“Come in.”
The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson’s confidential steward and right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking boy of six years’ old, dressed in deep mourning.
“Well, Gahan, what do you want?”
“I ask your Honor’s pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I thought it right to come tell you the bad news I heard.”
“Something about the rebels, I suppose?”
“Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there’s going to be a great rising intirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at Kilcrean bog, where I’m told they have a power of pikes hiding; and then they’re to march on and sack every house in the country. I’ll engage, when I heard it, I didn’t let the grass grow under my feet, but came off straight to your Honor, thinking maybe you’d like to walk over this fine evening to Mr. Warren’s, and settle with him what’s best to be done.”
“Oh, James! I beseech you, don’t think of going.”
“Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don’t intend it: not that I suppose there would be much risk; but, all things considered, I think I’m just as comfortable at home.”
The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced nervously towards the end window, which, jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer wall.
“Of course ’tis just as your honor plases, but I’ll warrant you there would be no harm in going. Come, Billy,” he added, addressing the child, who by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson, “make your bow, and bid good night to master and mistress.”