This, then, was the mystery which for eighteen years had hung over
Kilgorman. My mother's letter cleared up a part of it, but the rest it
plunged into greater mystery still. That Maurice Gorman was a villain
and a usurper was evident. But who was the rightful heir my mother,
either through negligence or of set purpose, had failed to state. Was
it Tim? or I?
I recalled all I could of my mother's words and acts to us both--how she
taught us our letters; how she sang to us; how, when need be, she chid
us; how, with a hand for each, she took us as children to church; how
she kissed us both at nights, and gave us our porridge when we started
for the hills in the morning. In all this she never by a sign betrayed
that one of us was her son and the other a stranger. Even to the last,
on the day she died, the words she spoke to me, I was convinced, she
would equally have spoken to Tim, had he, not I, been there to hear
them.
Could it be possible that she did not herself know? Any mother who
reads this will, I think, scoff at the notion; and yet I think it was
so. Weak and ill as she was when it all happened, bewildered and dazed
by the murder of her master and the terrible suspicion thrown on her
husband, lying for weeks after in a half swoon, and believing herself at
the gate of death, I think, in spite of all the mothers in Ireland, that
when at last she came back to life, and looked on the two little fellows
nestled in the bed at her side, she knew not the one from the other.
My father, I was sure, if he even knew that one of us was not his own
boy, neither knew nor concerned himself which was which, so long as he
kept his honour in good-humour.
But as regarded Biddy McQuilkin, it was different. She was not ill or
blind or in mortal fear when it all happened. If any one could tell, it
was she. And she, unless all reports were false, slept in the pit of
the guillotine in Paris, beside her last master and mistress. It was
not likely that the Republic One and Indivisible, when it swept away the
old couple, would overlook their faithful and inseparable attendant.
So, after all, it seemed that mystery was to hang over Tim and me still.
I could have been happy had the paper said outright, "Tim is the son of
Terence Gorman." But to feel that as much might, with equal
probability, be said of me, paralysed my purpose and obscured my path.
How was I to set wrong right? As for Tim, it was evident from his brief
note, written at a time when he did not know if I had survived the wreck
of the _Kestrel_ or not, that the matter concerned him little compared
with the rebellious undertaking on which he was just now unhappily
embarked.
Tim was, I knew, more of a natural gentleman than I, which might mean
gentler blood. On the other hand, I, of the two of us, was less like
Mike Gallagher in looks. Who was to decide between us? And meanwhile
this Maurice Gorman--
That reminded me with a start of last night's business. This very man,
robber of the widow, unnatural brother, and oppressor of the fatherless,
was appointed for death that very morning, and might already be on his
way to meet it. I confess, as I then felt, I could almost have let him
run on his doom; yet when I recalled the vision in the kitchen last
night of Paddy Corkill shouldering the borrowed gun, my humanity
reasserted itself. How could I stand idle with a human life, however
worthless, at stake? As to his being Miss Kit's father, that at the
moment did not enter into my calculations; but as soon as it did, it
urged my footsteps to a still more rapid stride as I made across the
bleak tract for the Black Hill.
The morning was grey and squally, and the mists hung low on the hill-
tops, and swept now and then thickly up the valleys. But I knew the way
well. Tim and I had often as boys walked there to look at the spot
where Terence Gorman fell, and often, in the Knockowen days, I had
driven his honour's gig past the spot on the way to Malin.
The road ascends steeply some little way up the hill between high rocks.
Half-way up it takes a sharp turn inward, skirting the slope on the
level, and so comes out on to the open bog-road beyond. Just at the
angle is a high boulder that almost overhangs the road, affording
complete cover to any one waiting for a traveller, and commanding a view
of him both as he walks his horse up the slope and as he trots forward
on the level. It needed not much guessing to decide that it was here
that Terence Gorman's murderer had lurked that fatal night, and that
here Paddy Corkill would come to find his victim this morning.
As I came to the top of a hill that gave a distant view of the road by
which the traveller would approach, my heart leaped to my mouth. For
there, not a mile and a half away, appeared, in a break of the mist, a
black speck, which I knew well enough to be his honour's gig. In half-
an-hour or less it would reach the fatal spot, and I could barely hope
to reach it before him. The ground in front of me was littered with
boulders, and in places was soft with bog. Rapid progress was
impossible. A false step, a slip might lame me, and so stop me
altogether. Yet on every moment hung the fate of _her_ father!
It was a wild career I made that morning--down hollows, over rocks,
through swamps, and up banks. I soon lost all sight of the road, and
knew I should not see it again till I came above the boulder behind
which the assassin probably lurked. Once I fancied I heard the clatter
of the hoofs very near; and once, on the hill before me, I seemed to
catch the gleam of a gun-barrel among the rocks.
A minute more brought me in view of the boulder and the road below.
Stretched on the former, with his gun levelled, lay Corkill, waiting the
moment when his victim should reach the corner. On the road, still
toiling up the hill, came the gig, and to my horror and dismay, not only
his honour in it, but Miss Kit herself.
Even in that moment of terror I could not help noticing how beautiful
she looked, her face intent on the horse she was driving as she sat,
inclined a little forward, gently coaxing him up the hill. His honour,
aged and haggard, leaned back in his seat, glancing uneasily now and
then at the rocks on either side, and now and then uttering an impatient
"tchk" at the panting animal.
