Only an Irish Girl - Margaret Wolfe Hungerford (sci fi books to read .txt) 📗

struggling, panting, furious mob.

Honor feels herself lifted out of the crowd, and let down inside the library, close to the door.

"Don't move for your life, and don't speak!" a voice says softly, close to her cheek, and then she is alone; and, save for the lightning that illumines the room almost every moment, she is in darkness.

Outside there are loud hoarse cries, heavy blows, and trampling feet, the indescribable horror and confusion of a fierce fight fought with blind rage on both sides.

It cannot be that her father and Horace--for on the servants she does not count at all--are keeping all these men at bay so long!

The suspense becomes torture. She feels that at any risk she must know how things are going, and, cautiously opening the door, she looks out.

The hall is full of police; most of the attacking party have been disarmed--a few have escaped, but she does not know that; three men, however, are making a pretty tough fight for it still. But even as Honor stands and looks on, powerless in her dismay, it is over; the men are struck down and secured.

"This is no sight for you, Honor," a man's voice says suddenly, and, looking up, she sees Brian Beresford before her, with an ugly cut on the temple, from which the blood is flowing freely.

"You!" she gasps, holding her hands out to him with a gesture infinitely touching in one so cold and proud as Honor. "Oh, Brian, I have been wanting you so! I--I thought you would never come back!"

"You see you were mistaken," he says coolly. How the man's pulse are throbbing, how the welcome in her glad sweet eyes has thrilled him, no one looking at him could divine. "I said you were not so unprotected as you imagined," he adds, looking round with a grim smile. "We got here in time to foil the rascals--thanks to Aileen!"

"Why, what had Aileen to do with it? She went home hours ago."

"No, she did not. She crossed the mountain to Drum--a stiff climb for a woman of her years--and gave us notice that the house was to be attacked some time to-night, and off we came."

"Gave you notice?" the girl repeats. She looks dazed and faint, as well she may--a hollow-eyed, white-faced wraith of a girl, in her creased white gown.

The captured men are filing out now in twos and threes, closely guarded. Suddenly Honor starts forward, she has caught sight of a face that, disfigured by blows as it is, she would know among a thousand, and her heart seems to cease beating with the shock.

The tall man marching past between two policemen looks at her for an instant, and then turns his head aside. It is the one thing too much for Honor. With a heart-broken cry that has a thrill of horror in it she falls forward at her cousin's feet.

"Confound the fellow!" he says to himself, as he lifts her gently in his arms, as if she had been a child. "If he had not held out, like the fool he is, she need never have known a word about it."


CHAPTER VI.

Kate Dundas's most bitter enemies cannot deny that she is a beautiful woman. Dangerous she may be--a modern Circe, many of whose admirers find their way to Kilmainham, but, above and before everything else, the woman is beautiful. But it is not her face nor her figure, lithe and lissom for all its ripe maturity, that so holds men's hearts in thrall. There is a charm about her, a curious magnetic power that is even more dangerous than her beauty.

"I would not care to see much of your Mrs. Dundas," an old squire once said, talking of her. "I never knew but one woman who had the same coaxing, fooling ways with her, and, begorra, sir, she was a demon in petticoats!"

But that was only the opinion of a blunt old farmer; Launce Blake knows her a great deal better, or thinks he does. In his own way he is almost as handsome as she is; a tall fair man, with eyes so dark a gray that they look black under their thick lashes and a smile as sweet as a woman's. But, as he sits in Mrs. Dundas's pretty room to-night, he is not smiling--he has come here from Colonel Frenche's, as his father guessed he would--he is looking very stern indeed, and "altogether unmanageable," as Kate Dundas says to herself. It is not the first time by many that she has seen him in this mood. Launce is not one of her humble adorers, and perhaps she likes him all the better on that account.

"I am sure I don't know why you should be so angry," she is saying, in her pretty soft voice, which has just a touch of the Devonshire accent in it. "The man is nothing to me; but since he brought a letter from the poor major's old friend, Major Cregan, I had to be civil to him. I couldn't--could I, now"--coaxingly--"send him back again?"

Launce listens gravely; it is quite a long speech for her to make--as a rule, her eyes, her slow sweet smiles, speak for her.

"That sounds very well--and it may be true, as far as it goes--but it is not all the truth."

"Oh, Launce, how unkind you are!" She is lying back in her chair, the lamplight falling upon her bare arms, her round white throat, and the diamond cross that sparkles on her bosom.

