"See here, Maurice Gorman; understand me. With or without you I will
find her, if I have to seek her to the world's end. I've done so before
now; remember how we parted last."
"Oh," said he, "I know all that, and of your meeting her in Holland and
placing her in Biddy McQuilkin's care. She wrote me all about that; and
it's little I owe you for it. Biddy belongs, body and soul, to the
rebel faction."
"But she wouldn't let a hair of Miss Kit's head be hurt for all that."
"How do you know that, so long as I could be made to suffer by it?"
"Where are they now, then?" I asked eagerly.
"Till lately she was in Dublin, in the family of Lord Edward, who,
traitor as he is, is at least a gentleman, and a distant kinsman into
the bargain. She was happy there; and what sort of place was this to
bring a girl to? But look here," said he, getting up and fumbling in a
drawer among some papers, "what do you say to this?" and he put a
letter, written in a delicate female hand, before me. It read as
follows:--
"To Maurice Gorman, Esquire.
"Sir,--With great sorrow I inform you that Miss Gorman, while walking
yesterday evening in the Park with her attendant McQuilkin, was
surrounded by a gang of masked men, and they were both carried away,
whither we know not. We are in terrible distress, and sparing no effort
to find the dear girl, whom Lord Edward and I had come to love as a
sister. Be assured you shall receive such news as there may be. Lord
Edward's wrath knows no bounds, and he even risks his own liberty (for
he is a marked man) in seeking for them.--I have the honour to be, sir,
your obedient servant, Pamela Fitzgerald."
"That is from Lady Edward," said his honour. "Now read this."
The paper he handed me now was a dirty and illiterate scrawl, without
date or signature.
"Maris Gorman,--Take note your doghter is in safe hands, and will not be
returnd till you take the oth of the Unyted Irishmen and pay 5 hundred
pounds sterling to the fund. Allso note that unless you come in
quickly, you will be shott like a dog, and the devil help you for a
trayter to Ireland."
"Now," said he, with a gloomy smile, "you know as much of my daughter's
whereabouts as I do."
"This is terrible news," said I. "How is it you are not in Dublin at
this moment, moving heaven and earth to find her?"
He laughed bitterly.
"It's easy talking," said he. "In the first place, I should be shot
before I reached my own gate; I have been practically a prisoner here
for weeks. In the next place, what could I do? Even if I took the
oath, where is the money to come from?"
"Five hundred pounds is a small sum to a rich man like you."
"Whoever calls me rich, lies," said he testily, and with an uneasy
gesture which explained to my mind the dilapidated state of the place.
Maurice Gorman was not only a poltroon but a miser, and five hundred
pounds were worth more to him than his own daughter.
"Is nothing being done?" said I. "Have you shown the letter to the
authorities, or to Lord Edward?"
"What use?" said he. "I am on too ill terms with either to expect their
help."
"And so you intend to leave that poor girl to her fate?" I cried. "But
if you will not move, I will!"
"What can I do?" said he wearily. "You know how I am fixed. Perhaps
when I am shot they will let her go. Maybe that will be the simplest
way out of it, after all."
I could not help pitying him, much as I despised him, so miserably did
he speak.
Then he began to talk about the state of the country, and of the bad
odour he had fallen into with his brother magistrates.
"They suspect me of being in with the rebels, Gallagher, as if I had
cause to love them. On my soul, if I'm to be suspected, it sometimes
seems I might as well be so with reason as without. Suppose, for the
sake of argument, Gallagher, I took their precious oath--suppose it, I
say, how should I stand then? By all appearances, Ireland is going to
be delivered; and it will be a bad day when she comes into her own for
those who withstood her. Should I be worse off by joining them? I'm
told they are ready to welcome any man of position and landed interest
on their side. It might be an opportunity of doing some service to my
fellow countrymen. Besides, when a daughter's liberty is at stake, one
does not stand at sacrifice. They hate me now because I have been
instrumental in thwarting them. By winning me over they would be rid of
an obstacle; and all the favour I have shown them in the past in the
matter of the arms, and allowing some of them to slip through the
fingers of the law, would stand to my credit. Why, Gallagher," added
he, growing quite excited at the vision, "in the new Irish Government I
should be a man of mark; and my fortune, instead of being confiscated,
would be my own, and at the service of my friends. Why, you and Tim--"
"Are you so sure that fortune is your own now?" said I, losing my self-
restraint at last.
He turned a little whiter as he glared round at me.
"You mean that improbable story of the changeling at Kilgorman," said
he, with a forced laugh. "As pure moonshine as ever was, and beyond all
proof even if it wasn't."
"You forget Biddy McQuilkin has been found."
"Did she say anything?" he demanded.
"She did, on her oath."
"And, pray, what was her version of this wonderful story?"
"She told me all I needed to know--that is, which of us two was Terence
Gorman's son."
"And which is, pray?"
"That is my secret. Time will show."
"What!" exclaimed he, "some new conspiracy to rob me? And one of the
conspirators a man who presumes to my daughter's hand! Come, Gallagher,
let you and me understand each other. I defy you, or Biddy, or any one,
to make good your story. But if you are frank with me, you won't find
me unreasonable. Let me see the documents."
"In good time, sir," said I. "Now, as to the smugglers."
And we proceeded to talk about the object of our cruise. I found he had
little news to give me, or else he chose to give little, and after a
while I rose to go. He pressed me to stay the night, urging his
solitude; but I had no desire to prolong the interview.
"We shall meet again," said I; "and you may rely on hearing from me if I
have any news of your daughter."
We were out on the doorstep by this time. It was a beautiful, fresh
evening, with a half-moon hanging above the opposite hills and sending a
broad track of shimmering light across the lough.
"It's a tempting night," said he. "I've not taken the air for days.
I've a good mind to see you to your boat."
For all that, he looked round uneasily, with the air of a man who
suspected a lurking foe in every rustling leaf.
"Two of you men follow," said he to the sentries at the door. "Keep me
in view. Ah, how fresh the air is after that close room! Yes,
Gallagher, you were speaking of my daughter. Since she left me--keep in
the shade, man, it's safer--this place has been a hell to me. What's
the use of--what's that?" he exclaimed, catching my arm; "it sounded
like a man's breathing. What's the use of keeping it up, I say? I've a
mind to--"
He got no further. We had emerged from the shady walk into the moonlit
path leading down to the pier. The two sentinels were just discernible
ahead, and the footsteps of the two behind followed us close. There was
no other sound in the stillness but his honour's quavering voice, and
nothing stirring but the leaves of the trees and the waves of the lough
as they broke gently on the beach.
Suddenly there rang out from the water's edge the sharp crack of a gun,
followed by a wild howl. Mr Gorman staggered forward a pace and fell
on his face. There was a rapid swish of oars, two hurried shots from
the sentries, and the phantom of a little boat as it darted out across
the moon track and lost itself in the blackness of the shadows.
In a moment I was kneeling beside the body of the poor dying man. The
shot had struck him in the breast, and the life-blood was oozing away
fast. He was conscious as we tried to lift him.
"Let me lie here," said he. "I'm safe here now."
But by this time the soldiers had him in their arms, and were bearing
him gently towards the house.
It was little a doctor could do if we had one, but a soldier was sent to
Fahan to bring one, and to take word of the murder. Meanwhile we laid
him on his bed, and I did what I could to stanch the bleeding and ease
his suffering.