Chapter XV. The Letter.

The following morning Mrs Dillon, in a happier mood than she had felt for months, was early astir and awaiting the arrival of Manson. She felt that now when her husband had escaped from the district there remained no tie to keep her in the place, and that it would be a happy release to be away, not only from scenes that constantly reminded her of the misery through which she had passed, but from the eyes of people who looked on her only as the wife of a murderer who had escaped from the hands of the executioner.

And she earnestly longed to reach the place to which her husband would address his first communication after his foot had reached a foreign shore. The friendly offer of Manson to assist her removal to France, and the additional kindness of his promise to see that she and her children were provided for, seemed to have removed almost her last trouble, for she felt considerable confidence that as several weeks had passed since her husband had parted from Tom, and no word had come of his arrest he must have made good his escape from the country; and as for the first time she realised the possibility and even probability of their meeting again in safety, her mind rebounded from the depression by which it had been so weighed down.

Breakfast was barely over when the arrival of Mr Manson was announced, and Mrs Dillon, putting on her bonnet and shawl, and bidding Elsie mind her little brothers, went out to meet him. Giving his horse to Tom, he accompanied Mrs Dillon and they proceeded down the road in the direction of her former home. After they had got some distance from Phillips' cottage she banded him the letter from her husband, which he perused with deep interest.

‘Mrs Dillon,’ he said, at length, ‘I am convinced your husband is out of the country. He has not been-arrested yet, that is clear, or we should have heard of it, and the police are still under the impression that he is hiding somewhere in the district. I heard as much, last night, at the hotel, and that seems to be the general impression among the people.’

‘I hope they will continue to think so till he has had time to get safely away.’

‘I am certain he has already got clear away, Mrs Dillon. You see, he would make the port the same day that Tom left him, and if he could only evade observation, there would have been no very great difficulty in sailing away in one of the little vessels that are trading from there to France.’

‘Would he be safe if he was in France?’

‘Oh, I think so; it is true he could be arrested there if he was traced, but he is not likely to stay there. He is sure to get further away if he has the means.’

‘He has not very much means, I am sorry to say; the reason I ask whether he would be beyond pursuit in France is that, if he is not, it will be very necessary to conceal everything about the direction he took. I hope Tom will have prudence enough to think about that.’

‘Oh, you may trust Tom, I think. I tried to get something out of him, but it was all in vain: he was as close as the grave.’

‘Yes, but he might think that now his master has got out of the country, as he believes he has, no harm would come of his telling all about it.’

‘You will have to caution him about that. Besides it would bring the brave fellow himself into trouble if it comes to the knowledge of the authorities that he aided the fugitive from justice to escape. And then that letter, Mrs Dillon—that would be more compromising than all. You must at once destroy it.’

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‘Do you think so, Mr Manson? I should so like to keep it as the last message from my dear husband. But I do see the danger of it; for it not only tells the direction he has taken, but also where his letters are to come to me. Yes, it is indeed a dangerous letter.’

‘I see Tom coming this way. I shall hail him, and you must charge him particularly that he is to give never a hint to anybody on the subject. In fact, I think I shall take Tom away with me to Australia.’

‘And a faithfuller, better servant you have never had, Mr Manson; and it would be a mercy to take him away from the wretched scenes here, where I cannot think he could ever be happy again, after the cruel death of his poor mother.’

They were standing at the edge of the little plantation on the Dillons' old farm when they were joined by Tom.

‘Tom,’ said Manson, ‘you are a brave fellow, and you have served Mr Dillon well—you have saved him, I believe.’

‘Do you think he has got off, sir?’

‘Yes, Tom, I think he has, or we would have heard of it. But did he tell you anything about where he meant to go? I suppose you had some talks together when you were sailing down the river?’

‘Well, yes, we talked most of the way; but it was mostly about what he wanted me to do here, and about the murderer, that he wanted me to find out if I could. He said he did not know where he was going after he got out of the country, but he asked me to stay here till I would try and find out who killed the captain.’

