Before a couple of weeks passed over, Kate had contrived to divide her days so regularly, to establish for herself a certain routine of little duties, that the time slipped by—as time ever will do in monotony—unfelt. The season was the autumn, and the wild hills and mountains were gorgeous in all the brilliant colour of the ever varied heaths. In the little clefts and valleys, too, where shelter favoured, foxgloves and purple mallows grew with a rare luxuriance, while on every side was met the arbutus, its crimson berries hanging in festoons over rock and crag. The sudden, unexpected sight of the sea, penetrating by many a fissure, as it were, between the mountains, gave unceasing interest to the wild landscape, and over the pathless moors that she strayed, not a living thing to be seen, was the sense of being the first wayfarer who had ever trod these wastes.

As Kate wandered whole days alone, over and over again came the doubt across her, which was it—the brilliant past, with all its splendour and luxury, or the solitary present—was the dream? Surely they could not both be real! Was the bygone a fancy built out of some gorgeous fragments of things read, heard, or imagined, or was this—this actual scene around her—a vision that was to move past, and leave her to awake to all her former splendour?

Great as the revulsion was to her former life, it was in nothing greater than in the difference between her uncle’s cold, sad, distant manner, for so after the first meeting had it become, and the ever watchful anxiety, the courteous attention to her slightest wish, of Sir Within.

She never ceased canvassing with herself how he had borne her desertion; whether he had sunk under it into a hopeless despondency, or called upon his pride to sustain him above any show of indignation. Reading it as the world must read it, there never was such ingratitude; but then the world could never know the provocation, nor ever know by what personal sacrifice she had avenged the slight passed upon her. “My story,” said she, “can never be told; his, he may tell how it suite him.”

At moments, a sort of romantic exaltation and a sense of freedom would make her believe that she had done well to exchange the splendid bondage of the past for the untrammelled liberty of the present; and then, at other times, the terrible contrast would so overcome her, that she would sit and cry as if her heart was breaking.

“Would my ‘old Gardy’ pity or exult over me if he saw me now? What would he, who would not suffer me to tread on an uncarpeted step, say if he saw me alone, and poorly clad, clambering up these rugged cliffs to reach some point, where, for an instant, I may forget myself? Surely he would not triumph over my fall!

“Such a life as this is meant to expiate great crimes. Men are sent to wild and desolate islands in the ocean, to wear out days of hopeless misery, because they have warred against their fellows. But what have I done? whom have I injured? Others had friends to love and to guide them; I had none. The very worst that can be alleged against me is, that I was rash and headstrong—too prone to resent; and what has it cost me!

“My uncle said, indeed, this need not be my prison if I could not endure its privations. But what did that mean—what alternative did he point to? Was it that I was to go lower still, and fall back upon all the wretchedness I sprang from? That, never! The barren glory of calling myself a Luttrell may be a sorry price for forfeited luxury and splendour; but I have it, and I will hold it. I am a Luttrell now, and one day, perhaps, these dreary hills shall own me their mistress.”

In some such thoughts as these, crossed and recrossed by regrets and half-shadowed hopes, she was returning one night to the Abbey, when Molly met her. There was such evident anxiety and eagerness in the woman’s face, that Kate quickly asked her:

“What is it? What has happened?”

“Nothing, Miss, nothing at all. ‘Tis only a man is come. He’s down at the Holy Well, and wants to speak to you.”

“Who is he? What is he?”

“I never seen him before, Miss, but he comes from beyant there”—she motioned towards the main land of Ireland—“and says that you know him well.”

“Have you told my uncle of him?”

“No, Miss, for the man said I was to tell no living soul but yourself, and to tell you quick too, for he was in a hurry, and wanted to get away with the evening’s tide, and his boat was more than a mile off.”

“Molly Byan,” said the girl, calmly, almost sternly, “you heard the orders that my uncle gave. You heard him tell me that I was not to see, nor speak to, nor hold any intercourse with any of those belonging to my mother’s family. Is this man one of them?”

“No, Miss. ‘Tis what I asked him. ‘Tis the very first question I put to him. And he said, ‘I’m no more to them than you are, Mrs. Ryan,’ says he; ‘and what’s more,’ says he, ‘if it’s any comfort to you to know it, I don’t even come from this part of Ireland; so you may make yourself easy about that,’ says he. I was puttin’ more questions to him, and he stopped me, and said, ‘You’re just wasting precious time,’ says he, ‘and if she comes back and finds it too late’—‘she meant yourself Miss—’ she won’t forgive you in a hurry for what you’ve done, for I can’t come here again.’”

“You are sure and certain that he was not one of those I spoke of?”

“I know them all well, Miss—barrin’ the three that was transported—and he’s not any of them I ever saw before.”

“But he might exactly be one of those who was transported, and certainly if I knew that I’d not see him.”

“He swore to me he wasn’t, Miss; and, what’s more, he said that what he came about wasn’t his own business at all, but concerned you. That’s his whistle now—he gave, one awhile ago—and he said, ‘When I give three,’ says he, ‘I’m gone, for i’ll not lose the tide, whether she comes or not.’”

