LITMIR.BIZ

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On we went, gaining at every stride; for the fellows who rode postilion well knew what was before them, and slackened their pace to secure a safe turning. A yell of victory arose from the pursuers, but was answered by the others with a cheer of defiance. The space was now scarcely two hundred yards between us, when the head of the britska was flung down, and a figure that I at once recognized as the redoubted Tim Finucane, one of the boldest and most reckless fellows in the county, was seen standing on the seat, holding, – gracious Heavens! it was true, – holding in his arms the apparently lifeless figure of Miss Dashwood.

      “Hold in!” shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high above all the other sounds. “Hold in! or by the Eternal, I’ll throw her, body and bones, into the Lurra Gash!” for such was the torrent called that boiled and foamed a few yards before us.

      He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and held the drooping form on one arm with all the ease of a giant’s grasp.

      “For the love of God!” said I, “pull up. I know him well; he’ll do it to a certainty if you press on.”

      “And we know you, too,” said a ruffianly fellow, with a dark whisker meeting beneath his chin, “and have some scores to settle ere we part – ”

      But I heard no more. With one tremendous effort I dashed my horse forward. The carriage turned an angle of the road, for an instant was out of sight, another moment I was behind it.

      “Stop!” I shouted, with a last effort, but in vain. The horses, maddened and infuriated, sprang forward, and heedless of all efforts to turn them the leaders sprang over the low parapet of the bridge, and hanging for a second by the traces, fell with a crash into the swollen torrent beneath. By this time I was beside the carriage. Finucane had now clambered to the box, and regardless of the death and ruin around, bent upon his murderous object, he lifted the light and girlish form above his head, bent backwards as if to give greater impulse to his effort, when, twining my lash around my wrist, I levelled my heavy and loaded hunting-whip at his head. The weighted ball of lead struck him exactly beneath his hat; he staggered, his hands relaxed, and he fell lifeless to the ground; the same instant I was felled to the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.

      CHAPTER XII

MICKEY FREE

      Nearly three weeks followed the event I have just narrated ere I again was restored to consciousness. The blow by which I was felled – from what hand coming it was never after discovered – had brought on concussion of the brain, and for several days my life was despaired of. As by slow steps I advanced towards recovery, I learned from Considine that Miss Dashwood, whose life was saved by my interference, had testified, in the warmest manner, her gratitude, and that Sir George had, up to the period of his leaving the country, never omitted a single day to ride over and inquire for me.

      “You know, of course,” said the count, supposing such news was the most likely to interest me, – “you know we beat them?”

      “No. Pray tell me all. They’ve not let me hear anything hitherto.”

      “One day finished the whole affair. We polled man for man till past two o’clock, when our fellows lost all patience and beat their tallies out of the town. The police came up, but they beat the police; then they got soldiers, but, begad, they were too strong for them, too. Sir George witnessed it all, and knowing besides how little chance he had of success, deemed it best to give in; so that a little before five o’clock he resigned. I must say no man could behave better. He came across the hustings and shook hands with Godfrey; and as the news of the scrimmage with his daughter had just arrived, said that he was sorry his prospect of success had not been greater, that in resigning he might testify how deeply he felt the debt the O’Malleys had laid him under.”

      “And my uncle, how did he receive his advances?”

      “Like his own honest self, – grasped his hand firmly; and upon my soul, I think he was half sorry that he gained the day. Do you know, he took a mighty fancy to that blue-eyed daughter of the old general’s. Faith, Charley, if he was some twenty years younger, I would not say but – Come, come, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but I have been staying here too long. I’ll send up Mickey to sit with you. Mind and don’t be talking too much to him.”

      So saying, the worthy count left the room fully impressed that in hinting at the possibility of my uncle’s marrying again, he had said something to ruffle my temper.

      For the next two or three weeks my life was one of the most tiresome monotony. Strict injunctions had been given by the doctors to avoid exciting me; and consequently, every one that came in walked on tiptoe, spoke in whispers, and left me in five minutes. Reading was absolutely forbidden; and with a sombre half-light to sit in, and chicken broth to support nature, I dragged out as dreary an existence as any gentleman west of Athlone.

      Whenever my uncle or Considine were not in the room, my companion was my own servant, Michael, or as he was better known, “Mickey Free.” Now, had Mickey been left to his own free and unrestricted devices, the time would not have hung so heavily; for among Mike’s manifold gifts he was possessed of a very great flow of gossiping conversation. He knew all that was doing in the county, and never was barren in his information wherever his imagination could come into play. Mickey was the best hurler in the barony, no mean performer on the violin, could dance the national bolero of “Tatter Jack Walsh” in a way that charmed more than one soft heart beneath a red woolsey bodice, and had, withal, the peculiar free-and-easy devil-may-care kind of off-hand Irish way that never deserted him in the midst of his wiliest and most subtle moments, giving to a very deep and cunning fellow all the apparent frankness and openness of a country lad.

      He had attached himself to me as a kind of sporting companion; and growing daily more and more useful, had been gradually admitted to the honors of the kitchen and the prerogatives of cast clothes, without ever having been actually engaged as a servant; and while thus no warrant officer, as, in fact, he discharged all his duties well and punctually, was rated among the ship’s company, though no one could say at what precise period he changed his caterpillar existence and became the gay butterfly with cords and tops, a striped vest, and a most knowing jerry hat who stalked about the stable-yard and bullied the helpers. Such was Mike. He had made his fortune, such as it was, and had a most becoming pride in the fact that he made himself indispensable to an establishment which, before he entered it, never knew the want of him. As for me, he was everything to me. Mike informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn’t go out, and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey of partridge quicker than the “Morning Post” does of a noble family from the Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately. But his talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he was the faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or christening for miles round; and as I took no small pleasure in those very national pastimes, the information was of great value to me. To conclude this brief sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic in the same sense that he was enthusiastic about anything, – that is, he believed and obeyed exactly as far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness. Beyond that, his scepticism stepped in and saved him from inconvenience; and though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to a rubric, still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such, in short, was my valet, Mickey Free, and who, had not heavy injunctions been laid on him as to silence and discretion, would well have lightened my weary hours.

      “Ah, then, Misther Charles!” said he, with a half-suppressed yawn at the long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in silence, – “ah, then, but ye were mighty near it!”

      “Near what?” said I.

      “Faith, then, myself doesn’t well know. Some say it’s purgathory; but it’s hard to tell.”

      “I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any doubts on the matter?”

      “May be I am; may be I ain’t,” was the cautious reply.

      “Wouldn’t Father Roach explain any of your difficulties for you, if you went over to him?”

      “Faix, it’s little I’d mind his explainings.”

      “And

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