‘But, Tom, how are you to do that? Every body seems to believe it was Mr Dillon, although I am perfectly sure he never had anything to do with it.’

‘No, in troth, sir, they do not. Not one of the boys believes it was the masther done it; and they say the peelers thimselves are not so sure of it now. They say that the peelers have got the gun that they think did the work, and they found it in a boghole a couple of miles away on the other side entirely from where the masther joined the coach; and they say it's a fowling piece, and a different kind of gun from any in the country, and that it must have been done by a stranger.’

‘Oh, Tom, where did you hear that?’ said Mrs Dillon. ‘Oh if it would turn out that the real murderer could be found. Oh, Mr Manson, do you think you could do anything in unravelling this mystery? I would be be willing to stay here in wretchedness for years, to bear taunts and reproaches as well as poverty if I only thought there was any chance of finding out the murderer. Tom, where did you hear that about the gun?’

‘I heard it from some of the boys that came down to Phillips’ last night after you had gone to bed, ma'am; and they say they heard it from the peelers themselves.’

‘Oh,’ said Manson, ‘it in only an idle rumour that has got abroad. I heard it in the town myself, but there is nothing in it. People must talk about something. The police having lost the track of Dillon are sure to hunt up somebody else. It is a dreadful country this; nobody's safe in it. They will be saying next that it was yourself, Tom, that did it.’

‘No, your honour, they won't say it was me, because they know I never fired a gun in my life. But it wasn't the masther sure enough; and it must have been somebody. I am going over beyant the loch to where the boys are holdin' a meetin to-night—’

‘Yes, Tom,’ said Mrs Dillon, ‘go for God's sake; and, oh, if they can clear my poor husband from shame—’

‘Well, Tom,’ said Manson, ‘if you go take care you say nothing about your trip down the lochs, or the direction your master has taken, or as sure as you are alive the peelers will be after him if he escaped to the world's end. But my advice to you would be that you should do nothing of the sort, or you'll get yourself into trouble. Do you know that if they find out that you helped to get Mr Dillon away, they will hang you?’

‘I suppose, troth, they would be bad enough for anything,’ replied Tom, ‘but divil a hair I care; the masther asked me to try and find out the murderer, and I know there's a lot of the boys will help me. Not that they'd want to get any man hung for shootin’ the Captain, bad luck to him—’

‘Oh, Tom,’ said Mrs Dillon, ‘don't speak so about poor Captain Lewis. I am sure your master would not say such a thing, and—’

‘No, ma'am, troth and I'm sure he wouldn't, and I beg your pardon for sayin' it, but when I think of my poor dear mother dyin' in the cowld, I feel bad enough for anything, God forgive me.’

‘Tom,’ said Manson, ‘you'll get into trouble and get other people into trouble too if you stay here. I am thinking of going away this very night, and if Mrs Dillon and you come away with me, I will place her in comfort, and I'll take you away with me to the colonies, and you'll be happy all the rest of your days.’

‘God bless you, sir,’ said Tom, ‘for being kind to the mistress, and if you do that for her I'll pray for you on my bended knees as long as I live; but it was the last word the masther said to me, to try and hunt down the murderer, and I can't go away till I try. The boys want me to go to the meetin' and they say—–’

‘Well, Tom,’ said Manson, ‘All I can say is that you are running into danger, for the fact of the matter is and— I did not like to say it before—I have heard that you are yourself suspected, and I would not wonder if it is a trap laid for you by the peelers.’

‘Me, sir?’ said Tom, ‘me?—no fear. I declare I never had a gun in my hands in page 38 my life, only the day that you were out shootin' in the curraghs when I carried the gun for you, and I knew no more how to use it than a baaby.’

‘That may be all true enough, Tom, but you know that if they take it into their heads they will hang you if you never saw a gun in your life. They are bound to hang somebody, and as Mr Dillon has got out of their hands they will try to prove that you did it. Don't go to that meeting, Tom, if you take my advice.’