I had barely time to whip out my ship's pistol from my belt--luckily
already loaded--and level it at the assassin. Almost at the instant of
my discharge his gun went off; and in the moment of silence that
followed, I heard the horse start at a gallop along the level road.
Paddy lay on his face, hit in the shoulder, but not, as I judged by his
kicking, fatally so. I was less concerned about him than about the
occupants of the gig. As far as I could see, looking after them,
neither was hurt, and the assassin's gun must have gone off harmlessly
in the air. The horse, who seemed to know what all this meant as well
as any one, raced for his life, and I was expecting to see the gig
disappear round the turn, unless it overturned first, when a huge stone
rolled down on to the road a few yards ahead, and brought the animal up
on his haunches with such suddenness that the two travellers were almost
pitched from their seats.
At the same moment two men, armed with clubs, leaped on to the road, one
making for the horse's head, the other for the step.
All this took less time to happen than it takes me to tell it, and
before the gig actually came to a standstill I was rushing along the
road to the spot. My discharged pistol was in my hand, but I had no
time to reload. I flung myself at the man on the step just as he raised
his club, and sending him sprawling on to the road, levelled my weapon
at his head.
"Move, and you're a dead man!" said I.
Then turning to his honour, I thrust the pistol into his shaking hand,
and said,--
"Fire if he tries to get up, your honour. Let me get at the other one."
He was easily disposed of, for the terrified horse was jerking him off
his feet and dragging him here and there in its efforts to get clear. I
soon had him on the road beside his companion, helping him thereto by a
crack on the head from his own club; and I then took the horse in hand,
and reduced it, after a struggle, to quietness.
Till this was done I had had neither time nor heart to lift my eyes to
the occupants of the gig. His honour, very white, kept his eyes on the
men on the road and his finger on the trigger of the pistol. But Miss
Kit had all her eyes for me. At first her look was one of mere
gratitude to a stranger; then it clouded with bewilderment and almost
alarm; then suddenly it lit up in a blaze of joyful recognition.
"Barry, it's you after all?" she cried.
And the light on her face glowed brighter with the blush that covered it
and the tears that sparkled in her eyes.
At the sound of her voice his honour looked round sharply, and after
staring blankly for a moment, recognised me too.
"How came you here?" he exclaimed, as I thought, with as much
disappointment as pleasure in his voice.
"I'll tell you that by-and-by, when I've tied up these two scoundrels.--
Come, stand up you two, and hands up, if you don't want a taste of cold
lead in your heads."
They obeyed in a half-stupid way. One of them I recognised at once as
the man who had acted as secretary at last night's meeting. No doubt he
and his fellow had had their misgivings as to Paddy Corkill's ability,
and had come here to second him in case of failure.
"So, Mr Larry Flanagan," said I, "there'll be grand news for the
meeting to-night!"
"Who are you? I don't know you. Who's told you my name?"
"Never mind. The same as told me that Paddy Corkill borrowed your gun
for this vile deed. Come, back to back now."
I had already got the tether cord from the boot of the gig, and in a few
minutes had the two fastened up back to back as neatly as a sailor can
tie knots.
"There," said I, dragging them to the roadside, "you'll do till we send
the police to fetch you.--Your honour," said I, "I chanced to hear of
this plot against your life last night. Thank Heaven I was in time to
help you and the young mistress! Maybe you'll do well to take a brace
of police about with you when you travel, and leave the young lady at
home. She will be safer there."
"Stay, Gallagher," said his honour, as I saluted and turned to go; "you
must not go like this. I have questions to ask you."
"And I," said Miss Kit. "Don't go, Barry."
"The gig will only hold two," said I; "but if his honour gives me leave,
I'll be at Knockowen to-morrow."
"Certainly," said Gorman. "And, Barry, say nothing of this. Leave me
to deal with it."
"As your honour pleases. Besides these two by the roadside, you'll find
a boy on the top of yonder boulder who wants a lift to the lock-up."
"Don't forget to-morrow, Barry," said my lady with her sweetest smile
and wave of the hand, as she gathered the reins together.
I stood cap in hand till they had disappeared round the bend, and then
took a final look at my captives.
"So you are Barry Gallagher?" snarled the secretary.
"What of that?"
"Just this, that unless you let me go, and say not a word, your brother
Tim shall swing for a rebel before a week's out."
It must have been satisfaction to him to see how I was staggered by
this. I had never thought that what I had done to-day might recoil on
the head of my own brother. However, I affected not to be greatly
alarmed at the threat.
"Tim can take care of himself," said I, sitting down to load my pistol;
"but since that is your game, I'll save the hangman a job."
And I levelled the weapon at his face.
"Mercy, Mr Gallagher," he cried all in a tremble. "Sure, I was only
joking. I wouldn't let out on Captain Tim for the world. Come now,
won't you believe me?"
His face was such a picture of terror and panic that I was almost sorry
for him. His fellow-prisoner, too, who stood a good chance of the fag-
end of my bullet, was equally piteous in his protestations.
"Mark this," said I, lowering the pistol, to their great relief,
"there's more eyes on you and your confederates than you think. Murder
is no way to help Ireland. Tell on Tim if you dare. My pistol can
carry in the dark, and the first of you that has a word to say against
him may say his prayers."
And I left them rolling back to back on the roadside. As for Paddy
Corkill, when I went to look for him where he had fallen, there was no
sign of him but a pool of blood and a track of footsteps, which
presently lost themselves in the bog.