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diff --git a/old/32340-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/32340-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dfeb9ea --- /dev/null +++ b/old/32340-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,23584 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The O'Donoghue, by Charles Lever + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The O'Donoghue, by Charles James Lever + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The O'Donoghue + Tale Of Ireland Fifty Years Ago + +Author: Charles James Lever + +Release Date: May 11, 2010 [EBook #32340] +Last Updated: February 28, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE O'DONOGHUE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h1> +THE O'DONOGHUE +</h1> +<h2> +TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO. +</h2> +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h2> +By Charles Lever +</h2> +<h3> +Dublin <br /><br /> William Curry, Jun. And Company. <br /><br /> William S. +Orr And Co. London. <br /><br /> Fraser And Co. Edinburgh. <br /><br /> 1845. +</h3> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img alt="frontispiece (231K)" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img alt="titlepage (27K)" src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> TO JOHN WILSON, ESQ., Professor of Moral Philosophy In the +University of Edinburgh, &c. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Dear Sir, + +It is but seldom that the few lines of a dedication can give +the pleasure I now feel in availing myself of your kind +permission to inscribe this volume to you. As a boy, the +greatest happiness of my life was in your writings; and +among all my faults and failures, I can trace not one to +your influence, while, if I have ever been momentarily +successful in upholding the right, and denouncing the wrong, +I owe more of the spirit that suggested the effort to +yourself than to any other man breathing. + +With my sincerest respects, and, if I dared, I should say, +with my warmest regards, + +I am, yours truly, + +CHARLES LEVER. + +Carlsruhe, October 18th, 1845. +</pre> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<blockquote> +<p class="toc"> +<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> +</p> +<p> +<br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THE O'DONOGHUE</b> </a><br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> GLENFLESK <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> THE WAYSIDE INN <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> THE “COTTAGE AND +THE CASTLE.” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> KERRY +O'LEARY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> IMPRESSIONS +OF IRELAND <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> THE +BLACK VALLEY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> SIR +ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. +</a> THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> +CHAPTER IX. </a> A DOCTOR'S VISIT <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> AN EVENING AT “MARY” + M'KELLY's <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> MISTAKES +ON ALL SIDES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> THE +GLEN AT MIDNIGHT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> THE +GUARDSMAN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> THE +COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTURE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> +CHAPTER XV. </a> SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> THE FOREIGN LETTER +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> KATE +O'DONOGHUE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> A +HASTY PLEDGE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> A +DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. +</a> TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> THE RETURN OF THE +ENVOY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> A +MORNING VISIT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> SOME +OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER +XXIV. </a> A WALK BY MOONLIGHT <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> A DAY OF DIFFICULT +NEGOCIATIONS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> A +LAST EVENING AT HOME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. +</a> A SUPPER PARTY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> +CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> FIRST IMPRESSIONS +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> OLD +CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER +XXXI. </a> SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> A PRESAGE OF DANGER +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. </a> THE +ST. PATRICK'S BALL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. +</a> THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a> THE WANDERER'S +RETURN <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a> SUSPICIONS +ON EVERY SIDE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. </a> HEMSWORTH'S +LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. </a> TAMPERING +AND PLOTTING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. </a> THE +BROTHERS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. </a> THE +LULL BEFORE THE STORM <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. +</a> A DISCOVERY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER +XLII. </a> THE SHEALING <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0043"> +CHAPTER XLIII. </a> THE CONFEDERATES <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> THE MOUNTAIN AT +SUNRISE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. </a> THE +PROGRESS OF TREACHERY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. +</a> THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0047"> +CHAPTER XLVII. </a> THE DAY OF RECKONING <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. </a> THE +GLEN AND THE BAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. </a> THE +END <br /><br /> +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h1> +THE O'DONOGHUE; +</h1> +<h2> +A TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO. +</h2> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER I. GLENFLESK. +</h2> +<p> +In that wild and picturesque valley which winds its way between the town +of Macroom and Bantry Bay, and goes by the name of Glenflesk, the +character of Irish scenery is perhaps more perfectly displayed than in any +other tract of the same extent in the island. The mountains, rugged and +broken, are singularly fanciful in their outline; their sides a mingled +mass of granite and straggling herbage, where the deepest green and the +red purple of the heath-bell are blended harmoniously together. The valley +beneath, alternately widening and narrowing, presents one rich meadow +tract, watered by a deep and rapid stream, fed by a thousand rills that +come tumbling, and foaming down the mountain sides, and to the traveller +are seen like white streaks marking the dark surface of the precipice. +Scarcely a hut is to be seen for miles of this lonely glen, and save for +the herds of cattle and the flocks of sheep here and there to be descried, +it would seem as if the spot had been forgotten by man, and left to sleep +in its own gloomy desolation. The river itself has a character of wildness +all its own-now, brawling over rugged rocks-now foaming between high and +narrow sides, abrupt as walls, sometimes, flowing over a ledge of granite, +without a ripple on the surface-then plunging madly into some dark abyss, +to emerge again, lower down the valley, in one troubled sea of foam and +spray: its dull roar the only voice that echoes in the mountain gorge. +Even where the humble roof of a solitary cabin can be seen, the aspect of +habitation rather heightens than diminishes the feeling of loneliness and +desolation around. The thought of poverty enduring its privations unseen +and unknown, without an eye to mark its struggles, or a heart to console +its griefs, comes mournfully on the mind, and one wonders what manner of +man he can be, who has fixed his dwelling in such solitude. +</p> +<p> +In vain the eye ranges to catch sight of one human being, save that dark +speck be such which crowns the cliff, and stands out from the clear sky +behind. Yes, it is a child watching the goats that are browsing along the +mountain, and as you look, the swooping mist has hidden him from your +view. Life of dreariness and gloom! What sad and melancholy thoughts must +be his companions, who spends the live-long day on these wild heaths, his +eye resting on the trackless waste where no fellow-creature moves! how +many a mournful dream will pass over his mind! what fearful superstitions +will creep in upon his imagination, giving form and shape to the flitting +clouds, and making the dark shadows, as they pass, seem things of life and +substance. +</p> +<p> +Poor child of sorrow! How destiny has marked you for misery! For you no +childish gambols in the sun—no gay playfellow—no paddling in +the running stream, that steals along bright and glittering, like happy +infancy—no budding sense of a fair world, opening in gladness; but +all, a dreary waste—the weariness of age bound up with the terrors +of childhood. +</p> +<p> +The sun was just setting on a mellow evening, late in the autumn of a year +towards the close of the last century, as a solitary traveller sat down to +rest himself on one of the large rocks by the road-side; divesting himself +of his gun and shot-pouch, he lay carelessly at his length, and seemed to +be enjoying the light breeze which came up the valley. +</p> +<p> +He was a young and powerfully-built man, whose well-knit frame and +muscular limbs showed how much habitual exercise had contributed to make +the steepest paths of the mountain a task of ease to him. He was scarcely +above the middle height, but with remarkable breadth of chest, and that +squareness of proportion which indicates considerable physical strength; +his countenance, except for a look of utter listlesness and vacuity, had +been pleasing; the eyes were large and full, and of the deep grey which +simulates blue; the nose large and well-formed; the mouth alone was +unprepossessing-the expression it wore was of ill-humour and discontent, +and this character seemed so habitual that even as he sat thus alone and +in solitude, the curl of the upper lip betrayed his nature. +</p> +<p> +His dress was a shooting-jacket of some coarse stuff, stained and washed +by many a mountain streamlet; loose trowsers of grey cloth, and heavy +shoes-such as are worn by the peasantry, wherever such luxuries are +attainable. It would have been difficult, at a mere glance, to have +decided what class or condition of life he pertained to; for, although +certain traits bespoke the person of a respectable rank, there was a +general air of neglect about him, that half contradicted the supposition. +He lay for some time perfectly motionless, when the tramp of horses at a +distance down the glen suddenly roused him from his seeming apathy, and +resting on his elbow he listened attentively. The sounds came nearer and +nearer, and now, the dull roll of a carriage could be heard approaching. +Strange noises these in that solitary valley, where even the hoofs of a +single horse but rarely routed the echoes. A sudden dip of the road at a +little distance from where he lay, concealed the view, and he remained in +anxious expectancy, wondering what these sounds should portend, when +suddenly the carriage seemed to have halted, and all was still. +</p> +<p> +For some minutes the youth appeared to doubt whether he had not been +deceived by some swooping of the wind through the passes in the mountains, +when the sound of voices fell on his ear, and at the same moment, two +figures appeared over the crest of the hill, slowly advancing up the road. +The one was a man advanced in years, but still hale and vigorous, in +look-his features even yet eminently handsome, wore an air of mingled +frankness and haughtiness; there was in their expression the habitual +character of one accustomed to exert a degree of command and influence +over others-a look, which of all the characteristics of temper, is least +easily mistaken. +</p> +<p> +At his side walked one who, even at a passing glance, might be pronounced +his daughter, so striking the resemblance between them, She did not seem +above sixteen years of age, but through the youthful traits of her +features you could mark the same character of expression her father's +wore, modified by the tender beauty, which at that age, blends the +loveliness of the girl with the graces of womanhood. Bather above than +below the middle height, her figure had that distinguishing mark of +elegance high birth impresses, and in her very walk a quick observer might +detect an air of class. +</p> +<p> +They both stopped short as they gained the summit of the hill, and +appeared wonder-struck at the scene before them. The grey gloom of +twilight threw its sombre shadows over the valley, but the mountain peaks +were tipped with the setting sun, and shone in those rich violet and +purple hues the autumn heath displays so beautifully. The dark-leaved +holly and the bright arbutus blossom lent their colour to every jutting +cliff and promontory, which, to eyes unacquainted with the scenery, gave +an air of culture strangely at variance with the desolation around. +</p> +<p> +“Is this wild enough for your fancy, Sybella,” said the father, with a +playful smile, as he watched the varying expression of the young girl's +features, “or would you desire something still more dreary?” But she made +no answer. Her gaze was fixed on a thin wreath of smoke that curled its +way upwards from what appeared a low mound of earth, in the valley below +the road; some branches of trees, covered with sods of earth, grass-grown +and still green, were heaped up together, and through these the vapour +found a passage and floated into the air. +</p> +<p> +“I am wondering what that fire can mean,” said she, pointing downwards +with her finger. +</p> +<p> +“Here is some one will explain it,” said the old man, as for the first +time he perceived the youth, who still maintained his former attitude on +the bank, and with a studied indifference, paid no attention to those +whose presence had before so much surprised him. +</p> +<p> +“I say, my good fellow, what does that smoke mean we see yonder?” + </p> +<p> +The youth sprung to his feet with a bound that almost startled his +questioner, so sudden and abrupt the motion; his features, inactive and +colourless the moment before, seemed almost convulsed now, while they +became dark with blood. +</p> +<p> +“Was it to me you spoke?” said he, in a low guttural tone, which his +passion made actually tremulous. +</p> +<p> +“Yes—” + </p> +<p> +But before the old man could reply, his daughter, with the quick tact of +womanhood, perceiving the mistake her father had fallen into, hastily +interrupted him by saying,— +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, we were asking you the cause of the fire at the foot of that +cliff.” + </p> +<p> +The tone and the manner in which the words were uttered seemed at once to +have disarmed his anger; and although for a second or two he made no +answer, his features recovered their former half-listless look, as he said— +</p> +<p> +“It is a cabin—There is another yonder, beside the river.” + </p> +<p> +“A cabin! Surely you cannot mean that people are living there?” said the +girl, as a sickly pallor spread itself across her cheeks. