Japhet in Search of a Father

And I laid down on the table ten guineas from my purse.

“Take that, Kathleen, and it will help you and Corny. Now will you assist me?”

“It’s Corny that will be the first to knock your brains out,” replied Kathleen, “unless I can stop him. I must go now, and I’ll see what can be done.”

Kathleen would have departed without touching the gold; but I caught her by the wrist, collected it, and put it into her hand.

“That’s not like a tithe proctor, at all events,” replied Kathleen; “but my heart aches and my head swims, and what’s to be done I know not.” So saying, Kathleen quitted the room.

“Well,” thought I, after she had left the room, “at all events I have not been on a wrong scent this time. Kathleen has proved to me that Fleta is the daughter of the late Sir William; and if I escape this snare, Melchior shall do her justice.” Pleased with my having so identified Melchior and Fleta, I fell into a train of thought, and for the first time forgot my perilous situation, but I was roused from my meditations by an exclamation from Kathleen. “No, no, Corny, nor any of ye—not now—and mother and me to witness it—it shall not be, Corny, hear me, as sure as blood’s drawn, and we up to see it, so sure does Corny O’Toole never touch this hand of mine.” A pause, and whispering followed, and again all appeared to be quiet. I unstrapped my portmanteau, took out my pistols, which were loaded, re-primed them, and remained quiet, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible.

It was more than half an hour before Kathleen returned; she looked pale and agitated. “Keep quiet, and do not think of resistance,” said she; “it is useless. I have told my mother all, and she believes you, and will risk her life to save him who has watched over the little girl whom she nursed; but keep quiet, we shall soon have them all out of the house. Corny dare not disobey me, and he will persuade the others.”

She then went out again, and did not return for nearly an hour, when she was accompanied by her mother. “Kathleen has told me all, young sir,” said she, “and do what we can, we will; but we hardly know what to do. To go to the castle would be madness.”

“Yes,” replied I: “but cannot you give me one of your horses to return the way I came?”

“That was our intention; but I find that the O’Tooles have taken them all out of the stable to prevent me; and the house is watched. They will come at midnight and attack us, that I fully expect, and how to conceal you puzzles my poor head.”

“If they come, we can but persuade them that he has escaped,” replied Kathleen; “they will no longer watch the house, and he will then have some chance.”

“There is but one chance,” replied the mother, who took Kathleen aside, and whispered to her. Kathleen coloured to the forehead, and made no reply. “If your mother bids you, Kathleen, there can be no harm.”

“Yes; but if Corny was—”

“He dare not,” replied the mother; “and now put this light out, and do you get into bed, sir, with your clothes on.” They led me to a small bed-room, a miserable affair; but in that part of the country considered respectable. “Lie down there,” said the mother, “and wait till we call you.” They took the light away, and left me to myself and my own reflections, which were anything but pleasant. I lay awake, it might be for two hours, when I heard the sound of feet, and then a whispering under the window, and shortly afterwards a loud knocking at the door, which they were attempting to burst open. Every moment I expected that it would yield to the violence which was made use of, when the mother came down half-dressed, with a light in her hand, hastened to me, and desired me to follow her. I did so, and before she left my room, she threw the window wide open. She led me up a sort of half-stairs, half-ladder, to a small room, where I found Kathleen sitting up in her bed, and half-dressed. “O mother! mother!” cried Kathleen.

“I bid ye do it, child,” replied the mother, desiring me to creep into her daughter’s bed, and cover myself up on the side next the wall.

“Let me put on more clothes, mother.”

“No, no, if you do, they will suspect, and will not hesitate to search. Your mother bids you.”

The poor girl was burning with shame and confusion.

“Nay,” replied I, “if Kathleen does not wish it, I will not buy my safety at the expense of her feelings.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Kathleen, “I don’t mind now; those words of yours are sufficient. Come in, quick.”

Part 2—Chapter XXI

Petticoat Interest prevails, and I escape; but I put my Head into the Lion’s Den.

There was no time for apology, and stepping over Kathleen, I buried myself under the clothes by her side. The mother then hastened down stairs, and arrived at the door just as they had succeeded in forcing it open, when in pounced a dozen men armed, with their faces blackened.

“Holy Jesus! what is it that you want?” screamed the landlady.

“The blood of the tithe proctor, and that’s what we’ll have,” replied the O’Tooles.

“Not in my house—not in my house!” cried she. “Take him away, at all events; promise me to take him away.”

“So we will, honey darlint; we’ll take him out of your sight, and out of your hearing, too, only show us where he may be.”

