Part 10 (1/2)
”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 ma.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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.