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Hunted

Chapter XIV. Tom's Return

Chapter XIV. Tom's Return.

Several weeks had now elapsed since the last sad parting between Mrs Dillon and her husband, amid the burning ruins of their cottage. Sorrowful scenes had been witnessed among the poor outcasts on the other side of the loch; for, despite the inclemency of the dreary winter, they had been driven from their rude shelters by the police, and in front of a large body of troopers they had been expelled altogether from the district.

Day after day, news of the sufferings they had endured was arriving, and formed almost the only subject of conversation and gossip among the neighbours, but nobody knew anything of Tom O'Shea. He had suddenly disappeared, it was said, before the police had surrounded the settlement, and many a surmise was hazarded as to the cause that could page 34 have led him to abandon his aged and helpless mother, and only surviving relation, in circumstances so painful

Mrs Dillon knew the cause of his leaving, but she could not account to herself for the length of his absence, feeling confident however, that, sooner or later, he would return and bring her intelligence of her husband. She had a certain ground of satisfaction, besides, in the thought of the prolonged want of news about her husband. She knew perfectly well that if he had been caught, the whole country would have been ringing with the news of the capture, and felt that every day of Tom's absence indicated greater distance between her husband and pursuit. But the anxiety and suspense had become insupportable, and on Manson calling again to make enquiries, it was arranged between them that he should follow up the trail of the outcasts and find whether Tom had returned.

Making the circuit of the northern end of the lake, Mr Manson came to the place where the people had been encamped. No living thing was to be seen, but here and there on either side of the road bits of boards and broken utensils of the humblest kind lay scattered about; here a number of stones laid side by side, the simple flooring formed to keep them from the pools of water in the bottom of the shough; there some ragged scraps of blanket left behind as too poor and worthless to be taken further; while at intervals between the places where the several small settlements had stood were little mounds of earth that told their own melancholy tale. Here a simple cross rudely carved in wood, in other cases pebbles laid on the ground in the form of a cross at the end of a mound told that not even in the bitterness of their sufferings had the outcasts lost faith in mercy somewhere, and marked the spots where in unconsecrated ground some poor wanderer had found a rest which neither eviction process nor trooper could disturb.

It was early spring. The snow had generally disappeared from the fields, but still lingered in sheltered places, giving a mottled dreary appearance to the scene. Manson had ridden for some miles beyond the dismal moorland on which the outcasts had been encamped, and had entered the district where the evictions had been carried out. Ruins of cottages which had been levelled met the eye on every side. Not a sign or a sound of human life, but everywhere desolation and silence.

After passing for some distance through this scene of acattered homes, Mr Manson at last approached what were the remains of a cottage, before the door of which on a stone sat a man with his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He had not noticed the approach of the stranger until Mr Manson, dismounting and fastening up his horse, had entered on the path leading to the door, when the man, hearing his foot-steps, slowly raised himself from his seat, and Tom O'Shea stood before him.

‘Oh, Mr Manson,’ said Tom, ‘I did not expect to see you here.’

‘It is to see you, Tom, that I have come, and I have been fortunate in finding you, in this desolate place.’

‘Yes, Mr Manson, disolate it is indeed, and the plisant place it was before the cursed crowbar brigade livelled the house I was born in.’

‘Was it here you were born, Tom ?’

‘It was that, your honour; and it was here my poor mother lived, aye, and died wid a broken heart, God rest her.’

‘Ah, poor Tom, is your mother dead ?

‘She is that, your honour, and I was only just in time to see her die. I was away, your honour, down the river, when the blasted peelers came and druv them out of the hnts above the loch; and they druv them off like pigs, but my poor mother could go no further than this, and when she saw the ould walls they could not get her to budge agin, so they left her here. I was just back in the nick o' time, and overtook the peelers here, and when they saw that she could travel no farther, they let me stay wid her. I rigged up a shanty agin the wall, and tried to make her warm. But ah, your honour, the blood was froze in her veins wid the could, and she died in my arms that night. I couldn't see her, your honour, when she was dyin’. She towld me to light the candle that she might see me afore she went away. But I hadn't a light, so she put her hands on my face to feel it was me; and she gave me her blessing, and then she wint away. Thank God she had a dacent Christian burial, and that she wasn't buried in the shough like the rest o' them.’

‘My poor Tom; my heart's sore for you but what are you going to do now ?’

‘I am sure I don't know, your honour. It's loth I am to laave this place, but I can't stay here, and now that my poor ould mother is at peace, God rest her soul, I can go to any place.

‘Tom, my boy, you had better come away with me to the colonies, where I live. This is a cursed country, Tom, and you'll be happier there than ever you can be here.’

‘Maybe I moight, your honor; I can't be much worse. But I was just takin’ a rest before going to see my onld mistress, Mrs Dillon, poor body—God bless her! It would be better for all of us, maybe, if we were in the grave.’

‘But, Tom, where is your master—where is Mr Dillon ?’

‘How would I know, Mr Manson. Shure didn't he escape from the Coort-house, God help him! and the poor mistress her heart is breakin' about him and the poor fatherless children.’

‘Yes, Tom, but she sent me to find you out, page 35 and get you to tell her where you parted with Mr Dillon and where he is now.’

‘Find me? your honor. What div I know about Mr Dillon or where he is.’

