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.