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Hunted

Chapter XII. Interview with Manson

Chapter XII. Interview with Manson.

The grey dawn was breaking through the window of the little room in Phillips' cottage when Mrs Dillon awoke. The children were still sleeping, and everything in the house and around was silent. As the events of the previous day passed before her memory, she could hardly realise them. They seemed so like the phantoms of a dream. The cottage in which so many happy years had passed, she had seen blazing before her eyes; her children homeless and shivering with cold, sleeping under the canopy of heaven, without a shelter but the blackened walls; the desolation of the hour, and its depth of hopeless misery, swept like a wave of grief over her heart. And then the vision of her outlawed husband, worn and haggard, as he appeared to her in the dim light of the burning logs; cowering and hiding from pursuit, he who had been so brave and buoyant before; driven in his despair to think of giving himself up to death as the only way he could think of to get them food. Oh, that the sweet oblivion of sleep should ever pass away! sleep that seals up the senses, that rests the racked and wearied frame, that stills the fevered throbbing, and lulls the mind into forgetfulness. Oh, why does awakening come unbidden to the weary, with its leaden skies and heavy atmosphere, with its sinking of the heart, its fevered pulse and aching brain? Why can we not turn on the other side, and shut out the cold grey light of real things, and sink again into obliviousness? Mrs. Dillon would have closed her eyes to shut out the terrible vision; she tried to think that it was only the trouble of a distempered dream. But no, it was all too true, as she was face to face with life and its stern realities. Then the children awoke and crept up to their mother, and little Harry, nestling to her bosom, tried to beguile her with his prattle, and Elsie, calm and solemnised as one who had looked on life in some of its sombre aspects, told her mother that she had been dreaming about father, and how he had kissed her and said farewell and told her he was going far away; and the tenderness of the mother's love for her little innocent and helpless ones gave poignancy to her anguish.

It was late in the morning when Mrs Dillon and her children rejoined the family. Already Phillips had been to town, and had brought a letter addressed to her which he had found at the post-office, where it had been lying for a week uncalled for. It bore page 29 the London post-mark, and for some time she looked at it, wondering from whom it could be. To her surprise it was from Thomas Manson. He regretted that urgent business had taken him away to London, otherwise he would have been by to aid her husband and his very dear friend in his great trouble. He had just heard of the escape from the Court-house, and was anxious to know the upshot. He would be over in Ireland in a few days, and would call on her at once in order to consult with her for the safety of her husband, and as to the future of herself and children.

This was glad news to Mrs Dillon; she had wondered at Manson's absence. He had left a few days after her husband's arrest, and he had never communicated with them in all their trouble. And yet he was the one friend that both her husband and herself had expected to be true to them, unless, indeed, he believed in the guilt of Mr Dillon; for he at least was not under that fear of ‘the office,’ which seemed to have paralyzed all kindly aid from residents in the district. Often enough had he spoken with contempt of the spiritless servility of the tenants, and the petty tyrannies of ‘the office;’ and he had often cheered her husband with visions of what swaited him if he would only cast in his lot in the bright and beautiful lands far away in the southern seas.

On carefully examining the letter, Mrs Dillon found that it was on that day he was to call on her, and as she supposed he would scarcely have heard of the burning of the cottage, and would most probably seek her there, and as she wished their interview to be private she determined to walk to the ruins of her former home.

He had arrived before her, and was sauntering in a melancholy mood through the little plantation that lay between the blackened ruins and the loch. As he approached her she hardly recognised him. Only a few months had elapsed since she saw him last, but how changed ! The elastic step, the buoyant air, the cheerful smile were gone, and he seemed to have aged a dozen years. He saw that she was surprised at the change; he explained that he had been very ill, and that nothing but very severe illness would have kept him from coming to the aid of his friend in the hour of trouble.

But where was Dillon ? Could he be of service to him now; he was prepared to do anything on earth to aid him in escaping, for he felt perfectly convinced that his friend was innocent; that indeed he was incapable of such a crime.

Mrs Dillon was in doubt as to how far she was safe in revealing her husband's movements. She had known but little of Manson herself; his acquaintance even with her husband had been but a matter of a few months. What if the interest he expressed was but a ruse? But why should it be so? Manson was rich, the few hundred pounds of reward could be no consideration to him, and there could be no other possible reason prompting him to act otherwise than fairly by her husband. Besides there had sprung up a warm and apparently genuine friendship between him and her husband; and why should she doubt its sincerity, or stand in the way of Manson's aiding him in making good his escape?

All this was passing rapidly through Mrs Dillon's mind, as she endeavoured to waive the questions of Manson. She said, and truthfully, that she did not know where her husband was concealed. She had been visited by him, but he had come and gone in the darkness. True, he could not be very far away, for it was only the previous night she had seen him, though whether he was still remaining in the neighbourhood, or had left, she was not able to say, as their interview had been suddenly interrupted.

Manson told her that he could be of no service to Mr Dillon unless he found out where he was; that it would be an impossibility for any man to get out of the country and get away to a safe distance, unless he was well supplied with money for the purpose. That he assumed Mr Dillon was not, but if he could only find out where Dillon was he would see that every difficulty of that kind was removed.

Then Mrs Dillon told him all that she knew. It might be that her husband had left the district as he had expressed the intention of doing, but the place where he had been lying concealed till the previous night was on the hills beyond the loch among the huts of the evicted tenants

‘What a risk he runs,’ said Mr Manson. ‘Mrs Dillon, I must see him. I will give him whatever money he requires, but he must fly from that place. How am I to find him?’

