“That ye will never marry any one at all,” he answered, raising his voice, and his eyes blazed into hers, “but be true to Ireland--and to _me_.”
“True to you--what balderdash! Sure, don’t ye know well I never cared a thraneen about ye?”
She glanced up at him suddenly, and noticed that his dark, expressive face was working with passion. What ailed him? He looked murderous. Was he going to kill her? It was a lonely enough spot. A man had been beaten to death in that very road.
“See now, I’ll promise you one thing, Pat,” she continued, dissembling her fears, “for old times’ sake. If ever you are in any trouble, or want a good friend, I’ll help you. And as to marrying me, ye know there’s a dozen prettier girls in these parts just _aching_ to have you. I can’t think why you are so set on _me_. Come, Pat, carry the cat for me, and we will be going home.”
Pat turned about; his expression startled her--the hard look in his eyes, the tightness of his lips. Her heart beat convulsively, but she kept a brave front and faced him as she would some dangerous animal, from whom she could not escape, and was therefore bound to overawe. Pat was crazy drunk; the raw whisky had taken effect; there was a mad look in his eyes. Did he mean to murder her? The sudden sound of voices and approaching footsteps filled her with a sense of profound relief. It proved a party of neighbours going towards Glenveigh; and before Pat could interfere, Mary had snatched up Whitey, opened the gate, and darted after them.
And Pat, thus left alone, sat down suddenly on a stone and burst into a passion of maudlin sobs. Why hadn’t he killed her, and then himself? A cheap revolver was in his pocket; it was loaded in four chambers. If the Connors had been three minutes later in coming down past Foley’s Corner, the chronicle of Mary of the Gate would have concluded here.
The cold Miss Usher had contracted “held her,” to use an Irish term, for one whole week, and during that time, she had a most tender, thoughtful, and assiduous nurse in her young protegée. Mary was afraid to venture into the garden. Pat might waylay her again; also she experienced a certain shyness with respect to mixing with her old friends, and she spent a good deal of her time in the sick-room, reading aloud to the patient, answering notes--she wrote a fine hand, thanks to the School Board--and concocting drinks, possets, and poultices with much skill. Her attendance was so quiet, her little hands so deft and quick, her soft voice so sympathetic, that the invalid felt herself becoming warmly attached to this treasure-trove; and as she lay in bed, waited on by Mary, she instilled into the girl’s mind some practical hints, without seeming to be continuing her much-neglected education.