“Go back to the house, Molly. I’ll go down and speak to him.”

“Wouldn’t you let me follow you, Miss, to be near in case of anything?”

“No, Molly. I’m not a coward; and I know, besides, that no man who meant harm to me would ever come ever here to attempt it.”

“At any rate, he’d never go back again!” said the woman, fiercely. “Don’t be long, Miss, or I’ll be uneasy.”

Kate now turned aside, and hastened down a little steep path which led to the Holy Well. The well itself was a sort of shrine built over a little spring, and shaded by a clump of dwindled oak-trees—almost the only ones in the island. As Kate drew nigh, she saw a man walking up and down beneath the trees, with the quick short step that implied impatience. It was her gift never to forget a face, and in one glance she recognised one she had not seen for years—O’Rorke of Vinegar Hill.

“I thought you’d never come;” cried he, as she descended the steps that led down to the well. “I have been waiting here about an hour!”

He held out his hand to shake hands with her, but she drew back, and crossing her shawl in front of her, showed that she declined this greeting.

“Are you too proud to shake hands with me?” asked he, insolently.

“Whatever you have to say to me can be said just as well without.”

“What if I wouldn’t say it, then, Kitty O’Hara? What if I was to go back the way I came, and leave you to rue the day you insulted me? Do you know, young woman, that it wasn’t on my own account I came here, that it was to serve others?”

“They chose a bad messenger if they thought you’d be a welcome one.”

“May I never see glory if I’m not tempted to turn away and leave you without telling one word I come for. Where’s John Luttrell? for I think I’ll tell it to himself.”

“My uncle is at the Abbey, if you want him!”

“Your uncle!” said he, jeeringly. “Why wasn’t he your uncle when you were up at Cush-ma-Creena, without a shoe, to your foot, or enough rags to cover you well? You were bare up to this, when I saw you last.” And he put his hand to his knee.

“It was a national costume!” said she, with a quiet laugh, “and a patriot like Mr. O’Rorke should not find fault with it.”

“Be gorra, it was your own self said that! and it was a lie they tould when they said you were altered!” And almost as if by magic the fellow’s ill-temper gave way, and he laughed heartily. “Listen to me now, Miss O’Hara, or Miss Luttrell, or whatever you call yourself.”

“My name is Luttrell,” said she, calmly.

“Well, Luttrell, then; it’s the same to me. As I told you already, I came here more on your account than my own; and here’s what brought me. You know that lodge, or cottage, or whatever they call it, that Vyner built up here in the glen? Well, there’s creditors of his now wanting to get possession of it.”

“Creditors of Sir Gervais Vyner? Impossible!”

“Possible, or impossible, it’s true, that I can vouch for, for I saw the bailiffs that came down with the notices. At any rate, your old grandfather thought that after Vyner himself he had the best right to the house and the bit of land, for Vyner told him one day that he’d settle it on you for a marriage portion, and there was others by when he said it, so your grandfather went up and told Tom Crowe, the attorney, how it was, and Tom said, ‘Keep it open, Malone,’ says he—‘keep it open till we see what’s to be done in it. Don’t let the other creditors get a hold of the place till I get an opinion for you.’ And on that, old Peter goes back and gets a few boys together, and they go down to the glen just in time to see the sub-sheriff, Barty Lambert, riding up the lawn, with six or eight men after him. The minute Lambert saw your grandfather, he cried out, ‘Here’s Peter “the Smasher;” save yourselves, boys!’ And he rode his horse at a wall, jumped it, and made off as hard as he could. Two of the others followed, but the rest stood their ground. Old Peter then stepped out, and ordered them to lay down their arms, and give up the writ, and whatever other papers they had. Some were for this, and some against; and Peter, wanting to finish the business at once, stepped up to Joe Maher, the sub-sheriff’s man, and said: ‘Joe,’ says he, ‘I made you ate a process once before, wax and all, and maybe I’d have to do the same now. Give it up this minute, or———’ Just then Maher drew out a pistol, but before he could level it old Peter was in on him, and they grappled each other, and a terrible struggle it was, for the others never interfered, but left them to fight it out fair! At last the pistol went off, and the ball passed through old Peter’s cheek; but if it did, it didn’t prevent him getting over Joe’s breast as he fell, and beating his head against the ground, till he rolled over him himself out of weakness and fatigue; and when Peter came to himself—Maher didn’t, for he was dead!”

“Dead!” exclaimed she—“murdered!”

“Not a bit murdered, but killed fair! Anyhow, the others ran away, and old Peter, as soon as he was able, made off too, and got into the mountains, and now the police is after him, and a reward of fifty pounds offered for him, as if he was a wild beast. British law and justice, my darling; the beautiful code of laws that was made to civilise Ireland four centuries ago, and hasn’t done much to talk about up to this!”

“This is a very dreadful story,” said she, after some time of silence. “And what is to become of this poor old man?”