‘You remember Tom O'Shea, our old servant. He and his mother are in the huts on the hill, and it is with them that my husband has been hiding Oh, Mr Manson, my heart is breaking,’

‘Hush! Take care, Mrs Dillon, the very trees have ears. Is there any way of sending a message to him.’

‘I do not know. I am afraid not. It was the only time he had ventured out. He had seen the cottage on fire, and he came. Tom had come with him in the boat, but Tom had not been over before, and I do not think he is likely to come again. I am afraid you could hardly go to the huts without exciting suspicion. People know your acquaintance with my husband, and your going to the hill would at once arouse suspicion.’

‘I know it, I know it; it will not do. But could I send a message to Tom, to say I want to hire him, to take him to the colonies, or something of the sort? If I could only meet Tom.’

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‘Perhaps the Phillips’ might be able to send a messenger, that is, the people I am staying with, some kind neighbours who have taken me and the children in, at the risk of being turned out themselves. But, oh! it will bring ruin to them too, if they are found communicating with the people across the loch.’

‘Never mind the ruin, Mrs Dillon, I'll see to that; they won't lose in doing me a service. The wretches can hardly kill them, and if they turn them out, I'll see to it. You must get them to find Tom for me. It is of the utmost moment to me. If I could only communicate with Dillon, and manage to get him out of this dreadful country, there will be happiness in store for you all, yet.’

‘Oh, Mr Manson, there is no more happiness on earth for us. My poor husband hunted like a wild animal; and yet he is as innocent of that dreadful murder as an angel in heaven. Do you think there is any chance of his escape?’

‘I hope so; if I could only send him supplies, and tell him where to find me beyond the seas. But we must find Tom. And what are your plans, Mrs Dillon? What are you going to do?’

‘I have no plans, Mr Manson. I have not had time to think about anything but the trouble my poor husband is in. But I can't do anything till I hear something of him. My poor children—God will provide for them; but this is breaking my heart.’

‘Mrs Dillon, don't trouble yourself on that account. I give you my assurance that you and your children will never want. I am not a poor man, Mrs Dillon, and as long as I live, and as long as you require it, I will see that you are provided for in comfort.’

‘Oh, Mr Manson, that is kind indeed of you to say so. I am not anxious for myself, but oh, my poor husband, do what you can for him.’

‘Yes, Mrs Manson; indeed I will. He shall be saved if I can do it, and I shall leave no effort untried. But you must prepare for coming away from this place.’

‘I know I must. Indeed, as soon as it reaches the office that I am here, I must go; and the poor Phillips, I am afraid, will have to go too for giving shelter to me and my poor homeless children.’

‘However, I shall be in the neighbourhood; and neither you nor they will suffer any inconvenience, so soon as we can hear anything of Mr Dillon. If he gets out of the country, you had better leave here. I shall take you to France, or somewhere abroad, so that you may be spared the pain of being constantly reminded of this dreadful misfortune, and where you may remain in quietness with the children till you can rejoin your husband.’

‘Oh, Mr Manson, that is too bright a vision to think of. I fear the chances of his escape are so slender that I cannot allow myself to pioture the prospect of our ever meeting again except in heaven. But it will be well to get away from here if I can. As the wife of a murderer—oh, Willie, Willie, my poor unhappy husband! To think that they suppose you to be guilty of such a crime! Oh, my poor husband!’

‘Do not, dear Mrs Dillon—do not give way so. You will require all the fortitude you can command, and nothing good will come of your losing heart. I will see that you get away from this as soon as possible; but we have first to hear something of Mr Dillon, and you must get these friends of yours to send for Tom. There is not a moment to be lost, I shall go with you, if you permit me, and see if we can get a messenger,’

They passed the ruined cottage on their way to Phillips' house, and Mrs Dillon, who had only seen the ruins in the darkness, paused and gazed on the blackened walls in silence. The roof had fallen in, even the smoking of the embers had ceased, and everything was cold and still and dreary. No word passed from the lips of the afflicted woman, nor did Manson intrude on the sacredness of her grief by idle words of comfort, and in silence they proceeded to the cottage of the Phillips,' when on the request of Mrs Dillon one of the sons at once undertook to cross around by the head of the loch and take a measage to Tom O'Shea.

In the note which he sent, Mr Manson made no reference to the real object he had in view, but offered to Tom to take him to the colonies, and requested that whether willing or not to go, he would come over and visit him at the earliest possible moment on matters of the very greatest importance.

Manson waited till the evening for the reply, and it was not till after sunset that the lad returned, and only to say that Tom was not at the encampment, that he had left after sundown the evening before, and had not since returned, and that his old mother, whom the lad had seen and spoken to, was in a state of much anxiety, as it was rumoured among them that the next day their shelters were to be torn down, and themselves driven off by the police.

On Manson learning that Tom had not returned he and Mrs Dillon had a long consultation on the position. Both believed that it was an omen of good, and they concluded that Mr Dillon had taken the opportunity of the boat for escaping down the river in the night. Before leaving, Manson arranged with Mrs Dillon that immediately on her hearing anything of Mr Dillon, or of Tom, who was sure to return to see after the trouble in which his mother was, a message was to be sent to him.

He requested Mrs Dillon to want for nothing that she might require, and assured her that because of his friendship for her husband, he would impose on himself the duty of providing for her and her children until all their troubles were over, and to do page 31 everything that in him lay to assist Mr Dillon in escaping, and to bring the scattered afflicted family together again in some distant land of refuge.