Part 9 (1/2)
”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 a.s.sault 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionately.
”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.