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, to be sure,” replied the youth; “they have no better hereabouts.” + </p> +<p> +“What poverty—what dreadful misery is this!” said she, as the great +tears gushed forth, and stole heavily down her face. +</p> +<p> +“They are not so poor,” answered the young man, in a voice of almost +reproof. “The cattle along that mountain all belong to these people—the +goats you see in that glen are theirs also.” + </p> +<p> +“And whose estate may this be?” said the old man. +</p> +<p> +Either the questioner or his question seemed to have called up again the +youth's former resentment, for he fixed his eyes steadily on him for some +time without a word, and then slowly added— +</p> +<p> +“This belongs to an Englishman—a certain Sir Marmaduke Travers—It +is the estate of O'Donoghue.” + </p> +<p> +“Was, you mean, once,” answered the old man quickly. +</p> +<p> +“I mean what I say,” replied the other rudely. “Confiscation cannot take +away a right, it can at most—” + </p> +<p> +This speech was fortunately not destined to be finished, for while he was +speaking, his quick glance detected a dark object soaring above his head. +In a second he had seized his gun, and taking a steady aim, he fired. The +loud report was heard repeated in many a far-off glen, and ere its last +echo died away, a heavy object fell upon the road not many yards from +where they stood. +</p> +<p> +“This fellow,” said the youth, as he lifted the body of a large black +eagle from the ground—“This fellow was a confiscator too, and see +what he has come to. You'd not tell me that our lambs were his, would +you?” + </p> +<p> +The roll of wheels happily drowned these words, for by this time the +postillions had reached the place, the four post-horses labouring under +the heavy-laden travelling carriage, with its innumerable boxes and +imperials. +</p> +<p> +The post boys saluted the young man with marked deference, to which he +scarcely deigned an acknowledgment, as he replaced his shot-pouch, and +seemed to prepare for the road once more. +</p> +<p> +Meanwhile the old gentleman had assisted his daughter to the carriage, and +was about to follow, when he turned around suddenly and said— +</p> +<p> +“If your road lies this way, may I offer you a seat with us?” + </p> +<p> +The youth stared as if he did not well comprehend the offer, and his cheek +flushed, as he answered coldly— +</p> +<p> +“I thank you; but my path is across the mountain.” + </p> +<p> +Both parties saluted distantly, the door of the carriage closed, and the +word to move on was given, when the young man, taking two dark feathers +from the eagle's wing, approached the window. +</p> +<p> +“I was forgetting,” said he, in a voice of hesitation and diffidence, +“perhaps you would accept these feathers.” + </p> +<p> +The young girl smiled, and half blushing, muttered some words in reply, as +she took the offered present. The horses sprung forward the next instant, +and a few minutes after, the road was as silent and deserted as before; +and save the retiring sound of the wheels, nothing broke the stillness. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER II. THE WAYSIDE INN +</h2> +<p> +As the glen continues to wind between the mountains, it gradually becomes +narrower, and at last contracts to a mere cleft, flanked on either side by +two precipitous walls of rock, which rise to the height of several hundred +feet above the road; this is the pass of Keim-an-eigh, one of the wildest +and most romantic ravines of the scenery of the south. +</p> +<p> +At the entrance to this pass there stood, at the time we speak of, a small +wayside inn, or shebeen-house, whose greatest recommendation was in the +feet, that it was the only place where shelter and refreshment could be +obtained for miles on either side. An humble thatched cabin abutting +against the granite rock of the glen, and decorated with an almost effaced +sign of St. Finbar converting a very unprepossessing heathen, over the +door, showed where Mary M'Kelly dispensed “enthertainment for man and +baste.” + </p> +<p> +A chance traveller, bestowing a passing glance upon this modest edifice, +might deem that an inn in such a dreary and unfrequented valley, must +prove a very profitless speculation—few, very few travelled the road—fewer +still would halt to bait within ten miles of Bantry. Report, however, said +differently; the impression in the country was, that “Mary's”—as it +was briefly styled—had a readier share of business than many a more +promising and pretentious hotel; in fact, it was generally believed to be +the resort of all the smugglers of the coast; and the market, where the +shopkeepers of the interior repaired in secret to purchase the contraband +wares and “run goods,” which poured into the country from the shores of +France and Holland. +</p> +<p> +Vast storehouses and caves were said to exist in the rock behind the +house, to store away the valuable goods, which from time to time arrived; +and it was currently believed that the cargo of an Indiaman might have +been concealed within these secret recesses, and never a cask left in view +to attract suspicion. +</p> +<p> +It is not into these gloomy receptacles of contraband that we would now +conduct our reader, but into a far more cheerful and more comfortable +locality—the spacious kitchen of the cabin, or, in fact, the +apartment which served for the double purpose of cooking and eating—the +common room of the inn, where around a blazing fire of black turf was +seated a party of three persons. +</p> +<p> +At one side sat the fat and somewhat comely figure of Mary herself, a +woman of some five-and-forty years, with that expression of rough and +ready temperament, the habits of a wayside inn will teach. She had a +clear, full eye—a wide, but not unpleasant mouth—and a voice +that suited well the mellifluous intonation of a Kerry accent. Opposite to +her were two thin, attenuated old men, who, for dress, look, age, voice, +and manner, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish from each +other; for while the same weather-beaten, shrivelled expression was common +to both, their jackets of blue cloth, leather breeches, and top boots, +were so precisely alike, that they seemed the very Dromios brought back to +life, to perform as postillions. Such they were—such they had been +for above fifty years. They had travelled the country from the time they +were boys—they entered the career together, and together they were +jogging onward to the last stage of all, the only one where they hoped to +be at rest! Joe and Jim Daly were two names no one ever heard disunited; +they were regarded as but one corporeally, and although they affected at +times to make distinctions themselves, the world never gave them credit +for any consciousness of separate identity. These were the postillions of +the travelling carriage, which having left at its destination, about two +miles distant, they were now regaling themselves at Mary's, where the +horses were to rest for the night. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, ma'am, and it's driving ye may call it,” said one of the pair, as +he sipped a very smoking compound the hostess had just mixed, “a hard +gallop every step of the way, barrin' the bit of a hill at Carrignacurra.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I hope ye had the decent hansel for it, any how, Jim?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm Joe, ma'am, av its plazing to ye; Jim is the pole-end boy; he rides +the layders. And it's true for ye—they behaved dacent.” + </p> +<p> +“A goold guinea, divil a less”—said the other, “there's no use in +denying it. Begorra, it was all natural, them's as rich as Crasis; sure +didn't I see the young lady herself throwing out the tenpenny bits to the +gossoons, as we went by, as if it was dirt; bad luck to me, but I was +going to throw down the Bishop of Cloyne.” + </p> +<p> +“Throw down who?” said the hostess. +</p> +<p> +“The near wheeler, ma'am; he's a broken-kneed ould divil, we bought from +the bishop, and called him after him; and as I was saying, I was going to +cross them on the pole, and get a fall, just to have a scramble for the +money, with the gaffers.” + </p> +<p> +“'They look so poor,' says she. God help her—it's little poverty she +saw—there isn't one of them crayters hasn't a sack of potatoes.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay—more of them a pig.” + </p> +<p> +“And hens,” chimed in the first speaker, with a horror at the imposition +of people so comfortably endowed, affecting to feel any pressure or +poverty. +</p> +<p> +“And what's bringing them here at all?” said Mrs. M'Kelly, with a voice of +some asperity; for she foresaw no pleasant future in the fact of a +resident great man, who would not be likely to give any encouragement to +the branch of traffic her principal customers followed. +</p> +<p> +“Sorrow one of me knows,” was the safe reply of the individual addressed, +who not being prepared with any view of the matter, save that founded on +the great benefit to the country, preferred this answer to a more decisive +one. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis to improve the property, they say,” interposed the other, who was +not equally endowed with caution. “To look after the estate himself he has +come.” + </p> +<p> +“Improve, indeed!” echoed the hostess. “Much we want their improving! Why +didn't they leave us the ould families of the country? It's little we used +to hear of improving, when I was a child. God be good to us.—There +was ould Miles O'Donoghue, the present man's father, I'd like to see what +he'd say, if they talked to him about improvement. Ayeh! sure I mind the +time a hogshead of claret didn't do the fortnight. My father, rest his +soul, used to go up to the house every Monday morning for orders; and ye'd +see a string of cars following him at the same time, with tay, and sugar, +and wine, and brandy, and oranges, and lemons. Them was the raal +improvements!” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis true for ye, ma'am. It was a fine house, I always heerd tell.” + </p> +<p> +“Forty-six in the kitchen, besides about fourteen colleens and gossoons +about the place; the best of enthertainment up stairs and down.” + </p> +<p> +“Musha! that was grand.” + </p> +<p> +“A keg of sperits, with a spigot, in the servants' hall, and no saying by +your leave, but drink while ye could stand over it.” + </p> +<p> +“The Lord be good to us!” piously ejaculated the twain. +</p> +<p> +“The hams was boiled in sherry wine.” + </p> +<p> +“Begorra, I wish I was a pig them times.” + </p> +<p> +“And a pike daren't come up to table without an elegant pudding in his +belly that cost five pounds!” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis the fish has their own luck always,” was the profound meditation at +this piece of good fortune. +</p> +<p> +“Ayeh! ayeh!” continued the hostess in a strain of lamentation, “When the +ould stock was in it, we never heerd tell of improvements. He'll be making +me take out a license, I suppose,” said she, in a voice of half +contemptuous incredulity. