Kilgorman

"Gallagher!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet in evident panic; "what brings you here in this disguise? What have I ever done to you?"

"It is no disguise, your honour," said I, in as rea.s.suring a tone as I could a.s.sume. "I am Lieutenant Gallagher now."

"And what do you want here? Why do you come in this sudden way? Go away, sir, and come when you are wanted! Where is my guard?"

And the poor man, whom the landlord at Rathmullan had well described as broken, actually put out his trembling hand to reach a pistol that lay on the table.

"You mistake me," said I, paying no heed to the gesture. "I came merely on business, and if you like you can call your guard in. I've nothing to say that they need not hear."

"You're a good fellow, Gallagher," said his honour, rea.s.sured. "I'm a little shaken in the nerves, and your coming was so sudden. I know you could mean no harm to your old benefactor."

It made my heart bleed to hear him talk thus miserably, and I resolved to shorten the interview as much as I could.

"Stay and dine with me," said he, as eager to keep me now as he was to be rid of me a minute ago; "it's lonely, night after night, with no one to speak to and nowhere to go. You've heard, no doubt, I am a prisoner here."

"How so, sir?"

"There's a sentence of death out against me--not in the king's name, but in the name of Tim Gallagher, your brother, captain of the rebels here."

"In Tim's name!" exclaimed I. "It's false! I swear he never signed it; he is not even in the country."

"Don't be too sure of that. Anyway he's their chosen leader, and they do all in his name. I daren't go outside my own doors after dark for fear of a bullet."

"The scoundrels!" cried I, starting up; "and they dare drag Tim's name into their vile machinations. I tell you, Mr Gorman, Tim would no more wink at murder than--than Miss Kit would. And, by the way, sir, what of Miss Kit?"

He looked round with his haggard face.

"What is that to you, Gallagher?"

"I love her," said I bluntly, "and so I have a right to know."

"You! the son of Mike the boatman, and brother of Tim the rebel! You dare--"

I cut him short.

"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

"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 a.s.sured 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 moons.h.i.+ne 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."