Chapter XI. The Parting.

Of all the trials to which poor suffering nature can be subjected there is none so wearing out as suspense. When once the blow has fallen and we know the worst, the mind commonly girds itself up for action, and effort gives strength and courage and hope. But suspense, when no action of ours can help forward the soultion of the difficulty, is the paralysis of effort and the purgatory of the soul.

For a fortnight Mrs Dillon had beard nothing of her husband. She knew that a reward had been offered for his head, and that five hundred pounds would be given to any man who would bring him dead or alive to the police. She knew that almost every house in the district had been searched, that day and night the country was patrolled by the police; the trains, the coaches—and she had even heard that the steamers leaving Ireland —were all watched in the effort to arrest him; but though rumours of every kind were afloat, she had heard nothing to tell her where he was, or in what circumstances he was placed.

She had but faint hopes that he would make good his escape from the country, and every day she dreaded to hear of his capture; and under all these circumstances she had nearly broken down. Nor had she the solace page 26 of that companionship and sympathy which might have been fairly claimed in circumstances so trying and so appealing to all that was kindly in human nature, for everyone that came near the house became a suspect, and though there had always been among the neighbouring farmers a feeling of friendship and respect for the Dillons, in the altered state of affairs it was at their peril they could show the least evidence of sympathy.

The eldest son of the deceased agent had temporarily assumed the management of the estates, and he had not only rigidly carried out the intention of his father in evicting, but he seemed determined that the utmost severity should be shown towards the family of the man to whom he attributed his father's death. Proceedings had been taken for expelling them from the cottage, and notice had been published of the sale of everything on the farm, together with the furniture and effects in the cottage.

Intimation of all this had been from time to time conveyed to her by persons who had secretly visited her. All the horses and cattle had been driven off, and even the farm produce had been removed for sale.

Still she clung to the cottage in hope that some intelligence might reach her of the position and circumstances of her husband; and until the day came when she saw the cottage emptied of its furniture, which was carted away to town for sale, she had some faint hopes that she might be allowed to remain.

She had made no preparation for removing, nor did she know where she was to go. None of the neighbours would be allowed to give her shelter, and she knew that if driven from the cottage she would have to leave the district.

Hoping therefore against hope, she clung to the spot where alone she thought it was possible that any news might reach her of her husband, and when the last of the furniture was gone, she continued to wander through the lonely rooms. From a few blankets, which alone she had been allowed to retain, she made a bed for her little enes in the corner of the parlour, and sitting down beside them on the floor she had hushed them to sleep.

But she had not yet reached the Dottom of the abyss of misery into which she had been plunged. Even the shelter of the roof was denied her. Just as darkness was coming on, the ministers of vengeance came and ordered her to leave, as their instructions were to raze the cottage.

Huddled up with her children under the shelter of some shrubbery, she saw them put a light to the thatch. She saw the flames leap up and envelope the house; she saw the roof go down with a crash, and ere an hour had passed all that remained of the home, in which so many happy days had been spent, was blackened walls and burning timbers.

The night was bitterly cold, and though she had done all she could to shelter the tender little ones, they were crying with cold. She took them to the burning timbers. She found a spot within shelter of the walls where they were protected from the cutting wind. She piled up some burning logs, and wrapping the children in the blankets, she lulled them to sleep.

She had been sitting beside them for about an hour when she was startled by hearing a sound as of some one moving though the shrubbery. She listened, the sound ceased; again she heard it, then by the flickering light of the burning timber she saw a man stealthily approaching.

‘Who is that?’ she called.

‘Hush, Minnie, hush;’ he hastened forward, and husband and wife were in each other's arms.

‘Oh, Willie, my own, my darling husband,’ she whispered softly, ‘why, oh why, did you come? This place is watched and you will be caaght.’

‘I could not help it, darling. From the hills the other side of the loch I saw the blaze, and I knew the house was being burned. I could not stay away. I could not leave you in your misery without seeing you.’