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, there's no knowing,” said Joe, as he shook the ashes out of his +pipe, and nodded his head sententiously, as though to say, that in the +miserable times they'd fallen upon, any thing was possible. +</p> +<p> +“Licensed for sperits and groceries,” said Mrs. M'Kelly, with a sort of +hysterical giggle, as if the thought were too much for her nerves. +</p> +<p> +“I wouldn't wonder if he put up a pike,” stammered out Jim, thereby +implying that human atrocity would have reached its climax. +</p> +<p> +The silence which followed this terrible suggestion, was now loudly +interrupted by a smart knocking at the door of the cabin, which was +already barred and locked for the night. +</p> +<p> +“Who's there?” said Mary, as she held a cloak across the blaze of the +fire, so as to prevent the light being seen through the apertures of the +door—“'tis in bed we are, and late enough, too.” + </p> +<p> +“Open the door, Mary, it's me,” said a somewhat confident voice. “I saw +the fire burning brightly—and there's no use hiding it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, troth, Mr. Mark, I'll not keep ye out in the cowld,” said the +hostess, as, unbarring the door, she admitted the guest whom we had seen +some time since in the glen. “Sure enough, 'tisn't an O'Donoghue we'd shut +the door agin, any how.” + </p> +<p> +“Thank ye, Mary,” said the young man; “I have been all day in the +mountains, and had no sport; and as that pleasant old Scotch uncle of mine +gives me no peace, when I come home empty-handed, I have resolved to stay +here for the night, and try my luck to-morrow. Don't stir, Jim—there's +room enough, Joe: Mary's fire is never so grudging, but there's a warm +place for every one. What's in this big pot here, Mary?” + </p> +<p> +“It's a stew, sir; more by token, of your honour's providin'.” “Mine—how +is that?” + </p> +<p> +“The hare ye shot afore the door, yesterday morning; sure it's raal luck +we have it for you now;” and while Mary employed herself in the pleasant +hustle of preparing the supper, the young man drew near to the fire, and +engaged the others in conversation. +</p> +<p> +“That travelling carriage was going on to Bantry, Joe, I suppose?” said +the youth, in a tone of easy indifference. +</p> +<p> +“No sir; they stopped at the lodge above.” + </p> +<p> +“At the lodge!—surely you can't mean that they were the English +family—Sir Marmaduke.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis just himself, and his daughter. I heerd them say the names, as we +were leaving Macroom. They were not expected here these three weeks; and +Captain Hemsworth, the agent, isn't at home; and they say there's no +servants at the lodge, nor nothin' ready for the quality at all; and sure +when a great lord like that—” + </p> +<p> +“He is not a lord you fool; he has not a drop of noble blood in his body: +he's a London banker—rich enough to buy birth, if gold could do it.” + The youth paused in his vehemence; then added, in a muttering voice—“Rich +enough to buy up the inheritance of those who have blood in their veins.” + </p> +<p> +The tone of voice in which the young man spoke, and the angry look which +accompanied these words, threw a gloom over the party, and for some time +nothing was said on either side. At last he broke silence abruptly by +saying— +</p> +<p> +“And that was his daughter, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; and a purty crayture she is, and a kind-hearted. The moment she +heerd she was on her father's estate, she began asking the names of all +the people, and if they were well off, and what they had to ate, and where +was the schools.” + </p> +<p> +“The schools!” broke in Mary, in an accent of great derision—“musha, +it's great schooling we want up the glen, to teach us to bear poverty and +cowld, without complaining: learning is a fine thing for the hunger—” + </p> +<p> +Her irony was too delicate for the thick apprehension of poor Jim, who +felt himself addressed by the remark, and piously responded— +</p> +<p> +“It is so, glory be to God!” + </p> +<p> +“Well,” said the young man, who now seemed all eagerness to resume the +subject—“well, and what then?” + </p> +<p> +“Then, she was wondering where was the roads up to the cabins on the +mountains, as if the likes of them people had roads!” + </p> +<p> +“They've ways of their own—the English,” interrupted Jim, who felt +jealous of his companion being always referred to—“for whenever we +passed a little potatoe garden, or a lock of oak, it was always, 'God be +good to us, but they're mighty poor hereabouts;' but when we got into the +raal wild part of the glen, with divil a house nor a human being near us, +sorrow word out of their mouths but 'fine, beautiful, elegant!' till we +came to Keim-an-eigh, and then, ye'd think that it was fifty acres of +wheat they were looking at, wid all the praises they had for the big +rocks, and black cliffs oyer our heads.” + </p> +<p> +“I showed them your honour's father's place on the mountains,” said Joe. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, faith,” broke in Jim; “and the young lady laughed and said, 'you +see, father, we have a neighbour after all.'” + </p> +<p> +The blood mounted to the youth's cheek, till it became almost purple, but +he did not utter a word. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis the O'Donoghue, my lady,' said I,” continued Joe, who saw the +difficulty of the moment, and hastened to relieve it—“that's his +castle up there, with the high tower. 'Twas there the family lived these +nine hundred years, whin the whole country was their own; and they wor +kings here.” + </p> +<p> +“And did you hear what the ould gentleman said then?” asked Jim. +</p> +<p> +“No, I didn't—I wasn't mindin' him,” rejoined Joe; endeavouring with +all his might to repress the indiscreet loquacity of the other. +</p> +<p> +“What was it, Jim?” said the young man, with a forced smile. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, he begun a laughing, yer honour, and says he, 'We must pay our +respects at Coort,' says he; 'and I'm sure we'll be well received, for we +know his Royal Highness already—that's what he called yer honour.” + </p> +<p> +The youth sprang to his feet, with a gesture so violent and sudden, as to +startle the whole party. +</p> +<p> +“What,” he exclaimed, “and are we sunk so low, as to be a scoff and a jibe +to a London money-changer? If I but heard him speak the words—” + </p> +<p> +“Arrah, he never said it at all,” said Joe, with a look that made his +counterpart tremble all over. “That bosthoon there, would make you believe +he was in the coach, convarsing the whole way with him. Sure wasn't I +riding the wheeler, and never heerd a word of it. Whisht, I tell ye, and +don't provoke me.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, stop your mouth with some of this,” interposed Mary, as she helped +the smoking and savoury mess around the table. +</p> +<p> +Jim looked down abashed and ashamed; his testimony was discredited; and +without knowing why or wherefore, he yet had an indistinct glimmering that +any effort to vindicate his character would be ill-received; he therefore +said nothing more: his silence was contagious, and the meal which a few +moments before promised so pleasantly, passed off with gloom and +restraint. +</p> +<p> +All Mary M'Kelly's blandishments, assisted by a smoking cup of mulled +claret—a beverage which not a Chateau on the Rhone could rival in +racy flavour—failed to recall the young man's good-humour: he sat in +gloomy silence, only broken at intervals by sounds of some low muttering +to himself. Mary at length having arranged the little room for his +reception, bade him good night, and retired to rest. The postillions +sought their dens over the stable, and the youth, apparently lost in his +own thoughts, sat alone by the embers of the turf fire, and at last sunk +to sleep where he was, by the chimney-corner. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER III. THE “COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE.” + </h2> +<p> +Of Sir Marmaduke Travers, there is little to tell the reader beyond what +the few hints thrown out already may have conveyed to him. He was a London +banker, whose wealth was reputed to be enormous. Originally a younger son, +he succeeded somewhat late in life to the baronetcy and large estates of +his family. The habits, however, of an active city life—the pursuits +which a long career had made a second nature to him—rendered him +both unfit to eater upon the less exciting duties of a country gentleman's +existence, and made him regard such as devoid of interest or amusement. He +continued therefore to reside in London for many years after he became the +baronet; and it was only at the death of his wife, to whom he was +devotedly attached, that these habits became distasteful; he found that he +could no longer continue a course which companionship and mutual feeling +had rendered agreeable, and he resolved at once to remove to some one of +his estates, where a new sphere of occupation might alleviate the sorrows +of his loss. To this no obstacle of any kind existed. His only son was +already launched into life as an officer in the guards; and, except his +daughter, so lately before the reader, he had no other children. The +effort to attain forgetfulness was not more successful here, than it is +usually found to be. The old man sought, but found not in a country life +the solace he expected; neither his tastes nor his habits suited those of +his neighbours; he was little of a sportsman, still less of a farmer. The +intercourse of country social life was a poor recompense for the unceasing +flow of London society. He grew wearied very soon of his experiment, and +longed once more to return to his old haunts and habits. One more chance, +however, remained for him, and he was unwilling to reject without trying +it. This was, to visit Ireland, where he possessed a large estate, which +he had never seen. The property, originally mortgaged to his father, was +represented as singularly picturesque and romantic, possessing great +mineral wealth, and other resources, never examined into, nor made +available. His agent, Captain Hemsworth, a gentleman who resided on the +estate, at his annual visit to the proprietor, used to dilate upon the +manifold advantages and capabilities of the property, and never ceased to +implore him to pay a visit, if even for a week or two, sincerely trusting +the while that such an intention might never occur to him. These +entreaties, made from year to year, were the regular accompaniment of +every settlement of account, and as readily replied to by a half promise, +which the maker was certainly not more sincere in pledging. +</p> +<p> +Three years of country life had now, however, disposed Sir Marmaduke to +reflect on this long unperformed journey; and, regardless of the fact that +his agent was then grouse-shooting in Scotland, he set out at a moment's +notice, and without a word to apprise the household at the lodge of his +intended arrival, reached the house in the evening of an autumn day, by +the road we have already been describing. +</p> +<p> +It is but justice to Sir Marmaduke to add, that he was prompted to this +step by other than mere selfish considerations. The state of Ireland had +latterly become a topic of the press in both countries. The poverty of the +people—interpreted in various ways, and ascribed to very opposite +causes—was a constant theme of discussion and conversation. The +strange phenomenon of a land teeming with abundance, yet overrun by a +starving population, had just then begun to attract notice; and theories +were rife in accounting for that singular and anomalous social condition, +which unhappily the experience of an additional half century has not +succeeded in solving. +</p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke was well versed in these popular writings; he had the “Whole +State of Ireland” by heart; and so firmly was he persuaded that his +knowledge of the subject was perfect, that he became actually impatient +until he had reached the country, and commenced the great scheme of +regeneration and civilization, by which Ireland and her people were to be +placed among the most favoured nations. He had heard much of Irish +indolence and superstition—Irish bigotry and intolerance—the +indifference to comfort—the indisposition to exertion—the +recklessness of the present—the improvidence of the future; he had +been told that saint-days and holydays mulcted labour of more than half +its due—that ignorance made the other half almost valueless; he had +read, that, the easy contentment with poverty, had made all industry +distasteful, and all exertion, save what was actually indispensable, a +thing to be avoided. +</p> +<p> +“Why should these things be, when they were not so in Norfolk, nor in +Yorkshire?” was the question he ever asked, and to which his knowledge +furnished no reply. There, superstitions, if they existed—and he +knew not if they did—came not in the way of daily labour. Saints +never unharnessed the team, nor laid the plough inactive—comfort was +a stimulant to industry that none disregarded; habits of order and decorum +made the possessor respected—poverty almost argued misconduct, and +certainly was deemed a reproach. Why then not propagate the system of +these happy districts in Ireland? To do this was the great end and object +of his visit. +</p> +<p> +Philanthropy would often seem unhappily to have a dislike to the practical—the +generous emotions appear shorn of their freedom, when trammelled with the +fruit of experience or reflection. So, certainly it was, in the case +before us. Sir Marmaduke had the very best intentions—the weakest +notions of their realization; the most unbounded desire for good—the +very narrowest conceptions of how to effect it. Like most theorists, no +speculative difficulty was great enough to deter—no practical +obstacle was so small as not to affright him. It never apparently occurred +to him that men are not every where alike, and this trifling omission was +the source of difficulties, which he persisted in ascribing to causes +outside of himself. Generous, kind-hearted, and benevolent, he easily +forgave an injury, never willingly inflicted one; he was also, however, +hot-tempered and passionate; he could not brook opposition to his will, +where its object seemed laudable to himself, and was utterly unable to +make allowance for prejudices and leanings in others, simply because he +had never experienced them in his own breast. +</p> +<p> +Such was, in a few words, the present occupant of “the Lodge”—as the +residence of the agent was styled. Originally a hunting box, it had been +enlarged and ornamented by Captain Hemsworth, and converted into a cottage +of singular