Transcriber's Notes:

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http://archive.org/details/tempestdrivenrom03dowl
(University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)

TEMPEST-DRIVEN

TEMPEST-DRIVEN

A Romance.

BY

RICHARD DOWLING,

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF KILLARD," "THE WEIRD SISTERS,"
"THE SPORT OF FATE," "UNDER ST. PAUL'S," "THE DUKE'S SWEETHEART,"
"SWEET INISFAIL," "THE HIDDEN FLAME," ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8 CATHERINE ST., STRAND.

1886.

[All rights reserved.]

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
CRYSTAL PLACE PRESS.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AFTER TEN YEARS.

CHAPTER XIX.

SEEING NOT BELIEVING.

CHAPTER XX.

TOLD BY GORMAN.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE SEA.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE ROCK.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE HOME OF THE MONSTER.

CHAPTER XXIV.

KILCASH.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE "BLUE ANCHOR."

CHAPTER XXVI.

ON THE CLIFF.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE MONSTER LET LOOSE.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A NIGHT TRAVELLER.

CHAPTER XXIX.

DULWICH AGAIN.

CHAPTER XXX.

ANOTHER VISITOR.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"I HAVE BEEN ALWAYS ALONE."

TEMPEST-TOSSED.

CHAPTER XVIII.

AFTER TEN YEARS.

Jerry O'Brien's words had been no sooner uttered than he saw how foolishly injudicious they were. In the excitement of the moment he had forgotten what ought to have been uppermost in his thoughts--the condition of his friend.

He rang the bell. In a few seconds Madge entered the room. He briefly explained what had occurred, and then set off to summon Dr. Santley.

The doctor looked grave, and hurried back to Carlingford House. Here he stayed an hour, and left with gloomy looks and words. A relapse was possible, and a great delay to convalescence certain. There was danger, serious danger of the patient's life.

Jerry O'Brien was in despair. He had the greatest affection for Alfred, and he was in love with Alfred's sister. Yes, he might as well confess the matter boldly to himself; plain-looking, gentle, cheerful Madge was worth more to him than all the rest of the girls in the world put together. And here his impetuous rashness had brought her brother to death's door. Curses on his rashness!

Santley said he was by no means to see Alfred again that day, or until he got formal leave to do so. He would give no opinion as to the ultimate course of the disease; but there was cause for anxiety--great anxiety.

Jerry took his leave of the house with a heavy heart. He was quite alone in the world, and since he lost his mother, now years ago, he had known no trouble so trying as this. He told himself over and over again that all would yet be well with Alfred. In vain! His heart would not be comforted; his mind would not abide in peace.

When he got into town, he did not know where to turn. The idea of going to the club under the unpleasant circumstances was out of the question. Walking about alone was dull work. He did not care to call on any friend, and the notion of spending the evening at a place of entertainment was simply monstrous. There seemed to be nothing else for it but to go home, and that was a stupid programme enough.

Jerry had lodgings in Cecil Street, Strand, and thither he went. He let himself in with a latchkey, and walked upstairs in the gathering gloom of a late February afternoon. His rooms were on the second floor. He entered the one looking out on the street, and lit the lamp deliberately. There were two reasons for his proceeding slowly. In the first place, it was not yet quite dark; in the second, deliberation killed time, and he had nothing to do between that hour and to-morrow morning, when he should call to know how Alfred was.

"Killing time," he thought, "is, when one is anxious, an excellent though slow way of killing one's self."

He pulled down the blinds, drew the curtains, and roused up the smouldering