‘But oh, Willie, where have you been hidden? What are you going to do? Oh, fly, fly from this place; try and get away from the country if you can, and let me follow you to some place away beyond the seas, where danger cannot find you.’

‘Yes, darling, that is what I am trying, but I could not go without seeing you once again. Oh, my darling children,’ and he stooped and fondly kissed the little sleepers.

‘Oh, Willie,’ she said, ‘where have you been hiding? They are hunting for you every place and there is a reward for your head.’

In a corner of that ruined cottage they stood, husband and wife clasped in each other's arms. Blackened walls around them, with the dark canopy of a wintry sky above, and their beloved children at their feet. She leant her head wearily on his shoulder as she listened to the story of the peril he had passed through. He told her where he had been hiding and how the fear of fever had guarded him from the search of the police; how peering through a hole in the miserable shelter he had seen the police passing and repassing in the neigh bourhood of the encampment, but they had never dared to pass along the road between the huts, or to come in any way in contact with the dwellers, how this had enabled him to remain in security till the first rush of pursuit had passed; how he felt he could no longer continue to place confidence in the sanctuary he had found, for it was rumoured that medical men had been ordered to page 27 visit the huts and examine into the cases of fever they might find; and that the huts themselves were to be removed, and the unfortunats owners of them to be driven off to find shelter in the poorhouse. In these circumstances he found that he would be forced to leave at once, unless he wished to risk the chance of almost certain capture. But he could not go without coming over and seeing her and the children, and arranging how they might communicate, if ever he got away from the country; that he had seen the fire from the hills, and knew it was the cottage, that taking Tom with him he had run down to the side of the loch, where Tom had the boat in which they had crossed.

Rapidly and with quivering lips, he told his tale of peril, and Mrs Dillon, absorbed in thought by the dangers he had passed, forgot for a moment the greater danger of the present. Fondly as she clung to her husband, she suddenly remembered that of all places of danger, none could equal where he now was.

‘Oh, Willie!’ she pleaded, ‘go away from this; you are risking your life for me. Do not, do not stay! If there is one place more than all others where they will look for you, it is here. Say farewell. Oh, Willie, we will meet again. I know we will, my heart tells me we will, but go away and try to make your escape from the country.

‘But, oh, Minnie, how can I, or where can I fly? Every road is watched—night and day they're watched — and I feel that it is useless struggling against fate. Oh, Minnie, if I could only provide for you, if I could only know that you and the children had not to face starvation, I could face the gallows to-morrow. I know that the disgrace will be wiped away. I will yet be proved to be innocent, and there would be no disgrace attaching to my death. But, oh, Minnie! what are you to do in the meantime? I cannot think of you being left to starve. Minnie, I have been thinking that I might give myself up, and that the reward might come to you.

She started back with a look of horror. ‘Oh, Willie, what do you mean!

‘Minnie, listen to me, dear. I have been speaking to Tom about this. Listen to me. We have but a few minutes to talk. I can trust Tom. If I get Tom to give me up I feel confident that he would give the money to you.

‘And did Tom agree to this?’ she asked.

‘Not exactly agreed; he refused firmly, but when he sees how it would save my children from starvation. I believe I could persuade him to do it; and there is no use in my trying to escape. I shall be surely caught, and someone will have the reward.

‘Oh, Willie, do you know what you are saying? Is it to me, dear, that you speak of such a thing? And is that the opinion you have of me, that I would take the price of your blood? Oh Willie, Willie,’ she sobbed, ‘you should not have said that. I would rather see my children lying frozen dead in the snow before my eyes, than eating bread that had been bought by their father's blood.

‘Minnie, listen to me.

‘Oh, Willie, is this your love for me that you would insult me with such a proposal? Tom would not do such a thing, and if he did, and came before me with his offer, I would drive him from my presence like a dog. Oh, my husband, is this the way we are going to part? Are your last words to remain with me a proof that you doubt my love, and that you think I would save my life and the lives of my children at the price of yours? Oh, Willie, have I ever shown myself to be so selfish? Have you ever seen anything in me to lead you to think I would be capable of this? Do not dare to think of such a crime, for crime it would be. You are innocent, and you would think of giving yourself up to certain death for hire—yes, for hire!

