to talk to you."

He has placed a chair for her full in the light of the open door, where he can see every sign of feeling that crosses her face; but he keeps well in the shade himself. Oh, how Honor's heart beats as she looks up at him and realizes that in this very room the leaders of last night's outrage may have met to arrange their plans! She is not afraid, though her reason tells her there might be grave cause for fear in placing herself in the hands of a treacherous man and an open enemy of her father's house.

"Faith, miss, an' if it's all wan to you, you may do the talking and I'll listen! Talking is mighty dangerous for the loikes of me, these times!"

"Yes, I know," the girl replies; "but I do not want you to talk. I will tell you what I want you to do, and then you can say, 'Yes' or 'No,' as you think best. But, oh" – with a sudden clasping of the gloved hands lying on her lap – "I do hope you will say 'Yes'!"

And simply and clearly, her pretty voice broken in its earnestness, her eyes shining like stars as they fix themselves on the gray wrinkled face before her, she tells him what it is she wants done, and how much she can offer toward paying for the doing of it.

"It is not much," she says, looking at the small roll of Irish pound-notes in her hand, "but it is all I have of my own in the world; and, when he is free, he will pay you himself liberally."

The old man listens to her like one lost in a dream. She looks to him more like an angel than a living woman as she stands there pleading so earnestly – for, in her agitation, she has risen and is facing him, the sunshine falling like a glory all about her.

In his excitement he takes to blessing her in Irish, and, as the rapid words, instinct with strong feeling, [lack in the text] upon her ears, Honor draws back disconcerted.

"Are you angry?" she says. "I thought you would have been glad to help him! He has given up everything – friends, position, home, and country, it may be, for this cause to which you belong."

"And I have nothing to give up but my life," the old man answers with sudden unlooked-for dignity; "and that I would lay down this hour to see him free and safe once more."

"Then you will help us?" she says eagerly.

"Shure I'm the most helpless of ould creatures, but I'll do what I can," he answers guardedly, and with so swift a change of voice and manner that Honor almost loses hope.

However, there is no choice left her now, nothing to be done but to give the man her poor little bribe and go home, leaving Power Magill to his mercy.

Little does the girl dream, as she walks sadly back to Donaghmore through the waning light, that she has formed a protecting barrier round the old home and its inmates that will outlast the storms of years.