‘Tom,’ said Mrs Dillon, ‘perhaps you had better take Mr Manson's advice and let us all get away —–’

‘Great heavens!’ exclaimed Manson, ‘there's the police.’

The eyes of all were quickly turned in the direction indicated, and there on the other side of the plantation five or six policemen were seen rapidly approaching.

Mrs Dillon, who, during all the time of the conversation, had held the open letter in her hand, thrust it into the bosom of her dress, but not so quickly as to escape the eye of the sergeant, who was speedily at her side.

‘Madam, that paper, if you please,’ and he laid his hand on Mrs Dillon's arm.

‘What paper, sir,’ said Mrs Dillon.

‘The paper which you have just concealed. I must have it.’

‘Oh, it is only a private letter, with which you have no concern, and I ask by what authority do you interfere with me, sir? Take your hands off, sir.’

‘Madam, I have come to make a search in connection with the escape of a prisoner of the Crown, and if you do not instantly give up that paper, I shall feel obliged to use violence.’

‘Like a brave man that you are,’ said Manson, ‘use violence to a lady.’

‘Sir, you had better not interfere with me in the discharge of my duty,’ said the sergeant. ‘If this lady does not give up the paper which she has concealed, she will be obliged to come with me, and I shall have her searched. This is a warrant empowering me to search Phillips’ house where this lady is staying, and—’

‘And this is Phillips' house, I presume,’ interrupted Manson. ‘Sir, you know your duty and your powers, I presume; but they do not seem to me to warrant you in interfering with people whom you may casually meet. I know the law, sir, as well as you do, and I warn you that if you exceed your duty you shall answer for it.’

‘I know my duty, sir,’ replied the sergeant, ‘and don't you interfere with me, or I shall place you under arrest.’

‘Do so,’ replied Manson, ‘and if you do you shall suffer for it. Trust me for that.’

‘This lady must come with me at any rate,’ said the sergeant. ‘Officers,’ said he turning to the police, ‘proceed and surround that cottage. Now, madam, you will be so good as to accompany me.’

When the policemen had hastened forward in the direction of Phillips' cottage, the party consisting of the sergeant, Mr Manson, Mrs Dillon and Tom proceeded in the same direction.

‘Madam,’ said the sergeant, ‘I should be sorry to subject you to any unpleasantness, but I have my duty to perform, and I am afraid I shall be under the necessity of taking you with me to the police-office.’

‘Whatever your duty may be,’ said Mrs Dillon, ‘you are bound to perform it, and if it is necessary for me, of course I must go, but may I ask what is the meaning of all this?’

‘Well, madam, from information received we have cause to suspect that you have been holding communication with William Dillon, a prisoner of the Crown and now a fugitive from justice, and I have been instructed to make a search of the cottage in which you are staying, for anything that may assist us in the endeavour to bring him to justice.’

‘It would be a very natural thing, I should think, sir,’ said Mrs Dillon, ‘that a wife should seek to have such communication with her husband; but if you can discover any such, you are welcome to it. Probably you suppose he is concealed in the house.’

‘No, I cannot say that we expect to be in such luck, but if we can find traces of where he is we shall be satisfied.’

‘And where, may I ask, do you suppose my husband is? for it would afford me great gratification to know.’

‘Well, I do not suppose you would care for my being your informant.’

‘Well, not exactly. I should certainly prefer to obtain the information from another source, but in the absence of such information, perhaps you could gratify me with your own opinion.’

‘Madam, the police are not in the habit of giving such information. Our custom is to receive information, not give it. Whatever may be our knowledge on the subject I have a suspicion that you could tell me more than I can tell you.’

‘And in order to elicit this information you purpose subjecting me to mild torture, I suppose, in the shape of imprisonment?’

‘No, madam, we have no intention of submitting you to imprisonment.’

‘And yet you have placed me under arrest.’

‘No, madam, you are not under arrest; but having reason to suspect that you have on you papers that may possibly throw light on the concealment of William Dillon, I am under the necessity of taking you with me in order to have a search made, and in the absence of a female searcher, being unable to satisfy myself on the subject, I must insist on you coming with me to the police office; that is all.’