‘But, Minnie dear, my life is forfeited as it is, and do what I will I feel that certain death is before me. Every place is watched, I feel that there is no escape, and as I must die, why should I not make of what I cannot avoid the means of keeping from death little innocent babes who are dearer to me than my own soul? Oh Minnie, I would willingly die for you.

‘Oh, Willie, you break my heart by persisting in speaking of this! If you have to go before your Maker, go with clean hands. They are clean from the blood of others; do not stain them with your own. For self-murder it would be, if innocent, as I know you are, you would give yourself up to death, and rush unbidden into the presence of your Maker. No, Willie; God has helped you, and God will help you still. I feel sure you will yet be saved, if you have only courage. Promise me, Willie.

‘I will promise, Minnie, if you will have it so.

‘Swear to me, Willie—swear to me that you will do all you can to save your life, and to meet us again in some distant land where we will be safe, and will try to forget the terrible sufferings of the present.

‘Yes, dear, I swear it; I will do what I can for your sake.

‘Yes, for mine, dear Willie, and the children's. The hope of seeing you again, dear, will bear me up and make me able to face difficulties more than any money you could leave me. Do not be afraid for us. We will leave this place. We will get away where nobody knows us, and I am sure I can make a living, and I will teach the children to love you, Willie, and to think and talk about you, and to look forward to meeting their dear father again. Oh, Willie, try to live for their sake and for mine.

‘My poor, poor children,’ said Dillon, ‘God help you.’

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Father and mother knelt down on the floor by the side of their sleeping childern. The flickering flame from a piece of burning timber shed an uncertain light over the scene in which Dillon bade a lingering long farewell. Little Elsie had pushed down the coverlet; her arm encircled the waist of her little brother. One long ringlet of soft flaxen hair lay on her shoulder. Dillon lifted it and fondly pressed it to his lips. Mrs Dillon' taking her scissors, cut the lock of hair and handed it in silence to her husband. The child's lips were moving and a smile lighted up her face for a moment. Dillon bent nearer to listen, and heard her whisper ‘Father.

‘She is dreaming about you, Willie.

‘Yes, dear, and it is a pleasant dream, for see she is smiling in her sleep.

‘Do you not know that angels whisper to them when children smile in sleep? They are telling her that she will meet you again, Willie.

‘It may be so. God grant at any rate that the promise may be fulfilled.

‘It will be fulfilled. Something tells me you will be saved, and that we shall meet again.

They listened. The banging of a gate in the direction of the road was followed by the sound of a footstep on the gravelled path. Dillon started back behind a wall that hid him from the light of the burning log. Presently the footsteps approached and some one called in suppressed voice. ‘Mrs Dillon.’ She stepped forward and asked, ‘Who is that.

‘It's me, Mrs Dillon—Phillips. Me and the missus have come to ask you to come home with us.

‘Oh, Phillips; stay there a moment. Don't come near; I will go out to you. Oh, Phillips, I thank you so much; but you know you will suffer for this if you do anything to help us.

‘Never mind, Mrs Dillon; we'll chance it. We can't bear to see you die out here of cold, and the poor little children. Come home with us; we have the cart out here at the gate, and some blankets to roll up the children; and you can stay with us, and nobody will be a bit the wiser till you have time to see about you, and know what you are to do.

Mrs Dillon could not refuse such an offer, given at so much risk to them. Lifting up Elsie, she gave her to Phillips. Delaying a little behind, she approached the wall behind which she knew her husband was concealed, and whispered, ‘I will be back in a moment, wait. Having taken up the children and borne them to the cart, she gave them over to Mrs Phillips, and seeing them being made comfortable in the cart, she hurried back to the building. Her husband was still there. A few moments sufficed to arrange to what address he was to write from the first place of refuge, should he succeed in escaping from the country. She pressed a little package into his hand, and starding there among the blackened smoking walls of the home in which they had spent so many happy hours, husband and wife bade each other a long farewell.