For several days after this scene, Kate thought of nothing but her old grandfather, whether he still wandered an outcast through the wild mountains of Donegal, or had succeeded in making his escape to America. At moments her anxieties became so intense, from fears lest she herself might prove blamable if his escape could not be effected, that she was almost resolved to go to her uncle and reveal all to him. Luttrell’s manner had, however, been unusually cold and reserved for some time back, and she had not courage to take this step. Indeed, whole days would now pass with nothing but a mere greeting between them, and at length, one entire day went over without her seeing him at all. It was said that he was very busy, had received a number of letters by the post, and was engaged a great part of the night in answering them. On the morning that followed this day, Kate was preparing the little basket in which she carried her luncheon with her to the hills, whenever she meditated a longer excursion than usual, when her uncle entered hastily, and with evident signs of agitation in his face.

“I have had disagreeable tidings, Kate,” said he, with a forced calm of manner and voice. “I would have kept them from you if I could, but it is not possible. Some weeks ago there was a resistance to the sheriff by a party of country people, led on by that old man—no stranger to such conflicts—Malone. There was a fight, and a man, the sheriff’s bailiff, was killed. There was no doubt who killed him. It was Malone. He made his escape, however, into West Donegal, waiting, as it was supposed, till, by some ship passing—North about—he could reach America. The police, however, got possession of his plan, secured a revenue-cutter, and, lying in wait, arrested him in the very act of getting on board. Another struggle ensued here, and Malone fought with such desperation, that one of the men is badly wounded, and another drowned, for the small boat was upset in the conflict, and it is said that, had not Malone’s arm been broke by a pistol-shot, he might yet have escaped by swimming around the ship, which was in full trim to have made sail when he should get on board. They captured him, however, and he is now in gaol; he will be tried at the next assizes, and of his fate there can be no doubt.”

“Condemned?” said she, in a low roice.

“Yes,” he continued, “that he must be executed is also clear. The very name he bears is an indictment against him. The fellow, however, is full of the impression that everything he has done was in self-defence; he maintains that he merely resisted a personal attack, and he has the madness, in the face of all the convictions that have befallen his family, to declare that he belongs to a most irreproachable set of people, long known and respected in this neighbourhood, and he has the daring effrontery—here in my hand is the letter that conveys it—to require that I should come forward to vouch for his character and acknowledge the relationship between us. Nor is this all,” added he, in a voice husky with passion; “he demands—it is no prayer, no entreaty—he demands from me a sum sufficient to defray the costs of his defence. He asserts that though he himself is ready to take his chance, and, if need be, brave the worst the law can do to him, it might not suit Luttrell of Arran to sit under a two hours’ cross-examination, and have his whole life laid bare for the amusement of the world. You cannot, without knowing the man, believe how seriously these threats are uttered; he is the most recklessly daring fellow I ever knew, and I can well conceive what questions he will suggest to his counsel to put to me if I once appear on the table. To-night I am to give my answer. The man he sends over here to receive it is the most offensive messenger he could have found had he searched Europe from one end to the other. He is a fellow named O’Rorke, who once before placed me in a position almost similar to what I am now threatened with, and drove me to seek the shelter of this desolate spot. On that occasion, however, I escaped the indignity of personal exposure, and of that open shame that rise now before me. The demand is precise and clear. Twenty pounds down, fifty on the day before the trial comes on, and my name to a bill for fifty more if the jury bring in a verdict of not guilty. For this he pledges himself—these are his words—‘never to be any longer a charge to me nor mine.’ I am well aware that the letter I hold here is not his own, for he cannot write, but I can trace through certain expressions—and, above all, certain repetitions—phrases inserted at his instance.” “Am I spoken of, Sir? Does he allude to me at all?” “Never; not once. Indeed, he even says, ‘I hope that whatever you decide to do in this business will be your honour’s own mind and nobody else’s, for I write this in confidence between man and man, and only want Yes or No between us.’”

“And what will you do, Sir? Have you come to any resolve?” “Yes, I have made up my mind as to what is to be done immediately. I have examined my agent’s accounts, and I find that by the eighth of next month I shall have to my credit about seventy pounds. The assizes are fixed for the twelfth. I will give an order for half of this sum at once. Cane will pay it, I have no doubt, when he sees my necessity. I will also engage to pay the remainder on the eighth, the day I shall receive it; but on one condition, Kate—only one condition—which is, that no matter what course the defence may take, I am not to be summoned as a witness. No one knows better than Malone himself how valueless would any testimony of mine be to him; he knows, besides, what detriment it would be to him if I should be cross-examined; the man’s character will not bear sifting, and he is insane to provoke it. If, however, he should persist—and such is the fellow’s nature that it is likely he will—in his own plan, we must leave this.”

“Leave this! And for where, Sir?”

“How can I tell? I only know that I mean to save myself from this shame at any cost. A few days would carry us over to Holland or to France. In either of these I should be safe. I have written to my agent, and consented to all his conditions as to the sale of a certain small estate I possess in Mayo. We must seek out a new banishment, Kate. You will say it can scarcely be drearier than the old one; but you don’t know, you could not know how sorrow endears a spot, and ties it to the heart of him who lives only to mourn! These rugged cliffs, these pathless moors, these barren hills, and sea-lashed promontories, have been my friends for years—the only friends who have never changed to me. Let me now, however, think only of the present. This man is to be here to-night. It is more than likely he will be able to answer me at once, and declare whether Malone will accept my conditions.”

“What think you, uncle, if I were to speak with him? Might it not be possible I could make some terms which you wouldn’t have patience to treat about?”

“I thought of that, too, Kate, but the man is one of a class you have not met for many a year. It is not that he is not a gentleman, but he is not a peasant. You cannot appeal to him on the claim of honour, and as little on the plea of generosity. He is a cold, harsh, unfeeling fellow, distrustful and false. How could you deal with such a man?”

“A woman will always deal better with a man like this than a fellow-man, if only from the fact that he will be less on his guard before her, and more disposed to think little of her intelligence. Let me try it, uncle.”

“You have half persuaded me; but still, Kate, what terms could you propose that I cannot offer myself?”

“True, Sir; but I could press them in a way that your pride might not stoop to, and so let me try.”

He paused to consider, and she went on:

“Yes, dear uncle, trust the whole of this negotiation to me; it will be a task far too painful for you. Let me speak to him. Remember that the links that bind me to the class he belongs to have only been loosened a year or two back. I have a closer view of such men’s natures than you could ever have, and in recognising this he will be franker with me.”

“If you really think——”

“I think and I know it, uncle.”

“Take this then, Kate,” said he, handing her his purse. “It is all the ready money I have. It may help you to deal with him, Kate. I have told you everything. Do the best you can for us.” These words he muttered as if to himself, and then turned away and left the room.

Kate spread the money on the table before her, and sat down, supporting her head between her hands, and gazing steadfastly at the pieces. “To think,” said she, bitterly—“to think that a few more or a few less of these shall tilt the scale of our fortune, and decide not alone whether we be happy or wretched, but whether we hold a high head in life or stand in a felon’s dock! And what scores of them have I not squandered in foolish wastefulness!—sums that any one of them now might rescue this poor old man from a dreadful fate; and set him at liberty. Has not my whole life been just as spendthrift—have I not wasted every gift I possessed, and ended just where I begun?”

“The master sent me,” cried Molly, entering, “to say that there’s a boat comin’ in now, and, maybe, one you know would be aboord of her.”

“Very well, Molly. If a stranger should land and ask for his honour or myself, show him in here.”