[Ill.u.s.tration: 334]

Before the Joyces had recovered from their first surprise, they saw Joan burst from the spot, and, rushing down the slope, throw herself at the stranger's feet.

"And have I found you at last, dear Joan?" cried a soft, low voice, while the speaker raised her tenderly from the ground, and took her hand kindly within both her own.

"Oh, Miss Mary, to think you 'd come after me this far! over the say!"

burst out Joan, sobbing through her joy; for joy it was that now lit up her features, and made her eyes sparkle even through the fresh tears that filled them.

"They told me you had sailed from Galway," resumed Mary, "and I wrote to the ship-agent and found it was correct: your name was in the list of pa.s.sengers, and the date of the day you sailed; but, I know not how it was, Joan, I still clung to the notion that you had contrived this plan to escape being discovered, and that you were concealed somewhere along the coast or in the islands. I believe I used to dream of this at first, but at last I thought of it all day long."

"Thought of _me_ all day long?" broke in Joan, sobbing.

"And why not, poor child? Was I not the cause of your leaving your home? Was it not my persuasion that induced you to leave the roof that sheltered you? I have often wondered whether I had right and reason on my side. I know at the time I believed I had such. At all events, but for me you had never quitted that home; but see, Joan, how what we are led to do with an honest purpose, if it fail to effect what we had in view, often leads to better and happier ends than we ever dreamed of.

I only thought of conveying to you the last message of your poor grandfather. I little imagined how so simple an act could influence all your future fortune in life; and such it has done. Mr. Magennis, suspecting or discovering what share I had in your flight, has begun a law proceeding against me, and to give him a rightful claim for redress, has declared you to be--all that you wish, dear Joan--his lawful, wedded wife."

It was some time before the poor girl could stifle the sobbing which burst from her very heart. She kissed Mary's hands over and over with rapture, and cried out at length, in broken, faltering accents, "Did n't they say well that called you a saint from heaven? Didn't they tell truth that said, G.o.d gave you as a blessing to us?"

"My poor Joan, you are grateful to me for what I have no share in. I am nothing but the bearer of good tidings. But tell me, how have you fared since we parted? Let me hear all that has happened to you."

Joan told her simple story in a few words, never deviating from the narrative, save to speak her heartfelt grat.i.tude to the poor people who had sheltered and befriended her.

"There they are!" cried she, pointing to the group, who, with a delicacy of sentiment that might have graced the most refined cla.s.s, sat apart, never venturing by a look to obtrude upon the confidence of the others,--"there they are; and if the world was like them, life would n't have many crosses!"

Mary rose, and drew nigh the old man, who stood up respectfully to receive her.

"He does n't know much English, Miss Mary," whispered Joan in her ear.

"Nor am I well skilled in Irish," said Mary, smiling; "but I 'll do my best to thank him."

However imperfectly she spoke the native tongue, the words seemed to act like a charm on those who heard them; and as, young and old, they gathered around her, their eager looks and delighted faces beamed with a triumphant joy. They had learned from the boatmen that it was the young princess--as in the language of the people she was called--was before them, and their pride and happiness knew no bounds.

Oh, if courtiers could feel one t.i.the of the personal devotion to the sovereign that did these poor peasants to her they regarded as their chief, what an atmosphere of chivalry would breathe within the palace of royalty! There was nothing they would not have done or dared at her bidding; and as she crossed their threshold, and sat down beside their hearth, the tears of joy that rose to every eye showed that this was an event to be treasured till memory could retain no more!

If Mary did not speak the native dialect fluently, there was a grace and a charm about the turn of the expressions she used that never failed to delight those who heard her. That imaginative thread that runs through the woof of Irish nature in every rank and condition of life--more conspicuous, probably, in the very humblest--imparted an intense pleasure to hearing and listening to her; and she, on her side, roused and stimulated by the adventurous character of the incident, the strange wild spot, the simple people, their isolation and their innocence, spoke with a warmth and an enthusiasm that were perfectly captivating.

She had seen much of the peasantry,--known them in the most unfrequented tracts, remote from all their fellow-men,--in far-away glens, by dreary mountains, where no footpaths led; but anything so purely simple and unsophisticated as these poor people she had never met with. The sons had been--and that rarely, too--on the mainland, but the children and their mothers had never left the Brannocks; they had never beheld a tree, nor even a flower, save the wild crocus on their native rock. With what eager delight, then, did they hear Mary describe the gardens of the castle,--pictures that glowed with all the gorgeous colors of a fairy tale. "You shall all come and see me, some of these days. I'll send you a messenger, to say the time," said Mary; "and I'll promise that what you 'll witness will be far above my description of it!"

