One evening in the month of March, 1798,—that dark time in Ireland’s
annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _émeutes_) is
still preserved among us, as ‘the year of the rebellion’—a lady and
gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned
dining-room of a large lonely mansion. They had just dined; wine and
fruit were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife
sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming
gradually more vivid as the short Spring twilight faded into darkness.
At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then
broke silence, by saying—
“Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken
up to-day for burning Cotter’s house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says
that every magistrate in the country is a marked man.”
Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance towards the windows, which opened
nearly to the ground, and gave a view of a wide tree-besprinkled lawn,
through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There
was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through
close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route.
“Listen, James!” she said, after a pause; “what noise is that?”
“Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you
must not give way to imaginary fears.”
“But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the
gable-end—I wish”—
A knock at the parlour door interrupted her.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson’s confidential steward and
right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking boy
of six years’ old, dressed in deep mourning.
“Well, Gahan, what do you want?”
“I ask your Honour’s pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I
thought it right to come tell you the bad news I heard.”
“Something about the rebels, I suppose?”
“Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there’s going to be a great
rising intirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at
Kilcrean bog, where I’m told they’ve a power of pikes hiding; and then
they’re to march on and sack every house in the country. I’ll engage,
when I heard it, I didn’t let grass grow under my feet, but came off
straight to your Honour, thinking maybe you’d like to walk over this
fine evening to Mr. Warren’s, and settle with him what’s best to be
done.”
“Oh, James! I beseech you, don’t think of going.”
“Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don’t intend it: not that I suppose
there would be much risk; but, all things considered, I think I’m just
as comfortable at home.”
The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced nervously towards the end
window, which jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer
wall.
“Of course ’tis just as your Honour pleases, but I’ll warrant you there
would be no harm in going. Come, Billy,” he added, addressing the child,
who by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson, “make your bow, and
bid good night to master and mistress.”
The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson taking his little hand in hers,
said—
“You need not go home for half-an-hour, Gahan; stay and have a chat with
the servants in the kitchen, and leave little Billy with me—and with the
apples and nuts”—she added, smiling as she filled the child’s hands with
fruit.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” said the steward hastily. “I can’t stop—I’m in a
hurry home, where I wanted to leave this brat to-night; but he _would_
follow me. Come, Billy; come this minute, you young rogue.”