beauty, without, and no mean pretension to comfort, within +doors. It occupied an indenture of the glen of Keim-an-eigh, and stood on +the borders of a small mountain-lake, the surface of which was dotted with +wooded islands. Behind the cottage, and favoured by the shelter of the +ravine, the native oaks grew to a great size, and contrasted by the rich +foliage waving in the breeze, with the dark sides of the cliff opposite, +rugged, barren and immutable. +</p> +<p> +In all the luxuriance of this mild climate, shrubs attained the height of +trees; and flowers, rare enough elsewhere to demand the most watchful +care, grew here, unattended and unregarded. The very grass had a depth of +green, softer and more pleasing to the eye than in other places. It seemed +as if nature had, in compensation for the solitude around, shed her +fairest gifts over this lonely spot, one bright gem in the dreary sky of +winter. +</p> +<p> +About a mile further down the glen, and seated on a lofty pinnacle of +rock, immediately above the road, stood the once proud castle of the +O'Donoghue. Two square and massive towers still remained to mark its +ancient strength, and the ruins of various outworks and bastions could be +traced, extending for a considerable distance on every side. Between these +square towers, and occupying the space where originally a curtain wall +stood, a long low building now extended, whose high-pitched roof and +narrow windows vouched for an antiquity of little more than a hundred +years. It was a strange incongruous pile, in which fortress and farm-house +seemed welded together—the whole no bad type of its past and its +present owners. The approach was by a narrow causeway, cut in the rock, +and protected by a square keep, through whose deep arch the road +penetrated—flanked on either hand by a low battlemented wall; along +these, two rows of lime trees grew, stately and beautiful in the midst of +all the ruin about them. They spread their waving foliage around, and +threw a mellow, solemn shadow along the walk. Except these, not a tree, +nor even a shrub, was to be seen—the vast woods of nature's own +planting had disappeared—the casualties of war—the chances of +times of trouble, or the more ruinous course of poverty, had laid them +low, and the barren mountain now stood revealed, where once were waving +forests and shady groves, the home of summer birds, the lair of the wild +deer. +</p> +<p> +Cows and farm-horses were stabled in what once had been the outworks of +the castle. Implements of husbandry lay carelessly on all sides, neglect +and decay marked every thing, the garden-wall was broken down in many +places, and cattle strayed at will among the torn fruit-trees and +dilapidated terraces, while, as if to add to the dreary aspect of the +scene, the ground for a considerable distance around had been tilled, but +never subsequently restored to grass land, and now along its ridged +surface noisome weeds and thistles grew rankly, tainting the air with +their odour, and sending up heavy exhalations from the moist and spongy +earth. If, without, all looked sad and sorrow-struck, the appearances +within, were not much better. A large flagged-hall, opened upon two long +ill-lighted corridors, from which a number of small sitting-rooms led off. +Many of these were perfectly devoid of furniture; in the others, what +remained seemed to owe its preservation to its want of value rather than +any other quality. Cracked looking-glasses—broken chairs, rudely +mended by some country hand—ragged and patched carpets, were the +only things to be found, with here and there some dirt-disfigured piece of +framed canvas, which, whether tapestry or painting, no eye could now +discover. These apartments bore little or no trace of habitation; indeed, +for many years they were rarely entered by any one. A large square room in +one of the towers, of some forty feet in dimensions, was the ordinary +resort of the family, serving the purposes of drawing and dining-room. +This was somewhat better in appearance: whatever articles of furniture had +any pretension to comfort or convenience were here assembled; and here, +were met, old-fashioned sofas, deep arm-chairs, quaint misshapen tables +like millipedes, and fat old footstools, the pious work of long-forgotten +grandmothers. A huge screen, covered with a motley array of prints and +caricatures, cut off the group around the ample fire-place from the +remainder of the apartment, and it is within this charmed circle we would +now conduct our reader. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00038.jpg" width="100%" alt="038 " /> +</div> +<p> +In the great arm-chair, to the right of the ample fire-place, sat a +powerfully built old man, whose hair was white as snow, and fell in long +waving masses at either side of his head. His forehead, massive and +expanded, surmounted two dark, penetrating eyes, which even extreme old +age had not deprived of their lustre. The other features of his face were +rather marked by a careless, easy sensuality, than by any other character, +except that in the mouth the expression of firmness was strongly +displayed. His dress was a strange mixture of the costume of gentleman and +peasant. His coat, worn and threadbare, bore traces of better days, in its +cut and fashion; his vest also showed the fragment of tarnished embroidery +along the margin of the flapped pockets; but the coarse knee breeches of +corduroy, and the thick grey lambswool stockings, wrinkled along the legs, +were no better than those worn by the poorer farmers of the neighbourhood. +</p> +<p> +This was the O'Donoghue himself. Opposite to him sat one as unlike him in +every respect as it was possible to conceive. He was a tall, spare, +raw-boned figure, whose grey eyes and high cheek-bones bore traces of a +different race from that of the aged chieftain. An expression of intense +acuteness pervaded every feature of his face, and seemed concentrated +about the angles of the mouth, where a series of deep wrinkles were seen +to cross and intermix with each other, omens of a sarcastic spirit, +indulged without the least restraint on the part of its possessor. His +wiry grey hair was brushed rigidly back from his bony temples, and +fastened into a short queue behind, thus giving greater apparent length to +his naturally long and narrow face. His dress was that of a gentleman of +the time: a full-skirted coat of a dark brown, with a long vest descending +below the hips; breeches somewhat a deeper shade of the same colour, and +silk stockings, with silver-buckled shoes, completed an attire which, if +plain, was yet scrupulously neat and respectable. As he sat, almost bolt +upright, in his chair, there was a look of vigilance and alertness about +him very opposite to the careless, nearly drooping air of the O'Donoghue. +Such was Sir Archibald M'Nab, the brother of the O'Donoghue's late wife, +for the old man had been a widower for several years. Certain +circumstances of a doubtful and mysterious nature had made him leave his +native country of Scotland many years before, and since that, he had taken +up his abode with his brother-in-law, whose retired habits and solitary +residence afforded the surest guarantee against his ever being traced. His +age must have been almost as great as the O'Donoghue's; but the energy of +his character, the lightness of his frame, and the habits of his life, all +contributed to make him seem much younger. +</p> +<p> +Never were two natures more dissimilar. The one, reckless, lavish, and +improvident; the other, cautious, saving, and full of forethought. +O'Donoghue was frank and open—his opinions easily known—his +resolutions hastily formed. M'Nab was close and secret, carefully weighing +every thing before he made up his mind, and not much given to imparting +his notions, when he had done so. +</p> +<p> +In one point alone was there any similarity between them—pride of +ancestry and birth they both possessed in common; but this trait, so far +from serving to reconcile the other discrepancies of their naturess, kept +them even wider apart, and added to the passive estrangement of +ill-matched associates, an additional element of active discord. +</p> +<p> +There was a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who sat beside +the fire on a low stool, busily engaged in deciphering, by the fitful +light of the bog-wood, the pages of an old volume, in which he seemed +deeply interested. The blazing pine, as it threw its red gleam over the +room, showed the handsome forehead of the youth, and the ample locks of a +rich auburn, which hung in clusters over it; while his face was strikingly +like the old man's, the mildness of its expression—partly the result +of youth, partly the character imparted by his present occupation—was +unlike that of either his father or brother; for Herbert O'Donoghue was +the younger son of the house, and was said, both in temper and appearance, +to resemble his mother. +</p> +<p> +At a distance from the fire, and with a certain air of half assurance, +half constraint, sat a man of some five-and-thirty years of age, whose +dress of green coat, short breeches, and top boots, suggested at once the +jockey, to which the mingled look of confidence and cunning bore ample +corroboration. This was a well-known character in the south of Ireland at +that time. His name was Lanty Lawler. The sporting habits of the gentry—their +easiness on the score of intimacy—the advantages of a ready-money +purchaser, whenever they wished “to weed their stables,” admitted the +horse-dealer pretty freely among a class, to which neither his habits nor +station could have warranted him in presenting himself. But, in addition +to these qualities, Lanty was rather a prize in remote and unvisited +tracts, such as the one we have been describing, his information being +both great and varied in every thing going forward. He had the latest news +of the capital—the fashions of hair and toilet—the colours +worn by the ladies in vogue, and the newest rumours of any intended change—he +knew well the gossip of politics and party—upon the probable turn of +events in and out of parliament he could hazard a guess, with a fair +prospect of accuracy. With the prices of stock and the changes in the +world of agriculture he was thoroughly familiar, and had besides a world +of stories and small-talk on every possible subject, which he brought +forth with the greatest tact as regarded the tastes and character of his +company, one-half of his acquaintances being totally ignorant of the gifts +and graces, by which he obtained fame and character with the other. +</p> +<p> +A roving vagabond life gave him a certain free-and-easy air, which, among +the majority of his associates, was a great source of his popularity; but +he well knew when to lay this aside, and assume the exact shade of +deference and respect his company might require. If then with O'Donoghue +himself, he would have felt perfectly at ease, the presence of Sir Archy, +and his taciturn solemnity, was a sad check upon him, and mingled the +freedom he felt with a degree of reserve far from comfortable. However, he +had come for a purpose, and, if successful, the result would amply +remunerate him for any passing inconvenience he might incur; and with this +thought he armed himself, as he entered the room some ten minutes before. +</p> +<p> +“So you are looking for Mark,” said the O'Donoghue to Lanty. “You can't +help hankering after that grey mare of his.” + </p> +<p> +“Sure enough, sir, there's no denying it. I'll have to give him the forty +pounds for her, though, as sure as I'm here, she's not worth the money; +but when I've a fancy for a beast, or take a conceit out of her—it's +no use, I must buy her—that's it!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I don't think he'll give her to you now, Lanty; he has got her so +quiet—so gentle—that I doubt he'll part with her.” + </p> +<p> +“It's little a quiet one suits him; faix, he'd soon tire of her if she +wasn't rearing or plunging like mad! He's an elegant rider, God bless him. +I've a black horse now that would mount him well; he's out of +'Divil-may-care,' Mooney's horse, and can take six foot of a wall flying, +with fourteen stone on his back; and barring the least taste of a capped +hock, you could not see speck nor spot about him wrong.” + </p> +<p> +“He's in no great humour for buying just now,” interposed the O'Donoghue, +with a voice to which some suddenly awakened recollection imparted a tone +of considerable depression. +</p> +<p> +“Sure we might make a swop with the mare,” rejoined Lanty, determined not +to be foiled so easily; and then, as no answer was forthcoming, after a +long pause, he added, “and havn't I the elegant pony for Master Herbert +there; a crame colour—clean bred—with white mane and tail. If +he was the Prince of Wales he might ride her. She has racing speed—they +tell me, for I only have her a few days; and, faix, ye'd win all the +county stakes with her.” + </p> +<p> +The youth looked up from his book, and listened with glistening eyes and +animated features to the description, which, to one reared as he was, +possessed no common attraction. +</p> +<p> +“Sure I'll send over for her to-morrow, and you can try her,” said Lanty, +as if replying to the gaze with which the boy regarded him. +</p> +<p> +“Ye mauna do nae sich a thing,” broke in M'Nab. “Keep your rogueries and +rascalities for the auld generation ye hae assisted to ruin; but leave the +young anes alane to mind ither matters than dicing and horse-racing.” + </p> +<p> +Either the O'Donoghue conceived the allusion one that bore hardly on +himself, or he felt vexed that the authority of a father over his son +should have been usurped by another, or both causes were in operation +together, but he turned an angry look on Sir Archy, and said— +</p> +<p> +“And why shouldn't the boy ride? was there ever one of his name or family +that didn't know how to cross a country? I don't intend him for a highland +pedlar.” + </p> +<p> +“He might be waur,” retorted M'Nab, solemnly, “he might be an Irish +beggar.” + </p> +<p> +“By my soul, sir,” broke in O'Donoghue; but fortunately an interruption +saved the speech from being concluded, for at the same moment the door +opened, and Mark O'Donoghue, travel-stained and weary-looking, entered the +room. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Mark,” said the old man, as his eyes glistened at the appearance of +his favourite son—“what sport, boy?” + </p> +<p> +“Poor enough, sir; five brace in two days is nothing to boast of, besides +two hares. Ah, Lanty—you here; how goes it?” + </p> +<p> +“Purty well, as times go, Mr. Mark,” said the horse-dealer, affecting a +degree of deference he would not have deemed necessary had they been +alone. “I'm glad to see you back again.” + </p> +<p> +“Why—what old broken-down devils have you now got on hand to pass +off upon us? It's fellows like you destroy the sport of the country. You +carry away every good horse to be found, and cover the country with +spavined, wind-galled brutes, not fit for the kennel.” + </p> +<p> +“That's it, Mark—give him a canter, lad,” cried the old man, +joyfully. +</p> +<p> +“I know what you are at well enough,” resumed the youth, encouraged by +these tokens of approval; “you want that grey mare of mine. You have some +fine English officer ready to give you an hundred and fifty, or, may be, +two hundred guineas, for her, the moment you bring her over to England.” + </p> +<p> +“May I never— +</p> +<p> +“That's the trade you drive. Nothing too bad for us—nothing too good +for them.” + </p> +<p> +“See now, Mr. Mark, I hope I may never———” + </p> +<p> +“Well, Lanty, one word for all; I'd rather send a bullet through her skull +this minute, than let you have her for one of your fine English patrons.” + </p> +<p> +“Won't you let me speak a word at all,” interposed the horse-dealer, in an +accent half imploring, half deprecating. “If I buy the mare—and it +isn't for want of a sporting offer if I don't—she'll never go to +England—no—devil a step. She's for one in the country here +beside you; but I won't say more, and there now.” At these words he drew a +soiled black leather pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and opening +it, displayed a thick roll of bank notes, tied with a piece of string—“There +now—there's sixty pounds in that bundle there—at least I hope +so, for I never counted it since I got it—take it for her or leave +it—just as you like; and may I never have luck with a beast, but +there's not a gentleman in the county would give the same money for her.” + Here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, “Sure the speedy cut is +ten pounds off her price any day, between two brothers.” + </p> +<p> +“What!” said the youth, as his brows met in passion, and his heightened +colour showed how his anger was raised. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well—it's no matter, there's my offer; and if I make a ten +pound note of her, sure it's all I live by; I wasn't born to an estate and +a fine property, like yourself.” + </p> +<p> +These words, uttered in such a tone as to be inaudible to the rest, seemed +to mollify the young man's wrath, for, sullenly stretching forth his hand, +he took the bundle and opened it on the table before him. +</p> +<p> +“A dry bargain never was a lucky one, they say, Lanty—isn't that +so?” said the ODonoghue, as, seizing a small hand-bell, he ordered up a +supply of claret, as well as the more vulgar elements for punch, should +the dealer, as was probable, prefer that liquor. +</p> +<p> +“These notes seem to have seen service,” muttered Mark: “here's a lagged +fellow. There's no making out whether he's two or ten.” + </p> +<p> +“They were well handled, there's no doubt of it,” said Lanty, “the tenants +was paying them in; and sure you know yourself how they thumb and finger a +note before they part with it. You'd think they were trying to take leave +of them. There's many a man can't read a word, can tell you the amount of +a note, just by the feel of it!—Thank you, sir, I'll take the +spirits—it's what I'm most used to.” + </p> +<p> +“Who did you get them from, Lanty?” said the ODonoghue. +</p> +<p> +“Malachi Glynn, sir, of Cahernavorra, and, by the same token, I got a +hearty laugh at the same house once before.” + </p> +<p> +“How was that?” said the old man, for he saw by the twinkle of Lanty's +eye, that a story was coming. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, just this way, sir. It was a little after Christmas last year that +Mr. Malachi thought he'd go up to Dublin for a month or six weeks with the +young ladies, just to show them, by way of; for ye see, there's no dealing +at all downi here; and he thought he'd bring them up, and see what could +be done. Musha! but they're the hard stock to get rid of! and somehow they +don't improve by holding them over. And as there was levees, and +drawing-rooms, and balls going on, sure it would go hard but he'd get off +a pair of them anyhow. Well, it was an elegant scheme, if there was money +to do it; but devil a farthin' was to be had, high or low, beyond seventy +pounds I gave for the two carriage horses and the yearlings that was out +in the field, and sure that wouldn't do at all. He tried the tenants for +'the November,' but what was the use of it, though he offered a receipt in +full for ten shillings in the pound?—when a lucky thought struck +him. Troth, and it's what ye may call a grand thought too. He was walking +about before the door, thinking and ruminating how to raise the money, +when he sees the sheep grazing on the lawn fornint him—not that he +could sell one of them, for there was a strap of a bond or mortage on them +a year before. 'Faix,' and says he, when a man's hard up for cash, he's +often obliged to wear a mighty thread-bare coat, and go cold enough in the +winter season—and sure it's reason sheep isn't better than +Christians; and begorra,' says he, I'll have the fleece off ye, if the +weather was twice as cowld.' No sooner said than done. They were ordered +into the haggard-yard the same evening, and, as sure as ye're there, they +cut the wool off them three days after Christmas. Musha! but it was a +pitiful sight to see them turned out shivering and shaking, with the snow +on the ground. And it didn't thrive with him; for three died the first +night. Well, when he seen what come of it, he had them all brought in +again, and they gathered all the spare clothes and the ould rags in the +house together, and dressed them up, at least the ones that were worst; +and such a set of craytures never was seen. One had an old petticoat on; +another a flannel waistcoat; many, could only get a cravat or a pair of +gaiters; but the ram beat all, for he was dressed in a pair of corduroy +breeches, and an ould spencer of the master's; and may I never live, if I +didn't roll down full length on the grass when I seen him.” + </p> +<p> +For some minutes before Lanty had concluded his story, the whole party +were convulsed with laughter; even Sir Archy vouchsafed a grave smile, as, +receiving the tale in a different light, he muttered, to himself— +</p> +<p> +“They're a the same—ne'er-do-well, reckless deevils.” + </p> +<p> +One good result at least followed the anecdote—the good-humour of +the company was restored at once—the bargain was finally concluded; +and Lanty succeeded by some adroit flattery in recovering five pounds of +the price, under the title of luck-penny—a portion of the contract +M'Nab would have interfered against at once, but that, for his own +especial reasons, he preferred remaining silent. +</p> +<p> +The party soon after separated for the night, and as Lanty sought the room +usually destined for his accommodation, he muttered, as he went, his +self-gratulations on his bargain. Already he had nearly reached the end of +the long corridor, where his chamber lay, when a door was cautiously +opened, and Sir Archy, attired in a dressing-gown, and with a candle in +his hand, stood before him.. +</p> +<p> +“A word wi' ye, Master Lawler,” said he, in a low dry tone, the +horse-dealer but half liked. “A word wi' ye, before ye retire to rest.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty followed the old man into the apartment with an air of affected +carelessness, which soon, however, gave way to surprise, as he surveyed +the chamber, so little like any other in that dreary mansion. The walls +were covered with shelves, loaded with books; maps and prints lay +scattered about on tables; an oak cabinet of great beauty in form and +carving, occupied a deep recess beside the chimney; and over the fireplace +a claymore of true Highland origin, and a pair of silver-mounted pistols, +were arranged like a trophy, surmounted by a flat Highland cap, with a +thin black eagle's feather. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archy seemed to enjoy the astonishment of his guest, and for some +minutes made no effort to break silence. At length he said— +</p> +<p> +“We war speaking about a sma' pony for the laird's son, Mister Lawler—may +I ask ye the price?” + </p> +<p> +The words acted like a talisman—Lanty was himself in a moment. The +mere mention of horse flesh brought back the whole crowd of his daily +associations, and with his native volubility he proceeded, not to reply to +the question, but to enumerate the many virtues and perfections of the +“sweetest tool that ever travelled on four legs.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy waited patiently till the eloquent eulogy was over, and then, +drily repeated his first demand. +</p> +<p> +“Is it her price!” said Lanty, repeating the question to gain time to +consider how far circumstances might warrant him in pushing a market. +“It's her price ye're asking me, Sir Archibald? Troth, and I'll tell you: +there's not a man in Kerry could say what's her price. Goold wouldn't pay +for her, av it was value was wanted. See now, she's not fourteen hands +high, but may I never leave this room if she wouldn't carry me—ay, +myself here, twelve stone six in the scales—over e'er a fence +between this and Inchigeela.” + </p> +<p> +“It's no exactly to carry you that I was making my inquiry,” said the old +man, with an accent of more asperity than he had used before. +</p> +<p> +“Well then, for Master Herbert—sure she is the very beast—” + </p> +<p> +“What are you, asking for her?—canna you answer a straightforred +question, man?” reiterated Sir Archy, in a voice there was no mistaking. +</p> +<p> +“Twenty guineas, then,” replied Lanty, in a tone of defiance; “and if ye +offer me pounds I won't take it.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy made no answer; but turning to the old cabinet, he unlocked one +of the small doors, and drew forth a long leather pouch, curiously +embroidered with silver; from this he took ten guineas in gold, and laid +them leisurely on the table. The horse dealer eyed them askance, but +without the slightest sign of having noticed them. +</p> +<p> +“I'm no goin' to buy your beast, Mr. Lawler,” said the old man, slowly; +“I'm just goin' merely to buy your ain good sense and justice. You say the +powney is worth twenty guineas.” + </p> +<p> +“As sure as I stand here. I wouldn't—” + </p> +<p> +“Weel, weel, I'm content. There's half the money; tak' it, but never let's +hear anither word about her here: bring her awa wi' ye; sell or shoot her, +do what ye please wi' her; but, mind me, man”—here, his voice became +full, strong, and commanding—“tak' care that ye meddle not wi' that +young callant, Herbert. Dinna fill his head wi' ranting thoughts of dogs +and horses. Let there be one of the house wi' a soul above a scullion or a +groom. Ye have brought ruin enough here; you can spare the boy, I trow: +there, sir, tak' your money.” + </p> +<p> +For a second or two, Lanty seemed undecided whether to reject or accept a +proposal so humiliating in its terms; and when at length he acceded, it +was rather from his dread of the consequences of refusal, than from any +satisfaction the bargain gave him. +</p> +<p> +“I'm afraid, Sir Archibald,” said he, half timidly, “I'm afraid you don't +understand me well.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm afraid I do,” rejoined the old man, with a bitter smile on his lip; +“but it's better we should understand each other. Good night.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, good night to you, any how,” said Lanty, with a slight sigh, as he +dropped the money into his pocket, and left the room. +</p> +<p> +“I have bought the scoundrel cheap!” muttered Sir Archy, as the door +closed. +</p> +<p> +“Begorra, I thought he was twice as knowing!” was Lanty's reflection, as +he entered his own chamber. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IV. KERRY O'LEARY. +</h2> +<p> +Lanty Lawler was stirring the first in the house. The late sitting of the +preceding evening, and the deep potations he had indulged in, left little +trace of weariness on his well-accustomed frame. Few contracts were +ratified in those days without the solemnity of a drinking bout, and the +habits of the O'Donoghue household were none of the most abstemious. All +was still and silent then as the horse-dealer descended the stairs, and +took the path towards the stable, where he had left his hackney the night +before. +</p> +<p> +It was Lanty's intention to take possession of his new purchase, and set +out on his journey before the others were stirring; and with this object +he wended his way across the weed-grown garden, and into the wide and +dreary court-yard of the building. +</p> +<p> +Had he been disposed to moralize—assuredly an occupation he was +little given to—he might have indulged the vein naturally enough, as +he surveyed on every side the remains of long past greatness and present +decay. Beautifully proportioned columns, with florid capitals, supplied +the place of gate piers. Richly carved armorial bearings were seen upon +the stones used to repair the breaches in the walls. Fragments of +inscriptions and half obliterated dates appeared amid the moss-grown +ruins; and the very, door of the stable had been a portal of dark oak, +studded with large nails, its native strength having preserved it when +even the masonry was crumbling to decay. Lanty passed these with perfect +indifference. Their voice awoke no echo within his breast; and even when +he noticed them, it was to mutter some jeering allusion to their fallen +estate, rather than with any feeling of reverence for what they once +represented. +</p> +<p> +The deep bay of a hound now startled him, however. He turned suddenly +round, and close beside him, but within the low wall of a ruined +kennel-yard, lay a large foxhound, so old and feeble that, even roused by +the approach of a stranger, he could not rise from the ground, but lay +helplessly on the earth, and with uplifted throat sent forth a long +wailing note. Lanty leaned upon the wall, and looked at him. The emotions +which other objects failed to suggest, seemed to flock upon him now. That +poor dog, the last of a once noble pack, whose melody used to ring through +every glen and ravine of the wild mountains, was an appeal to his heart he +could not withstand; and he stood with his gaze fixed upon him. +</p> +<p> +“Poor old fellow,” said he compassionately, “it's a lonely thing for you +to be there now, and all your old friends and companions dead and gone. +Rory, my boy, don't you know me?” + </p> +<p> +The tones of his voice seemed to soothe the animal, for he responded in a +low cadence indescribably melancholy. +</p> +<p> +“That's my boy. Sure I knew you didn't forget me;” and he stooped over and +patted the poor beast upon the head. +</p> +<p> +“The top of the morning to you, Mister Lawler,” cried out a voice straight +over his head—and at the same instant a strange-looking face was +protruded from a little one-paned window of a hay loft—“'tis early +you are to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, Kerry, how are you, my man? I was taking a look at Rory here.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, he's a poor sight now,” responded the other with a sigh; “but he +wasn't so once. I mind the time he could lead the pack over +Cubber-na-creena mountain, and not a dog but himself catch the scent, +after a hard frost and a north wind. I never knew him wrong. His tongue +was as true as the priest's—sorra he in it.” + </p> +<p> +A low whine from the poor old beast seemed to acknowledge the praise +bestowed upon him; and Kerry continued— +</p> +<p> +“It's truth I'm telling; and if it wasn't, it's just himself would +contradict me.—Tallyho! Rory—tallyho! my ould boy;” and both +man and dog joined in a deep-toned cry together. +</p> +<p> +The old walls sent back the echoes, and for some seconds the sounds +floated through the still air of the morning. +</p> +<p> +Lanty listened with animated features and lit-up eyes to notes which so +often had stirred the strongest cords of his heart, and then suddenly, as +if recalling his thoughts to their former channel, cried out— +</p> +<p> +“Come down, Kerry, my man—come down here, and unlock the door of the +stable. I must be early on the road this morning.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry O'Leary—for so was he called, to distinguish him from those of +the name in the adjoining county—soon made his appearance in the +court-yard beneath. His toilet was a hasty one, consisting merely of a +pair of worn corduroy small clothes and an old blue frock, with faded +scarlet collar and cuffs, which, for convenience, he wore on the present +occasion buttoned at the neck, and without inserting his arms in the +sleeves, leaving these appendages to float loosely at his side. His legs +and feet were bare, as was his head, save what covering it derived from a +thick fell of strong black hair that hung down on every side like an +ill-made thatch. +</p> +<p> +Kerry was not remarkable for good looks. His brow was low, and shaded two +piercing black eyes, set so closely together, that they seemed to present +to the beholder one single continuous dark streak beneath his forehead: a +short snubby nose, a wide thick-lipped mouth, and a heavy massive +under-jaw, made up an assemblage of features, which, when at rest, +indicated little of remarkable or striking; but when animated and excited, +displayed the strangest possible union of deep cunning and simplicity, +intense curiosity and apathetic indolence. His figure was short, almost to +dwarfishness, and as his arms were enormously long, they contributed to +give that air to his appearance. His legs were widely bowed, and his gait +had that slouching, shambling motion, so indicative of an education +cultivated among horses and stable-men. So it was, in fact, Kerry had +begun life as a jockey. At thirteen he rode a winning race at the Curragh, +and came in first on the back of Blue Blazes, the wickedest horse of the +day in Ireland. From that hour he became a celebrity, and until too old to +ride, was the crack jockey of his time. From jockey he grew into trainer—the +usual transition of the tadpole to the frog; and when the racing stud was +given up by the O'Donoghue in exchange for the hunting field, Kerry led +the pack to their glorious sport. As time wore on, and its course brought +saddening fortunes to his master, Kerry's occupation was invaded; the +horses were sold, the hounds given up, and the kennel fell to ruins. Of +the large household that once filled the castle, a few were now retained; +but among these was Kerry. It was not that he was useful, or that his +services could minister to the comfort or convenience of the family; far +from it, the commonest offices of in-door life he was ignorant of, and, +even if he knew, would have shrunk from performing them, as being a +degradation. His whole skill was limited to the stable-yard, and there, +now, his functions were unneeded. It would seem as if he were kept as a +kind of memento of their once condition, rather than any thing else. There +was a pride in maintaining one who did nothing the whole day but lounge +about the offices and the court-yard, in his old ragged suit of huntsman. +And so, too, it impressed the country people, who seeing him, believed +that at any moment the ancient splendour of the house might shine forth +again, and Kerry, as of yore, ride out on his thoroughbred, to make the +valleys ring with music. He was, as it were, a kind of staff, through +which, at a day's notice, the whole regiment might be mustered. It was in +this spirit he lived, and moved, and spoke. He was always going about +looking after a “nice beast to carry the master,” and a “real bit of blood +for Master Mark,” and he would send a gossoon to ask if Barry O'Brien of +the bridge “heard tell of a fox in the cover below the road.” In fact, his +preparations ever portended a speedy resumption of the habits in which his +youth and manhood were spent. +</p> +<p> +Such was the character who now, in the easy deshabille described, +descended into the court-yard with a great bunch of keys in his hand, and +led the way towards the stable. +</p> +<p> +“I put the little mare into the hack-stable, Mr. Lawler,” said he, +“because the hunters is in training, and I didn't like to disturb them +with a strange beast.” + </p> +<p> +“Hunters in training!” replied Lanty in astonishment. “Why, I thought he +had nothing but the grey mare with the black legs.” + </p> +<p> +“And sure, if he hasn't,” responded Kerry crankily, “couldn't he buy them +when he wants them.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, that's it,” said the other, laughing to himself. “No doubt of it +Kerry. Money will do many a thing.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, it's wishing it I am for money! Bad luck to the peace or ease I ever +seen since they became fond of money. I remember the time it was, 'Kerry +go down and bring this, or take that,' and devil a more about it; and +lashings of every thing there was. See now! if the horses could eat pease +pudding, and drink punch, they'd got it for askin'; but now it's all for +saving, and saving. And sure, what's the use of goold? God be good to us, +as I heard Father Luke say, he'd do as much for fifteen shillings as for +fifty pounds, av it was a poor boy wanted it.” + </p> +<p> +“What nonsense are you talking, you old sinner, about saving. Why man, +they haven't got as much as they could bless themselves on, among them +all. You needn't be angry, Kerry. It's not Lanty Lawler you can humbug +that way. Is there an acre of the estate their own now? Not if every perch +of it made four, it wouldn't pay the money they owe.” + </p> +<p> +“And if they do,” rejoined Kerry indignantly, “who has a better right, +tell me that? Is it an O'Donoghue would be behind the rest of the country—begorra, +ye're bould to come up here and tell us that.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not telling you any thing of the kind—I'm saying that if they +are ruined entirely—” + </p> +<p> +“Arrah! don't provoke me. Take your baste and go, in God's name.” + </p> +<p> +And so saying, Kerry, whose patience was fast ebbing, pushed wide the +stable-door, and pointed to the stall where Lanty's hackney was standing. +</p> +<p> +“Bring out that grey mare, Master Kerry,” said Lanty in a tone of easy +insolence, purposely assumed to provoke the old huntsman's anger, “Bring +her out here.” + </p> +<p> +“And what for, would I bring her out?” + </p> +<p> +“May be I'll tell you afterwards,” was the reply. “Just do as I say, now.” + </p> +<p> +“The devil a one o' me will touch the beast at your bidding; and what's +more, I'll not let yourself lay a finger on her.” + </p> +<p> +“Be quiet, you old fool,” said a deep voice behind him. He turned, and +there stood Mark O'Donoghue himself, pale and haggard after his night's +excess. “Be quiet, I say. The mare is his—let him have her.” + </p> +<p> +“Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed Kerry, “here's the hunting season beginning, +and sorrow thing you'll have to put a saddle on, barrin'—barrin'—” + </p> +<p> +“Barring what?” interposed Lanty, with an insolent grin. +</p> +<p> +The young man flushed at the impertinence of the insinuation, but said not +a word for a few minutes, then suddenly exclaimed— +</p> +<p> +“Lanty, I have changed my mind; I'll keep the mare.” + </p> +<p> +The horse-dealer started, and stared him full in the face— +</p> +<p> +“Why Mr. Mark, surely you're not in earnest? The beast is paid for—the +bargain all settled.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't care for that. There's your money again. I'll keep the mare.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but listen to reason. The mare is mine. She was so when you handed me +the luck-penny, and if I don't wish to part with her, you cannot compel +me.” + </p> +<p> +“Can't I?” retorted Mark, with a jeering laugh; “can't I, faith? Will you +tell me what's to prevent it? Will you take the law of me? Is that your +threat?” + </p> +<p> +“Devil a one ever said I was that mean, before!” replied Lanty, with an +air of deeply-offended pride. “I never demeaned myself to the law, and I'm +fifteen years buying and selling horses in every county in Munster. No, +Mr. Mark, it is not that; but I'll just tell you the truth, The mare is +all as one as sold already;—there it is now, and that's the whole +secret.” + </p> +<p> +“Sold! What do you mean?—that you had sold that mare before you ever +bought her?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure I did,” cried Lanty, assuming a forced look of easy assurance +he was very far from feeling at the moment. “There's nothing more common +in my trade. Not one of us buys a beast without knowing where the next +owner is to be had.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you mean, sir,” said Mark, as he eyed him with a steady stare, “do +you mean to tell me that you came down here, as you would to a petty +fanner's cabin, with your bank-notes, ready to take whatever you may pitch +your fancy on, sure and certain that our necessities must make us willing +chapmen for all you care to deal in—do you dare to say that you have +done this with <i>me?</i>” + </p> +<p> +For an instant Lanty was confounded. He could not utter a word, and looked +around him in the vain hope of aid from any other quarter, but none was +forthcoming. Kerry was the only unoccupied witness of the scene, and his +face beamed with ineffable satisfaction at the turn matters had taken, and +as he rubbed his hands he could scarcely control his desire to laugh +outright, at the lamentable figure of his late antagonist. +</p> +<p> +“Let me say one word, Master Mark,” said Lanty at length, and in a voice +subdued to its very softest key—“just a single word in your own +ear,” and with that he led the young man outside the door of the stable, +and whispered for some minutes, with the greatest earnestness, concluding +in a voice loud enough to be heard by Kerry— +</p> +<p> +“And after that, I'm sure I need say no more.” + </p> +<p> +Mark made no answer, but leaned his back against the wall, and folded his +arms upon his breast. +</p> +<p> +“May I never if it is not the whole truth,” said Lanty, with a most eager +and impassioned gesture; “and now I leave it all to yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he to take the mare?” asked Kerry, in anxious dread lest his enemy +might have carried the day. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” was the reply, in a deep hollow voice, as the speaker turned away +and left the stable. +</p> +<p> +While Lanty was engaged in placing his saddle on his new purchase, an +operation in which Kerry contrived not to afford him any assistance +whatever, Mark O'Donoghue paced slowly to and fro in the courtyard, with +his arms folded, and his head sunk upon his breast; nor was he aroused +from his reverie until the step of the horse was heard on the pavement +beside him. +</p> +<p> +“Poor Kittane,” said he, looking up suddenly, “you were a great pet: I +hope they'll be as kind to you as I was; and they'd better, too,” added +he, half-savagely, “for you've a drop of the Celt in your blood, and can +revenge harsh treatment when you meet with it. Tell her owner that she is +all gentleness, if not abused, but get her temper once up, and, by Jove, +there's not a torrent on the mountain can leap as madly! She knows her +name, too: I trust they'll not change that. She was bred beside Lough +Kittane, and called after it. See how she can follow;” and with that, the +youth sprang forward, and placing his hand on the top bar of a gate, +vaulted lightly over; but scarcely had he reached the ground, when the +mare bounded after him, and stood with her head resting on his shoulder. +</p> +<p> +Mark turned an elated look on the others, and then surveyed the noble +animal beside him with all the pride and admiration of a master regarding +his handiwork. She was, indeed, a model of symmetry, and well worthy of +all the praise bestowed on her. +</p> +<p> +For a moment or two the youth gazed on her, with a flashing eye and +quivering lip, while the mare, catching excitement from the free air of +the morning, and the spring she had made, stood with swelled veins and +trembling limbs, his counterpart in eagerness. One spirit seemed to +animate both. So Mark appeared to feel it, as with a bound he sprung into +the saddle, and with a wild cheer dashed forward. With lightning's speed +they went, and in a moment disappeared from view. Kerry jumped up on a +broken gate-pier, and strained his eyes to catch them, while Lanty, +muttering maledictions to himself, on the hair-brained boy, turned +everywhere for a spot where he might view the scene. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00055.jpg" width="100%" alt="55 " /> +</div> +<p> +“There he goes,” shouted Kerry; “look at him now; he's coming to the furze +ditch into the big field: see! see! she does not see the fence; her head's +in the air. Whew—elegant, by the mortial—never touched a hoof +to it!—murther! murther! how she gallops in the deep ground, and the +wide gripe that's before her! Ah, he won't take it; he's turning away.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish to the Lord he'd break a stirrup-leather,” muttered Lanty. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Joseph!” screamed Kerry, “there was a jump—twenty feet as sure +as I'm living. Where is he now?—I don't see him.” + </p> +<p> +“May you never,” growled Lanty, whose indignant anger had burst all +bounds: “that's not treatment for another man's horse.” + </p> +<p> +“There he goes, the jewel; see him in the stubble field; sure it's a real +picture to see him going along at his ease. Whurroo—he's over the +wall. What the devil's the matter now?—they're away;” and so it was: +the animal that an instant before was cantering perfectly in hand, had now +set off at top speed, and at full stretch. “See the gate—mind the +gate—Master Mark—tear-and-ages, mind the gate,” shouted Kerry, +as though his admonition could be heard half a mile away. “Oh! holy Mary! +he's through it,” and true enough—the wild and now affrighted beast +dashed through the frail timbers, and held on her course, without +stopping. “He's broke the gate to flitters.” + </p> +<p> +“May I never, if I don't wish it was his neck,” said Lanty, in open +defiance. +</p> +<p> +“Do you, then?” called out Kerry. “Why, then, as sure as my name's Kerry +O'Leary, if there's a hair of his head hurted, I'll—” + </p> +<p> +What the threat was intended for, cannot be known; for his eye once more +caught sight of his idol, and he yelled out— +</p> +<p> +“Take care of the sheep. Bad luck to ye for sheep, ye're always in the +way. That's the darling—'twas myself taught you to have a light +hand. Ah, Kittane, you're coming to rayson now.” + </p> +<p> +“The mare won't be worth sixpence,” muttered Lanty. +</p> +<p> +“Twas as good as a day's sport to me,” said Kerry, wiping his brow with +the loose sleeve of his coat, and preparing to descend from the elevation, +for the young man now entered the distant part of the lawn, and, at an +easy canter, was returning to the stable-yard. +</p> +<p> +“There!” said Mark, as he flung himself from the saddle, “there Kittane, +it's the last time you're likely to have a bold burst of it, or myself +either, perhaps. She touched her counter on that gate, Lanty; but she's +nothing the worse of it.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty grumbled some indistinct mutterings, as he wiped a blood stain from +the mare's chest, and looked sulkily at her heaving flanks and sides +reeking with foam and sweat. +</p> +<p> +“Tis a darling you wor,” said Kerry, patting her over from her mane to her +hind quarters. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, that cut is ten pounds out of my pocket this morning, anyhow,” said +Lanty, as he pointed to the slight scratch from which a few drops of blood +still flowed. +</p> +<p> +“Are you off the bargain, then,” said Mark sternly, as he turned his head +round; for he was already leaving the spot. +</p> +<p> +“I didn't say so,” was the answer. +</p> +<p> +For a second or two Mark seemed uncertain what reply to make, and then, as +if controlling his temper, he nodded carelessly, and with a “Good-by, +Lanty,” he sauntered slowly towards the house. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Mr. O'Leary,” said Lanty, in a voice of affected politeness, +Irishmen are occasionally very fond of employing when they intend great +self-respect, “may I trouble you to bring out that hack of mine.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis a pleasure, Mr. Lawler, and no trouble in life, av it helps to get +rid of you,” responded Kerry, as he waddled off on the errand. +</p> +<p> +Lanty made no reply; perhaps he felt the encounter unequal—perhaps +he despised his antagonist; in any case, he waited patiently for Kerry's +appearance, and then, passing his arm within the bridle of each horse, he +slowly descended the avenue towards the high road. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER V. IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND. +</h2> +<p> +It was not without a feeling closely allied to disappointment, that Sir +Marmaduke Travers found the advent to his Irish estates uncelebrated by +any of those testimonies on the part of his tenantry, his agent, Captain +Hemsworth, had often so graphically pictured before him. The post-horses +were suffered to drag his carriage unmolested to its destination; there +was no assemblage of people to welcome—not a bonfire to hail his +arrival. True, he had come totally unexpectedly. The two servants sent +forward to prepare the lodge for his reception, only reached there a +single day before himself. But Sir Marmaduke had often taken his Yorkshire +tenants as much by surprise, and, there, he always found a deputation, and +a cortege of mounted yeomen. There were addresses, and triumphal arches, +and newspaper paragraphs, and all the innumerable but well-known +accompaniments of those patronizing acts of condescension, which consist +in the visit of a rich man to his own home. Now, however, all was +different. No cheering sounds broke the quiet stillness of the deep +valley. No troops of people on horseback or on foot filled the glen. The +sun set, calm and golden, behind the purple hills, unscared by the lurid +glow of a single bonfire. Save from an appearance of increased bustle, and +an air of movement and stir around the lodge itself, there was nothing to +mark his coming. There, indeed, servants were seen to pass and re-pass; +workmen were employed upon the flower-garden and the shrubbery walks; and +all the indications of care and attention to the villa and its grounds +easily perceptible. Beyond these precincts, however, all was still and +solitary as before. For miles the road could be seen without a single +traveller. The mountains seemed destitute of inhabitants. The peaceful +solemnity of the deep glen, along which the cloud shadows moved slowly in +procession, increased the sense of loneliness, and Sir Marmaduke already +began to suspect, that this last trial of a residence would scarcely prove +more fortunate than the previous ones. +</p> +<p> +Age and wealth are uncomplying task-masters—habit and power endure +restraint with an ill grace. The old baronet was half angry with himself +for what he felt a mistake, and he could not forgive the country which was +the cause of it. He had come expressly to see and pronounce for himself—to +witness with his own eyes, to hear with his own ears—and yet he knew +not how it was, nothing revealed itself before him. The very labourers who +worked in the garden seemed uncommunicative and shy. Their great respect +and reverence he understood as a cautious reserve. He must send for +Hemsworth—there was nothing else for it. Hemsworth was used to them, +and could explain the mode of dealing with them. Their very idioms +required translating, and he could not advance without an interpreter. +</p> +<p> +Not so his daughter. To her the scene had all the charm of romance. The +lone dwelling beside the blue lake, the tall and peaked mountains lost in +the white clouds, the waving forest with its many a tangled path, the +bright islands that, gem-like, spangled the calm surface of the water, +realized many a poetic dream of her childhood, and she felt that visionary +happiness which serenity of mind, united to the warm imagination of early +life, alone can bestow. +</p> +<p> +It was a fairy existence to live thus secluded in that lonely valley, +where the flowers seemed to blossom for them alone; for them, the summer +birds sang their roundelays, and the fair moon shed her pale light over +hill and stream, with none to mark her splendour save themselves, Not +these thoughts alone filled her mind. Already had she noticed the artless +habits of the humble peasantry—their gratitude for the slightest +services, their affectionate greetings, the touching beauty of their +expressions, teeming with an imagery she never heard before. All appealed +to her mind with a very different force from what they addressed +themselves with to her father's. Already she felt attracted by the +figurative eloquence, so popular a gift among the people. The warm fervour +of fancy she had believed the attribute of highly-wrought temperaments +only, she found here amid poverty and privation; flashes of bright wit +broke from the gloom of daily suffering; and the fire which gives life its +energy, burned brightly amid the ashes of many an extinguished hope. These +were features she was not prepared to meet among a peasantry living in a +wild unvisited district, and day by day they fascinated her more strongly. +</p> +<p> +It was not entirely to the difference between father and daughter that +these varied impressions were owing. The people themselves assumed a tone +quite distinctive to each. Sir Marmaduke they had always heard spoken of, +as a stern-tempered man, whose severity towards his tenantry was, happily, +tempered by the personal kindness of the agent. Captain Hemsworth +constantly impressed them with the notion that all harsh measures +originated with his principal—the favours came from himself only, +the exactions of high rents, the rigorous prosecution of the law, he ever +asserted were acts compulsory with him, but always repugnant to his own +better feelings. Every little act of grace he accompanied by an assurance, +that he “hoped Sir Marmaduke might not hear of it,” as the consequences to +himself might prove ruinous. In fact, he contrived to mislead both parties +in their estimate of each other, and their first acquaintanceship, it +could not be supposed, should dispel the illusion. The peasantry, however, +were the first to discover the error: long before Sir Marmaduke had made +any progress in deciphering the mystic symbols of <i>their</i> natures, +they had read <i>his</i> from end to end. They scanned him with powers of +observation no other people in Europe can compete with; and while <i>he</i> +was philosophizing about the combined influence of their superstitions, +their ignorance, and their apathy to suffering, <i>they</i> were +accurately speculating on all the possible benefits which might accrue +from the residence amongst them, of so very kind-hearted, but such a <i>mere</i> +simpleton of a man as himself. +</p> +<p> +They listened with sincere pleasure—for they love any appeal to +themselves—to the precepts he so liberally bestowed regarding +“industry” and “frugality;” nor did they ever make the reply, which was +ready at every lip, that industry cannot be practised without an +occupation, nor frugality be pushed beyond the very borders of starvation. +No; they answered with a semblance of concurrence,—“True for you, +sir; the devil a lie in it—your honour knows it well.” Or, when +pushed home by any argument against their improvidence, or recklessness, +the ever-present reply was—“Sure, sir, it's the will of God;” a +piece of fatalism, that rescued them from many a difficulty, when no other +aid was near. +</p> +<p> +“They are a simple set of people,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he sat at his +breakfast; in the small parlour of the lodge, which looked out upon the +glen, “Very ignorant, very barbarous, but easily led—I see through +them clearly.” + </p> +<p> +“I like them greatly,” said his daughter; “their gratitude knows no bounds +for the slightest services; they have a kind of native courtesy, so rare +to find amongst a peasantry? how that poor fellow last night wished to +climb the cliff, where the eagle's nest is, because I foolishly said I had +never seen a young eagle.” + </p> +<p> +“They are totally misunderstood,” said Sir Marmaduke, sententiously, +rather following out the train of his own reflections, than noticing the +remark of his daughter, “all one hears of their absurd reverence for the +priest, or the devoted adherence they practise towards the old families of +the country, is mere nonsense, You heard how Dan laughed this morning, +when I joked with him about purgatory and the saints; and what a droll +description they gave of that queer household—the chieftain—what +is his name? +</p> +<p> +“The O'Donoghue.