Her dress of some soft yellow stuff that shines like silk and drapes like velvet. She wears no flowers or ornaments of any kind, except the cross on her breast and some old-fashioned gold pins in her hair. Launce Blake, as he looks at her, feels the glamour of her beauty stealing over him like a spell.

His heart is beating furiously; his jealousy and distrust are waning fast before the passion of his love that is grown to be a part of his life.

"Is it any wonder that I am racked with fear? You are so beautiful, any man must love you! And this Hunter--who is he, that he should take his place in the house more like the master of it than a mere guest? And what right has he to keep every one away from you?"

"Dear"--she laughs softly; she has such an exquisite laugh--liquid, entrancing--"the man is ridiculous, I grant you. But then--so many men are ridiculous!"

Is she laughing at him? The eyes raised to his have just a touch of mockery in their lustrous depths, or he fancies they have. He is never quite sure of her--this woman who holds him by so strong a tie. There are times when he is driven half frantic by her "humor," just as there are times when he thinks himself the happiest man on earth because she loves him.

"We are all fools where a woman is concerned!" he says bluntly, and walks to one of the windows, setting it wide open, and letting the wind rush in with a shriek that makes Mrs. Dundas start in her chair.

"Oh, what a terrible night!" she says shivering. "I do not envy you your ride over the bog, if you take that road."

"Of course I shall take it, as usual! Why not?"

She is looking at him, a curious anxiety in her drooping eyes.

"But Launce, is it safe as things are now?"

"Safe or not, I choose to take it," he says coldly.

"But Mr. Hunter was saying only to-day that you are too venturesome."

"Mr. Hunter is an Englishman and, if he is not misjudged, a spy; it is only natural he should think so."

"A spy?" she repeats, paling a little and looking at him--she has risen, and is standing with him before the open window--with eager, questioning eyes. "Who says he is a spy?"

"More people than I could name are of that opinion."

"But do you think he is a spy, Launce?"

"Faith, I neither know nor care what he is! He is not a gentleman! Anyone could see that with half an eye!"

She turns from him with a little passionate gesture, and her face--though he cannot see it--looks for an instant almost cruel in its anger.

"You are so fastidious, dear. We cannot all be Blakes of Donaghmore, you know."

"We can all speak the truth, I hope, and the fellow doesn't even do that."

"Ah!" she says coldly. "Then it would be useless to ask you to stay to dinner and spend the evening in such company?"

It is what he has been longing to do; but something in her voice or her face as she turns aside jars upon him. As they stand there they can hear the thud of horses' hoofs coming at a rapid pace down the Boyne road--it is Mrs. Dundas's guests returning. It is getting dark fast now, and the wind is already furious in its strength as it sweeps down from the mountains.

"Do shut that window, Launce, or we shall have all the lamps blown out!"

He does her bidding mechanically; then he turns and looks at her standing beside him in her pretty gown, the one woman, so he tells himself, who is all in all to him.

Nearer and nearer come the hoof-beats; the precious moments are flying fast; and if they are to make up their little quarrel to-night there is no time to lose.

"I am going now, Kate. Am I to go like this?"

"You are so cross, Launce," she murmurs.

"Nay, give things their right names! Say I am jealous--madly jealous, because I am in love!"

"Oh, if you are only jealous, dear----"

"You know I am as jealous as ever poor Othello was."

"And with as little cause," she whispered softly, nestling her cheek against his shoulder.

The riders are at the gate now; in another minute they will be in the house; taking her in his arms, Launce kisses her and lets her go.

"My darling, how could I live till to-morrow if we had parted in anger now?" he whispers, looking at her with eager impassioned eyes.

Is it fancy, or does the face raised to his suddenly become harsh and wan? He looks down at her, startled; but there is no time for questions--the gentlemen are in the hall now, all talking and laughing at once, it would appear, by the noise they make, and he must go.

A light rain is falling as he passes out at the gate; he will have to walk home, for he sent his horse back by the groom more than an hour ago. The road is intensely dark; but that is nothing to him--he knows every inch of the way, just as he knows every inch of the dangerous path across the bog which he will have to take to reach Donaghmore. In spite of the wind there is a mist--a low clinging gray mist which hides the fields, nay, the very hedgerows between which he walks, and carries sounds--the bark of a dog, the shout of some lad out after his cattle[,] even the echoes of steps far ahead of him on the road--in the most marvelous manner. He is just turning aside to step down into the bog path when a dim shape flits out, like a ghost, from the midst and bars his way.

"Who is there?" he says gruffly. "What do