Part 8 (1/2)

If it was all an illusion, it was a strange one--strange indeed for a single witness to hear, stranger still for two. Yet illusion it must have been, begotten of my terrors, and the creak of the stairs, and the sighing of the wind, or the excursions of a vagabond rat. I do not pretend to explain it. Nor, for months after, could I be persuaded that the visitor was aught other than the poor distracted lady of Kilgorman.

And it was months after that before I could get out of my mind that she had stood beside us and sought for something in the hearth.

As for us that night, I can promise you we were not many minutes longer in Kilgorman when the spell was once broken. Even Tim forgot the guns.

With all the speed we could we ran to the stairs and so to my lady's chamber, against which stood the friendly ladder, down which we slid, and not waiting even to restore it to its place, sped like hunted hares down the avenue and along the steep path, till we came to the harbour in the creek where lay our boat.

Nor was it till we were safely afloat, with sail hoisted and our bows pointing to Fanad, that we drew breath, and dared look back in the dim dawn at the grim walls and chimneys of Kilgorman as they loomed out upon us from among the trees and rocks.

CHAPTER FIVE.

FAREWELL TO FANAD.

After that, life went uneventfully for a time with Tim and me. Now that the cabin was empty father visited us seldom. His voyages took him longer than before, and we had a shrewd guess that they were not all in search of fish; for little enough of that he brought home. Young as we boys were we knew better than to ask him questions. Only when he showed us his pocket full of French coin, or carried up by night a keg of spirits that had never been brewed in a lawful distillery, or piloted some foreign-looking craft after dark into one of the quiet creeks along the coast, or spent an evening in confidential talk with his honour and other less reputable characters, we guessed he was embarked on a business of no little risk, which might land him some fine day, with a file of marines to take care of him, in Derry Jail.

For all that, I would fain have taken to the sea with him; for every day I longed more for the open life of a sailor, and chafed at the shackles of my landsman's fate. What made it worse was that one day, sorely against Tim's will, my father ordered him to get ready for the sea, leaving me, who would have given my eyes for the chance, not only disappointed, but brotherless and alone in the world.

But I must tell you how this great change in our fortunes came to pa.s.s.

It was about a year after my mother's death when, one dark night, as father and we two sat round the peat fire in the cabin, father telling us queer stories about the Frenchmen, and icebergs in the Atlantic, and races with the king's cruisers, that the door opened suddenly, and a woman I had never seen before looked in.

”Biddy McQuilkin, as I'm a sinner!” said my father, taking the pipe from his lips, and looking, I thought, not altogether pleased. But he got up, as a gentleman should.

”Arrah, Mike, you may well wonder! I hardly know myself at all, at all.

And there's the boys. My! but it's myself's glad to see the pretty darlints.” And she gave us each a hug and a kiss.

Somehow or other I did not at first take kindly to Biddy McQuilkin. She was a stout woman of about mother's age, with little twinkling eyes that seemed to look not quite straight, and gave her face, otherwise comely enough, rather a sly expression. And I guessed when she made so much of us that it was perhaps less on our account than on my father's.

As for father, I think he felt pretty much as I did, and had not the cunning to conceal it.

”I thought you were in Paris, Biddy?” said he.

”So I was, and so, maybe, I'll be again,” said the widow, taking her shawl from her head, and seating herself on a stool at the fire. ”'Twas a chance I got to come and see the folk at home while the master and mistress are in Galway seeing what they can save out of the ruin of their estate there. Ochone, it's bad times, Mike; indeed it is. Lonely enough for you and me and the motherless boys. I've a mind to stay where I am, and settle down in the ould country.”

My father looked genuinely alarmed.

”Lonely!” said he with a laugh; ”like enough it is for you, poor body, but not for me. I promise you I've plenty to think of without being lonely.”

”Like enough,” said she with a sigh. ”It's when you come home now and again to the empty house you'll be feeling lonely, and wis.h.i.+ng you'd some kindly soul to mind you, Mike Gallagher.”

But my father was not going to allow that he was lonely even then; for he guessed what it would lead to if he did.

”I'm well enough as I am,” said he. ”But since you're so lonely, Biddy, why not get yourself a husband?”

She looked up with her little blinking eyes, and was going to speak.

But my father, fairly scared, went on,--

”It's not for me, who'll never marry more, not if I live to a hundred, thank G.o.d, to advise the likes of you, Biddy. But there's many a likely man would be glad of you, and I'd give him my blessings with you. You need company. I don't; leastways none better than my pipe and my gla.s.s.”