It was a sad moment when Mary arose to say good-bye. Joan, too, was to accompany her, and the grief at parting with her was extreme. Again and again the children clung round her, entreating her not to leave them; and she herself half faltered in her resolution. That lonely rock, that rude cabin, had been her refuge in the darkest hour of her life, and she felt the superst.i.tious terror of her cla.s.s at now deserting them.

"Come, come, dear Joan, remember that you have a home now that you can rightfully return to," whispered Mary. "It is not in shame, but in honor, that you go back to it."

It was already dark ere they left the Brannocks: a long, heavy swell, too, the signs of a storm, coming from the westward, made the boatmen eager to hasten their departure. As yet, however, the air was calm and still, but it was with that oppressive stillness that forebodes change.

They hoisted their sail, but soon saw that they must, for a while at least, trust to their oars. The unbroken stillness, save by the measured stroke of the rowers, the dense dark atmosphere, and the reaction, after a day of toil and an event of a most moving kind, so overcame Mary that, leaning on Joan's shoulder, she fell off fast asleep. For a while Joan, proud of the burden she supported, devoted all her care to watch and protect her from the night air; but at last weariness stole over herself, and she dropped off to slumber.

Meanwhile the sea was rising; heavy waves struck the boat, and washed over her in sheets of spray, although no wind was stirring.

"We 'll have rain, or a gale of wind before long," said one of the men.

"There 's some heavy drops falling now," muttered another.

"Throw that sail over Miss Mary, for it will soon come down heavily."

A loud clap of thunder burst forth, and as suddenly, like a torrent, the rain poured down, hissing over the dark sea, and filling the air with a dull, discordant noise. Still they slept on, nor heard nor felt aught of that gathering storm.

"There now, sure enough, it 's coming," cried a boatman, as the sail shook tremulously; and two great waves, in quick succession, broke over the bow.

"We'll have to run for Innishmore," said another, "and lucky if we get there before it comes on worse."

"You ought to wake her up, Loony, and ask her what we are to do."

"I 'll make straight for the harbor of Kilkieran," replied the helmsman.

"The wind is with us, and she's a good sea-boat. Take in the jib, Maurice, and we'll shorten all sail on her, and--"

The rest of his speech was drowned in the uproar of a tremendous sea, which struck the boat on her quarter and nearly overset her. Not another word was now uttered, as, with the instinct of their calling, they set about to prepare for the coming conflict. The mainsail was quickly lowered and reefed, the oars and loose spars secured, and then, seating themselves in the bottom of the boat, they waited in silence. By this time the rain had pa.s.sed over, and a strong wind swept over the sea.

"She's going fast through the water, anyway!" said one of the men. But though the speech was meant to cheer, none felt or acknowledged the encouragement.

"I 'd rather than own Cro' Martin Castle Miss Mary was safe at home!"

said Loony, as he drew the rough sleeve of his coat across his eyes, "for it's thicker it's getting over yonder!"

"It would be a black day that anything happened her!" muttered another.

"Musha! we've wives and childer," said a third, "but she's worth a thousand of us!"

And thus, in broken whispers, they spoke; not a thought save of her, not a care save for her safety. They prayed, too, fervently, and her name was in all their supplications.

"She's singing to herself in her sleep," whispered Loony. And the rough sailors hushed to hear her.

Louder and louder, however, grew the storm, sheets of spray and drift falling over the boat in showers, and all her timbers quivering as she labored in the stormy sea. A sailor whispered something in Loony's ear, and he grumbled out in reply,--"Why would I wake her up?"

"But I _am_ awake, Loony," said Mary, in a low, calm voice, "and I see all our danger; but I see, too, that you are meeting it like brave men, and, better still, like good ones."

"The men was thinking we ought to bear up for Innish-more, Miss Mary,"

said Loony, as though ashamed of offering on his own part such counsel.

"You'll do what you think best and safest for us all, Loony."

"But you were always the captain, miss, when you were aboord!" replied he, with an effort to smile.

"And so I should be now, Loony, but that my heart is too full to be as calm and resolute as I ought to be. This poor thing had not been here now, but for _me_." And she wrapped her shawl around Joan as she spoke.

"Maybe it's anxiety, perhaps fatigue, but I have not my old courage to-night!"

"Faix! it will never be fear that will distress you!" said he.

"If you mean for myself and my own safety, Loony, you are right. It is not for me to repine at the hour that calls me away, but I cannot bear to think how you and others, with so many dear to you, should be perilled just to serve _me!_ And poor Joan, too, at the moment when life was about to brighten for her!" She held down her head for a minute or two, and then suddenly, as it were, rallying, she cried out, "The boat is laboring too much for'ard, Loony; set the jib on her!"

"To be sure, if you ordher it, Miss Mary; but she has more sail now than she can carry."

"Set the jib, Loony. I know the craft well; she 'll ride the waves all the lighter for it. If it were but daylight, I almost think I 'd enjoy this. We 've been out in as bad before."