Tom Burke Of "Ours" Volume I Part 29

"Who 's there?" broke in the hag 's voice from within. "'T is me; Nora,"

said the child, boldly. "Are ye alone, there? do ye see any one about the door?"

"Sorra one. Can't you let me in out of the cowld?" "Come in quick, then," said the crone, as she opened the door carefully, and only wide enough to let the child pa.s.s; but the same instant Darby dashed forward his foot, and flinging the door full wide, seized me by the collar, and dragged me in after him, closing the door at once behind him.

The screams of the hag, though loud and vehement, were as unheeded as were Darby's own efforts to attract notice half an hour before.

"Be quiet, I say; hush yer crying, or be the sowl o' the man that 's dyin' I 'll dhrive a ball through ye." The sight of a pistol barrel seemed at last to have its effect, and she contented herself with a low wailing kind of noise, as she tottered after us along the pa.s.sage.

The cold air of the street and the rest combined had given me strength, and I was able to follow Darby as he led the way through many a pa.s.sage and up more than one stair.

"Here it is," said the child, in a whisper, as she stopped at the door of a room which lay half ajar.

We halted in silence, and listened to the breathings of a man whose short, sobbing respiration, broken by hiccup, denoted the near approach of death.

"Go on," cried a deep, low voice, in a tone of eagerness; "ye 'll not have the cough now for some time."

The sick man made no reply, but his hurried breathing seemed to show that he was making some unwonted effort.

At last he spoke, but in a voice so faint and husky, we could not hear the words. The other, however, appeared to listen, and by a stray monosyllable, dropped at intervals, to follow the tenor of his speech.

At last the sound ceased, and all was still.

"Go in now," said Darby, in a whisper, to the child; "I 'll follow you."

The little girl gently pushed the door and entered, followed by M'Keown, who, however, only advanced one foot within the room, as if doubting what reception he should meet with.

By the uncertain light of a wood fire, which threw in fitful flashes its glare around, I perceived that a sick man lay on a mean-looking, miserable bed in one corner of a dark room; beside him, seated on a low stool, sat another, his head bent down to catch the low breathings which the dying man gave forth from time to time. The heavy snoring sound of others asleep directed my eyes to a distant part of the chamber, where I saw three fellows lying on the floor, partly covered by a blanket. I had barely time to see this much, when the figure beside the bed sprang forward, and in a low but menacing tone, addressed M'Keown.

The last words only could I catch, as he said, "And if he wakes up, he may know you still."

"And if he does," said Darby, doggedly, "who cares? Isn't there as good blood as his shed for the cause? Look here!"

He dragged me forward as he spoke, and, tearing open my coat, pointed to the sash that was now saturated with the blood that flowed at every stir from my wound. The other looked fixedly at me for a second or two, took my hand within his, and letting it fall heavily, he whispered a word to M'Keown, and turned away.

"No, no!" cried Darby, violently. "By the holy Ma.s.s! ye 'll not trate me that way. Sit down, Master Tom," said he, as he forced me into an old armchair beside the fire. "Here, take a drink of water. Come here, doctor; come here, now; stop the bleeding. Stand by me this wonst, and by this--"

Here he crossed his fingers before him, and looked fervently upwards.

But at this instant the sick man sprang up in his bed, and looked wildly about him.

"Isn't that Darby? isn't that M'Keown there?" cried he, as he pointed with his finger. "Darby," he continued, in a low, clear whisper, "Darby, see here, my boy. You often said I 'd do nothing for the cause. Is this nothing?" He threw back the bedclothes, as he spoke, and disclosed a ghastly wound that divided his chest, exposing the cartilage of the ribs, which stood out amid the welling blood that oozed forth with every respiration he made. "Is it nothing that I gave up rank, and place, and fortune; the broad acres that were in my family for three centuries; all my hopes, all my prospects--"

"And if you did," interrupted M'Keown, hastily, "you knew what for."

"I knew what for!" repeated the sick man, as a deadly smile played upon his livid face and curled his white lip. "I know it now, at least. To leave my inheritance to a b.a.s.t.a.r.d; to brand my name with disgrace and dishonor; to go down to the grave a traitor; and, worse still--"

He shuddered violently here, and though his mouth moved, no sound came forth; he sank back, worn out and exhausted.

"Was he there," said Darby to the doctor, with a significant emphasis on the word,--"was he there to-night?"

"He was," replied the other. "He thinks, too, he fired the shot that did it; but, poor fellow! he was down before that. The boys brought him off.

That child is going fast," continued he, as his eye fell upon me.

"Look to him, then, and don't be losin' time," said Darby, fiercely.

"Look to him," he added more mildly, and "the Heavens will bless ye! Here 's twenty goolden guineas,--it's all I've saved these eight years,--here they 're for you, and save his life."

The old man knelt down beside me, and slipping a scissors within the scarf that lay fastened to my side with clotted blood, he proceeded to open and expose the situation of my wound. A cold, sick feeling, a kind of half-fainting sensation, followed this, and I could hear nothing of the dialogue that pa.s.sed so near me. An occasional sting of pain shot through me as the dressing proceeded; but save this, I had little consciousness of anything.