‘Oh Tom, you must not be afraid of me. I am Dillon's friend, and I want to give him money to help in getting away from the country. And Mrs Dillon sent me to find from you where he is. Tom, you need not be afraid; Mrs Dillon has told me all about it—about you bringing over Mr Dillon in the boat to see her the night the cottage was burned, and how he went away with you, and you did not turn up at the settlement again. And we are both anxious to send some money to your master to help him get away from the country.’

‘That is very kind of your honor; but—’

‘Tom, I tell you, you need not be afraid. However, come along and see Mrs Dillon yourself. She wants to see you.’

‘That I will, your honor. I'll go this very minute. But did she tell ye I was wid him?’

‘Yes, indeed she did. Told me all about your having him in your hut on the hill, and your coming over with him in the boat, and your taking him away again. Tom, tell me where he is, for I want to give him money in plenty, and if you will take-the money to him—’

‘Your honor, he wants no money, and I could not overtake him.’

‘What do you mean? has he got off, Tom?’

‘I believe he has, your honor; in fact, I am sure he has. But I will tell it all to the mistress when I see her.’

No persuasion could get anything more out of Tom as to where his master was, or how he got off; every question on the subject being adroitly fenced, Tom declaring that he could tell nothing more till he asked the mistress.

It was night before the two travellers, who had ridden and walked in turns, reached the cottage in which Mrs Dillon was staying.

The whole day she had spent in anxious suspense, awaiting the return of Mr Manson, and as night had come on she had put her little ones to bed, and had sat down by the window, having put out the light, and she was peering out into the darkness eagerly listening to every sound that seemed to indicate the return of Mr Manson. At last she heard the opening of the gate and a horse's footsteps, and starting up, she rushed to the door. Before Mr Manson had dismounted, she was by his side.

‘Here is Tom, Mrs Dillon, and he has good news, I believe,’ whispered Mr Manson.

‘Oh, Tom,’ she cried, ‘is he saved? Where is he?’

‘Hush, hush, mistress dear, for the love of heaven!’ whispered Tom earrvstly. ‘I believe he is safe; but here is a letter from himself. I saw him safely off, and I believe by this time he is out of reach of the peelers.’

Mrs Dillon eagerly seized the letter and hastened to her room. Lighting the candle and passionately kissing the letter again and again, she tore it open.

Little Elsie had raised herself in her bed, and with great wondering eyes was lookingat her mother. ‘Oh, mamma,’ she said, earnestly, ‘is that from father?’

‘Yes, my darling, he is saved! he is saved! Tom has just brought me this letter from him, and he says dear father has got away.’

The child fell back on the pillow and covered her face with her hands, and with her little heurt bursting with gratitude and gladness she sobbed out her thanks to Him whom she had so often and so earnestly asked to save her father, and who had now, she thought, sent her the answer to her prayers.

The letter contained a brief account of the voyage down the river, and referred her to Tom for fuller details. Then it went on to say: ‘And now, darling, having got so far as this, I believe I can make good my escape. If I fail I have no doubt you will hear of my capture before this reaches you. But I shall not fail. I feel that the Hand that has saved me so far will bring me through, and that I am yet to meet you and the dear children on some far distant shore beyond the reach of pursuit. Thank you from my heart for the money you gave me; it will be enough to take me out of the country. My only sorrow and anxiety is that you can have so little or none left for yourself. Find Manson, I know he will not desert us; and I shall repay him yet for all he may do for you. I do not know where I may go, as I must take the first opportunity I can find for getting out of the country. Most likely it will be to France as the easiest to reach from Waterford. But wherever I may be I will take the first opportunity of writing to you and letting you know. And now, my poor dear wife, what will you do yourself? You will have to get away from that place, and out of the country if you can. If you can only find Manson, ask him as my last request to assist you to get away. The place to which I would advise you go is Dinan in Brittany. You have heard me speak of my having been there. There is a little English colony there, and you would not be wholly among foreigners, and I feel assured that you could make a living until you hear from me. Tell Manson I implore him to assist you and the children to get there. It is easily accessible and a pleasant place to live, and as I durst not address any letter to you in Ireland, for fear of its being stopped by the police, so helping them to pursue me, I shall address my letters to you at the Poste page 36 Restante in Dinan, to be kept till your arrival. My poor dear wife, my heart would break with grief for you, but I am borne up by the hope that I have escaped, and that we shall yet meet again. Give my fondest love to darling Elsie and the children, and tell Elsie that father's last request to her is to be kind to dent mother, and her little brothers till we all meet again.’

Eagerly and tearfully Mrs Dillon conned every word of the letter; then she told Elsie the message her father had sent to her, and such news of his escape as could be safely imparted to her. The child listened in silence, and grown wise beyond her age from the dark chapters of human life which she had read so early, she refrained from questioning her mother.

Mrs Dillon then sought Mr Manson, who all this time had been standing by his horse intending to return to town after learning from Mrs Dillon the position of affairs. She told him briefly the contents of the letter, and the recommendation contained in it that she should go to France. He cordially entered into the proposal, and as he saw that the anxiety and suspense, as well as the excitement consequent on the new turn of affairs, had completely exhausted Mrs Dillon, he propossd that he should return in the morning, when they should consider over the future course to be taken.

After Mr Manson had left, Mrs Dillon had a long conversation with Tom, who graphically described to her the incidents of the journey, and assured her of the cheery confident spirit in which her husband had started on his journey; and having seen that her old and faithful servant was well cared for and accommodated for the night, Mrs Dillon laid her head on the pillow that night with an easier heart than she had ever once enjoyed since the arrest of her husband.