“That depends on you, Miss Kate—Luttrell,” added he, after a brief struggle with himself.

“On me? How can it depend upon me?”

“Here’s how it is, then. If they catch Peter, what between the character he has already, and what’s known of his sons, they’ll make short work of it he’ll ‘swing,’ as sure as you are there this minute. So there’s nothing for it but to get him away to America by any of the ships coming round from the north, and it would be easy enough for him to get on board; but what’s not so easy, Miss Kate, is to pay his passage. He hasn’t one shilling in the world. The boys got together last night, and all they could make up was eleven and fourpence; there it is, and a pawn ticket for an old pistol, that nobody would give half-a-crown for——”

“But what can I do?” broke she in, passionately. “What can I do?”

“Help him with a few pounds. Give it or lend it; but let him have enough to make his escape, and not go to the ‘drop’ for want of a little help.”

“There is not one belonging to him poorer than me,” began she. “Why do you shake your head? Do you disbelieve me?”

“I do; that’s just it.”

“Shall I swear it—shall I take my oath to you, that except the trifle that remains to me of what I had to pay my journey here, I have not one farthing in the world?”

“Then what’s the fine story of the great castle where you were living, and the grand clothes and the jewels you used to wear? Do you mean to tell me that you left them all behind, when you came away?”

“It is true. I did so.”

“And came off with nothing?”

She nodded, and he stared at her, partly in astonishment, and partly with some show of admiration; for even to his nature this conduct of hers displayed a degree of character that might be capable of great sacrifices.

“And so,” said he, after a pause, “you can do nothing for him?”

“What can I do?” asked she, almost imploringly.

“I’ll tell you,” said he, calmly. “Go up to John Lnttrell, and say, My grandfather is hiding from the police; they have a warrant out against him, and if he’s taken he’s sure to be condemned; and we know what mercy a Malone will meet at the assizes of Donegal. Tell him—it’s just the one thing he’ll care for—that it wouldn’t be pleasant for him to be summoned as a witness to character, and have to declare in open court that he married the prisoner’s daughter. Say a ten-pound note, or even five, is a cheap price to pay for escaping all this disgrace and shame; and tell him, besides, when old Peter goes, you’ve seen the last of the family. He’ll think a good deal of that, I promise you——”

“Stop,” said she, boldly. “You know nothing of the temper of the man you talk of; but it is enough that I tell you he has got no money. Listen to me, O’Rorke. It was but yesterday he sent off a little ornament his wife nsed to wear to have it sold, to pay a county rate they were threatening to distrain for——”

“Where did you get all your law?” said he, jeeringly; but, not heeding the gibe, she went on, “I would have offered him the few shillings I had, but I was ashamed and afraid.”

“How much is it?”

“A little more than two pounds. You shall have it; but remember, I can do no more. I have nothing I could sell—not a ring, nor a brooch; not even a pin.”

“It’s better than nothing,” muttered he, surlily, below his breath. “Let me have it.”

“It is up at the Abbey. Wait, and I’ll fetch it. I’ll not be an instant.” And before he could answer she was gone. In less time than seemed possible she was back again, breathless and agitated. “Here it is,” said she, placing the money in his hand. “If you should see him, tell him how grieved I am to be of such little service to him, and give him this silk handkerchief; tell him I used to wear it round my neck, and that I sent a kiss to him in it—poor fellow! I almost wish I was with him,” muttered she, as she turned away her head, for the hot tears filled her eyes—she felt weak and sick.

“I’m afraid this will do little good,” said O’Rorke, looking at the money in his open palm.

“And yet I can do no more!” said she, with deep sorrow.

“Wouldn’t you venture to tell your uncle how it is? Sure he might see that the disgrace, if this old man is caught and brought to trial, will spread to himself?”

“I dare not—I will not,” said she, firmly.

“Then I suppose the story is true, though old Peter wouldn’t believe it, that John Luttrell made you sign a paper never to see nor speak to one of your own again?”

“I signed no paper, Sir, nor ever was asked to sign any. What pledges I have given my uncle are not to be discussed with you.”

“Well, you don’t deny it, that’s clear.”

“Have you anything more that you wish to say to me?” asked she, controlling every show of temper.

“No—not a word,” said he, turning to go away. “Only, if I see old Peter—it’s not unlike that I may—he’ll be asking me how tall you are, and how you’re looking. Will you just come out from under the shade of that tree and let me have a fair look at you?”

Kate took off her bonnet and threw her shawl from her, and stood forward with an air as composed and assured as might be.

“Shall I tell you what I’ll say to him?” said O’Rorke, with an impudent half grin on his face.

“You need not, Sir. It has no interest whatever for me. Good-by!” She took up her shawl as she spoke, and walked slowly away.

O’Rorke looked after her; the mocking expression of his features changed to a look of almost hatred, and he muttered some angry words between his teeth. “I read you right, Miss Katty, when you weren’t much higher than my knee. I read you right! You may have plenty in love with you, but by my conscience you’ll never have Tim O’Rorke.”