On reaching the cottage, by direction of the sergeant, the policeman proceeded to page 39 make a search of the rooms The sight of the police revived in poor little Elsie's memory the sad scene of her father's arrest, and rushing to her mother she threw her arms around her and sobbed passionately. Manson and Tom remained outside while the search was proceeding, and Mrs Phillips and her children, stupified by that fear of the police which has been created in the hearts of the peasantry, moved about the house as if bewildered and dazed at the strangeness of the proceedings.

In order to show a willingness to give every opportunity to the police to make their work of searching complete, Mrs Dillon took her infant from the bed where he had been sleeping, and taking her second child by the hand, and with Elsie clinging passionately to her and sobbing as if the little heart would break, she sat down on a stool by the fire in the kitchen, and endeavoured to soothe the sobbing of the child.

In other circumstances she might have yielded to the strain on her nervous system, but the thought of the letter in her bosom gave her firmness. The police were moving to and fro, now and then looking, not without a feeling of tenderness, on the sobbing child and the afflicted mother, but still intent on the work of carefully searching bedding and boxes, and clothing, and everything in which there was a possibility of papers being concealed.

The turf fire was blazing brightly on the hearth, and in the intervals of caressing and seeking to soothe the sobbings of the child, Mrs Dillon was chafing and warming the feet of the infant by the fire. With aquick glance directed from time to time towards the police, she vatched their movements, while seemingly absorbed in attention to her children. At no time was the kitchen in which she sat left without the presence of either the sergeant or one or two policemen, who, no matter what their other duties, evidently kept a careful eye on her; but so assiduous was she in her care of her children that their attention seemed somewhat to relax. She knew perfectly well that she was watched, and she felt that every moment was precious. At one moment their eyes were directed to the searchers by some remark made by them in the prosecution of their work, but instantly they were turned to her again. The business had proceeded for some time and was evidently drawing to a close, and nothing had come to light to reward them for their labours. Some of them had even suspended operations and were listlessly watching the others who were giving the finishing touches to their work.

Just then a heavy tread was heard on the doorstep, and the burly form of Phillips appeared in the doorway.

‘What in the name of thunder are you up to?’ said the master of the house in a loud and sarly voice. The attention of all was instantly turned to the new comer. Mrs Dillon saw her chance. Quick as thought she passed her hand into her bosom and laid the letter quietly on the coals. For an instant it seemed to bang fire, then it suddenly blazed up, and almost before the sergeant had had time to reply to Phillips, the blaze had died away, and there was nothing but the black curling cinders of the paper on the coals. Mrs Dillon had seen the flame shoot up and almost as suddenly extinguished. Nature could bear no more, and she fell heavily in a faint to the floor.

The attention of all was quickly turned to the prostrate form of the mother, surrounded by startled and crying children, and willing hands quickly bore the little ones off and tried to bring the mother back to consciousness.

Quickly as the whole affair had passed, it had not escaped the eye of the sergeant of police. He had not seen her snatch the paper from her bosom, but his attention had been caught by the sudden blaze; and the blackened remains of the paper and the fainting of the lady confirmed his belief that the letter, whatever it was, was now beyond his reach.

He had too much prudence to make any noise over what he knew was beyond recall, and he had too much regard for himself to bring down official censure on his negligence in having allowed such important evidence to escape from his hand. So when Mrs Dillon had returned to consciousness, and remarked to him with a smile that she was prepared to submit to any search he desired, he said, ‘No, madam; it will not be necessary now; you have done it well; you have been too quick for me.’

Then the police departed. During the proceedings Mr Manson had taken the opportunity from the action of the police, of impressing on Tom the danger of remaining in the place, and had no difficulty in persuading him to accompany him into the town; and that night, some hours after dark, a large travelling carriage drew up at the gate of Phillips' cottage; and with Mrs Dillon and her three children, accompanied by Mr Manson within, and with Tom O'Shea on the box with the coachman, the carriage drove awayinto the darkness.