“He’s sleeping,” replied the mother, pointing to the door of the bed-room, where I had been lying down.

The party took the light from her hand, and went into the room, where they perceived the bed empty and the window open. “Devil a bit of a proctor here anyhow,” cried one of them, “and the window open. He’s off—hurrah! my lads, he can’t be far.”

“By the powers! it’s just my opinion, Mrs McShane,” replied the elder O’Toole, “that he’s not quite so far off; so with your lave, or by your lave, or without your lave, we’ll just have a look over the premises.”

“O! and welcome, Mister Jerry O’Toole: if you think I’m the woman to hide a proctor, look everywhere just as you please.”

The party, headed by Jerry O’Toole, who had taken the light out of Mrs McShane’s hand, now ascended the ladder to the upper storey, and as I lay by Kathleen, I felt that she trembled with fear. After examining every nook and cranny they could think of, they came to Mrs McShane’s room—“O! go in—go in and look, Mr O’Toole; it’s a very likely thing to insinuate that I should have a tithe proctor in my bed. Search, pray,” and Mrs McShane led the way into her own room.

Every part had been examined, except the small sleeping room of Kathleen; and the party paused before the door. “We must search,” observed O’Toole, doggedly.

“Search my daughter’s! very well, search if you please; it’s a fine story you’ll have to tell, how six great men pulled a poor girl out of her bed to look for a tithe proctor. It will be a credit to you anyhow; and you, Corny O’Toole, you’ll stand well in her good graces, when you come to talk about the wedding-day; and your wife that is to be, pulled out of her bed by a dozen men. What will ye say to Kathleen, when you affront her by supposing that a maiden girl has a tithe proctor in bed with her? D’ye think that ye’ll ever have the mother’s consent or blessing?”

“No one goes into Kathleen’s room,” cried Corny O’Toole, roused by the sarcasms of Mrs McShane.

“Yes, Corny,” replied Mrs McShane, “it’s not for a woman like me to be suspected, at all events; so you, and you only, shall go into the room, if that will content ye, Mr Jerry O’Toole.”

“Yes!” replied the party, and Mrs McShane opened the door.

Kathleen rose up on her elbow, holding the bed-clothes up to her throat, and looking at them, as they entered, said, “O Corny! Corny! this to me?”

Corny never thought of looking for anybody, his eyes were rivetted upon his sweetheart. “Murder, Kathleen, is it my fault? Jerry will have it.”

“Are you satisfied, Corny?” said Mrs McShane.

“Sure enough I was satisfied before I came in, that Kathleen would not have anyone in her bed-room,” replied Corny.

“Then good night, Corny, and it’s to-morrow that I’ll talk with ye,” replied Kathleen.

Mrs McShane then walked out of the room, expecting Corny to follow; but he could not restrain himself, and he came to the bedside. Fearful that if he put his arms round her, he would feel me, Kathleen raised herself, and allowed him to embrace her. Fortunately the light was not in the room, or I should have been discovered, as in so doing she threw the clothes off my head and shoulders. She then pushed back Corny from her, and he left the room, shutting the door after him. The party descended the ladder, and as soon as Kathleen perceived that they were all down, she sprang out of bed and ran into her mother’s room. Soon after I heard them depart. Mrs McShane made fast the door, and came up stairs. She first went to her own room, where poor Kathleen was crying bitterly from shame and excitement. I had got up when she came into Kathleen’s room for her clothes, and, in about five minutes, they returned together. I was sitting on the side of the bed when they came in: the poor girl coloured up when our eyes met. “Kathleen,” said I, “you have, in all probability, saved my life, and I cannot express my thanks. I am only sorry that your modesty has been put to so severe a trial.”

“If Corny was to find it out,” replied Kathleen, sobbing again. “How could I do such a thing?”

“Your mother bid you,” replied Mrs McShane, “and that is sufficient.”

“But what must you think of me, sir?” continued Kathleen.

“I think that you have behaved most nobly. You have saved an innocent man at the risk of your reputation, and the loss of your lover. It is not now that I can prove my gratitude.”

“Yes, yes, promise me by all that’s sacred, that you’ll never mention it. Surely you would not ruin one who has tried to serve you.”

“I promise you that, and I hope to perform a great deal more,” replied I. “But now, Mrs McShane, what is to be done? Remain here I cannot.”

“No, you must leave, and that very soon. Wait about ten minutes more, and then they will give up their search and go home. The road to E—” (the post I had lately come from) “is the best you can take; and you must travel as fast as you can, for there is no safety for you here.”