At length, like one awakening from a heavy slumber, with faculties half clouded by the dreamy past, I looked around me. All was still and motionless in the room. The doctor sat beside the sick man's bed; and Darby, his eyes riveted on me, knelt close to my chair, and held his hand upon the bandage over my wound.

A gentle tap here came to the door, and the child I had seen before entered noiselessly, and approaching the doctor, said, "the car is come, sir."

The old man nodded in silence, and then, turning towards Darby, he whispered something in his ear. M'Keown sprang to his legs at once, his cheek flushed deeply, and his eyes sparkled with animation.

"I have it! I have it!" cried he, "There never was such luck for us before."

With that he drew the old man to one side, and speaking to him in a low but rapid tone, evinced by the violence of his gestures and the tremulous eagerness of his voice how deeply he was interested.

"True enough, true enough," said the old man, after a pause. "Poor Dan has but one more journey before him."

"Is he able to bear it, doctor?" said Darby, pointing towards me with his finger; "that's all I ask. Has he the strength in him?"

"He'll do now," replied the other, gruffly; "there's little harm done him this time. Let him taste that whenever you find him growing weak; and keep his head low, and there 's no fear of him."

As he spoke, he took from a cupboard in the wall a small phial, which he handed to M'Keown, who received the precious elixir with as much reverence as though it contained the very wellspring of human existence.

"And now," said Darby, "the less time lost now the better; it will soon be daylight on us. Master Tom, can you rise, acushla? are you able to stand up?"

I made the effort as well as I could, but my limbs seemed chained down, and even my arm felt like lead beside me.

"Take him on your back," said the old man, hurriedly; "you 'll stay here till sunrise. Take him downstairs, on your back, and when you have him in the open air, turn him towards the wind, and keep his head low,--mind that."

I made another attempt to stand up; but before I could effect it, Darby's strong arms were round my waist, and I felt myself lifted on his shoulder and borne from the room, A muttered good-by pa.s.sed between the others, and Darby began to descend the stairs cautiously, while the little child went before with a candle. As the street door was opened, I could perceive that a car and horse stood in waiting, accompanied by two men, who, the moment they saw me, sprang forward to Darby's a.s.sistance, and helped to place me on the car. M'Keown was soon beside me, and supporting my head upon his shoulder, he contrived to hold me in a leaning position, giving me at the same time the full benefit of the cool breeze, which already refreshed and restored me.

The vehicle now moved on in darkness and in silence. At first our pace was slow, but it gradually quickened as we pa.s.sed along the quay; for as such I recognized it by the dull sound of the river near us. The bright lamps of the greater thoroughfares soon made their appearance; and as we traversed these, I could mark that our pace slackened to a walk, and that we kept the very middle of the wide street, as if to avoid observation. Gradually we emerged from this, and, as I heard by the roll of the wheels, reached the outskirts of the town. We had not been many minutes there when the horse was put to his speed, and the car whirled along at a tremendous rate. Excepting a sense of weight and stiffness in the side, I had no painful feeling from my wound; while the rapidity with which we pa.s.sed through the air imparted a sensation of drowsiness far from unpleasant.

In this state I scarcely was conscious of what pa.s.sed about me. Now and then some occasional halt, some chance interruption, would momentarily arouse me, and I could faintly hear the sound of voices; but of what they spoke I knew nothing. Darby frequently questioned me, but my utmost effort at reply was to press his hand. By times it would seem to me as though all I felt were but the fancies of some sick dream, which the morning should dispel and scatter. Then I thought that we were flying from an enemy, who pressed hotly on us, and gained at every stride; a vague, shadowy sense of some horrible event mingling with all, and weighing heavily on my heart.

As the time wore on, my senses became clearer, and I saw that we were travelling along the seaside. The faint gray light of breaking day shed a cold gleam across the green water, which plashed with a mournful cadence on the low, flat sh.o.r.e. I watched the waves as they beat with a heavy sough amid the scattered weeds, where the wild cry of the curlew mingled with the sound as he skimmed along the gloomy water, and my heart grew heavier. There is something--I know not what--terribly in unison with our saddest thoughts, in the dull plash of the sea at night: the loudest thunders of the storm, when white-crested waves rise high and break in ten thousand eddies on the dark rocks, are not so suggestive of melancholy as the sighing moan of the midnight tide.

Long-buried griefs, long-forgotten sorrows, rise up as we listen; and we feel as though that wailing cry were the funeral chant over cherished hopes and treasured aspirations.

From my dark musings I was roused suddenly by Darby's voice, asking of the men who sat at the opposite side how the wind was.

"Westing by south," replied one; "as fair as need be, if there was enough of it. But who knows, we may have a capful yet, when the sun gets up."

"We 'll not have long to wait for that," cried the other; "see there!"

I lifted my eyes as he spoke, and beheld the pink stain of coming day rising above the top of a large mountain.

"That's Howth," said Darby, seizing with eagerness the proof of my returning senses.