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I never can remember it. No, no; they are not so bigoted; they are +merely uninformed. We shall soon see many changes among them. I have +written to Bradston about the plans for the cottages, and also the design +for a school-house; and then, there's the chapel—that reminds me I +have not returned the priest's visit; he was here the day before +yesterday.” + </p> +<p> +“If you like, we'll ride there; I have heard that the glen is beautiful +higher up.” + </p> +<p> +“I was just going to propose it; that mare seems quiet enough: Lawler says +that she has been carrying a lady these last two years; will you try her?” + </p> +<p> +“I am longing to do so—I'm certain she is gentleness itself.” + </p> +<p> +“Strange fellow that horse-dealer is, too,” said the old gentleman in half +soliloquy. “In no other country in the universe would such a mere +simpleton have taken to the trade of a jockey; he actually did not know +what price to ask for his horse; he left it all to ourselves. He'd soon +finish his career in London, at that rate of going; but what have we got +here—what in heaven's name is all this?” cried he aloud, as he +suddenly rose from the table, and approached a small glass door that +opened upon the lawn. +</p> +<p> +The object which so excited his astonishment was an assemblage of +something more than a hundred poor people of every sex and age—from +infancy to dotage—seated on the grass, in a wide semicircle, and +awaiting the moment when he should issue forth. Every phase of human +misery, which want and wretchedness can bestow, was there. The cheeks of +some were pale and haggard with recent sickness; others had but a few +tattered rags to cover them; many were cripples, unable to move without +assistance. There was wan and sickly childhood, and tremulous old age; yet +the tone of their voices showed no touch of sadness; they laughed and +talked with all the seeming of light-heartedness; and many a droll and +merry saying broke from that medley mass of suffering and sorrow. The +sudden appearance of Sir Marmaduke at the door instantaneously checked all +merriment, and a solemn silence ensued, as he walked forth and stood in +front of them. +</p> +<p> +“What do you want, my good people?” said he at length, as none seemed +disposed to open the proceedings. +</p> +<p> +Had their tongues been unlocked by the spell of a magician, the effect +could not have been more instantaneous—a perfect volley of speech +followed, in which Sir Marmaduke in vain endeavoured to follow the words +of any single speaker. Their rapid utterance, their vehement +gesticulation, and a certain guttural mode of pronunciation, quite new to +him, made them totally unintelligible, and he stood confused, perplexed, +and confounded for several minutes, staring around on every side. +</p> +<p> +“Do, in heaven's name, be quiet,” cried he at last; “let one or two only +talk at a time, and I shall learn what you mean.” + </p> +<p> +A renewal of the clamour ensued; but this time it was a general effort to +enforce silence—a process which eventuated in a far greater uproar +than before. +</p> +<p> +“Who, or what are you?” cried Sir Marmaduke, at last losing all temper, at +the continuance of a tumult there seemed no prospect of coming to an end. +</p> +<p> +“We're your honour's tenants, every one of us,” shouted the crowd with one +voice. +</p> +<p> +“<i>My</i> tenants!” reiterated he in horror and astonishment. “What! is +it possible that you are tenants on my property? Where do you live, my +poor old man?” said he, addressing a venerable old fellow, with a head as +white as snow, and a beard like a patriarch's. +</p> +<p> +“He does not talk any English, your honour's worship—he has only +Irish; he lives in the glen beyond,” said a comely woman at his side. +</p> +<p> +“And you, where do you come from yourself?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm a poor widow, your honour, with six childer; and sorra bit I have, +but the little garden, and the grass of a goat; and sure, fifteen +shillings every half year is more nor I can pay, wid all the scrapin' in +life.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke turned away his head, and as he did so, his eye fell upon a +poor creature, whose bloated cheeks and swollen figure denoted dropsy. The +man interpreting the look into a compassionate inquiry, broke forth in a +feeble voice—“I brought the nine shillings with me, yer honour; and +though the captain refused to take it, I'm sure you won't turn me out of +the little place, for being a trifle late. It's the watery dropsy—glory +be to God!—I'm under; but they say I'm getting better.” + </p> +<p> +While the poor creature spoke, a low muttering of pity burst from those +around him, and many a compassionate look, and many a cheering word was +expressed by those scarce less miserable than himself. +</p> +<p> +There was now a certain kind of order restored to the assembly; and as Sir +Marmaduke moved along the line, each in turn addressed his supplication or +complaint. One was threatened with a distress on his pig, because he owed +two half-years' rent, and could only pay a portion of the debt; there was +a failure in the potatoe crop, and a great famine the consequence. Another +was only recovering from the “shaking ague,” and begged for time, since if +he thrashed his oats, now, they would bring nothing in the market. A third +entreated liberty to cut his turf on a distant bog, as he was up to his +knees in water, in the place allotted to him. +</p> +<p> +Some came with odd shillings due on the last rent-day, and anxious to get +leave to send their children to the school without payment. +</p> +<p> +Every one had some favour to look for—some mere trifle to the +granter; the whole world to him who asked—and, for these, many had +come miles away from homes far in the mountains; a glimmering hope of +succour, the only encouragement to the weary journey. +</p> +<p> +As Sir Marmaduke listened with a feigned composure to narratives, at which +his very heart bled, he chanced to observe a strange-looking figure, in an +old scarlet uniform, and a paper cap, with a cock's feather stuck +slantwise in the side of it. The wearer, a tall, bony youth, with yellow +hair, carried a long wattle over his shoulder, as if it were a gun, and +when the old baronet's eye fell upon him, he immediately stood bolt +upright, and held the sapling to his breast, like a soldier presenting +arms. +</p> +<p> +“Shoulder hoo!” he cried, and as the words were heard, a hearty burst of +laughter ran through the crowd; every grief and sorrow was at once +forgotten; the eyes wet with tears of sadness, were now moistened with +those of mirth; and they laughed like those whose hearts had never known +suffering. +</p> +<p> +“Who is this fellow?” said Sir Marmaduke, half doubting how far he might +relish the jest like the others. +</p> +<p> +“Terry the Woods, your honour,” replied a score of voices together. +</p> +<p> +“Terry the Woods!” repeated he, “and is Terry a tenant of mine?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, I am proud to say I am not,” said Terry, grounding his weapon, and +advancing a step towards him, “divil a farthin' of rent I ever paid, nor +ever will. I do have my health mighty well—glory be to God!—and +sleep sound, and have good clothes, and do nothing for it; and they say I +am a fool, but which of us is the greatest fool after all.” + </p> +<p> +Another outbreak of laughter was only quelled by Sir Marmaduke asking the +reason of Terry's appearance there, that morning—if he had nothing +to look for. +</p> +<p> +“I just came to pay my respects,” said Terry composedly, “to wish you a +welcome to the country. I thought that as you might be lading the same +kind of life as myself, we wouldn't be bad companions, you see, neither of +us having much on our hands; and then,” continued he, as he took off his +paper bonnet and made a deep reverence, “I wanted to see the young lady +there, for they tould me she was a born beauty.” + </p> +<p> +Miss Travers blushed. She was young enough to blush at a compliment from +such a source, as her father said laughingly— +</p> +<p> +“Well, Terry, and have they been deceiving you?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said he, gravely, as with steady gaze he fixed his large blue eyes +on the fair features before him. “No—she is a purty crayture—a +taste sorrowful or so—but I like her all the better. I was the same +myself when I was younger.” + </p> +<p> +Terry's remark was true enough. The young girl had been a listener for +some time to the stories of the people, and her face betrayed the sad +emotions of her heart. Never before had such scenes of human suffering +been revealed before her—the tortuous windings of the poor man's +destiny, where want and sickness he in wait for those whose happiest hours +are the struggles against poverty and its evils. +</p> +<p> +“I can show you the beautifullest places in the whole country,” said +Terry, approaching Miss Travers, and addressing her in a low voice, “I'll +tell you where the white heath is growing, with big bells on it, like +cups, to hould the dew. Were you ever up over Keim-an-eigh?” + </p> +<p> +“Never,” said she, smiling at the eagerness of her questioner. +</p> +<p> +“I'll bring you, then, by a short-cut, and you can ride the whole way, and +maybe we'll shoot an eagle—have you a gun in the house?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, there are three or four,” said she humouring him. +</p> +<p> +“And if I shoot him, I'll give you the wing-feathers—that's what +they always gave their sweethearts long ago, but them times is gone by.” + </p> +<p> +The girl blushed deeply, as she remembered the present of young +O'Donoghue, on the evening they came up the glen. She called to mind the +air of diffidence and constraint in which he made the proffer, and for +some minutes paid no attention to Terry, who still, continued to talk as +rapidly as before. +</p> +<p> +“There, they are filing off,” said Terry—“orderly time,” as he once +more shouldered his sapling and stood erect. This observation was made +with reference to the crowd of poor people, whose names and place of +residence Sir Marmaduke having meanwhile written down, they were now +returning to their homes with happy and comforted hearts. “There they go,” + cried Terry, “and an awkward squad they are.” + </p> +<p> +“Were you ever a soldier, Terry?” said Miss Travers. +</p> +<p> +The poor youth grew deadly pale—the very blood forsook his lips, as +he muttered, “I was.” Sir Marmaduke came up at the instant, and Terry +checked himself at once and said— +</p> +<p> +“Whenever you want me, leave word at Mary M'Kelly's, in the glen below, +and I'll hear of it.” + </p> +<p> +“But don't you think you had better remain here with us? you could help in +the garden and the walks.” + </p> +<p> +“No; I never do be working at all—I hate work.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but easy work, Terry,” said Miss Travers, “among the flowers and +shrubs here.” + </p> +<p> +“No—I'd be quite low and sorrowful if I was to be staying in one +place, and maybe—maybe”—here he whispered so low, as only to +be heard by her—“maybe they'd find me out.” + </p> +<p> +“No; there's no fear of that,” said she, “we'll take care no one shall +trouble you—stay here, Terry.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I believe I will,” said he, after a pause, “I may go away when I +like.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure, and now let us see how you are to be lodged,” said Sir +Marmaduke, who already, interested by that inexplicable feeling which +grows out of our pity for idiotcy, entered into his daughter's schemes for +poor Terry's welfare. +</p> +<p> +A small cottage near the boat-house on the verge of the lake, inhabited by +a labourer and his children, offered the wished-for asylum, and there +Terry was at once installed, and recognised as a member of the household. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VI. THE BLACK VALLEY. +</h2> +<p> +Although deferred by the accidents of the morning, Sir Marmaduke's visit +to the priest was not abandoned, and at length, he and his daughter set +out on their excursion up the glen. Their road, after pursuing the highway +for about two miles, diverged into a narrow valley, from which there was +no exit save by the mode in which it was entered. Vast masses of granite +rock, piled heap above heap, hung as it were suspended over their heads, +the tangled honey-suckle falling in rich festoons from these, and the +purple arbutus glowing like grape-clusters among the leaves. It was a +mellow, autumnal day, when the warmth of colouring is sobered down by +massive shadows—the impress of the clouds which moved slowly above. +The air was hot and thick, and save when an occasional breeze came, wafted +from the water, was even oppressive. +</p> +<p> +The silence of the glen was profound—not a bird was heard, nor was +there in the vast expanse of air, a single wing seen floating. As they +rode, they often stopped to wonder at the strange but beautiful effects of +light that glided now slowly along the mountains—disappeared—then +shone again; the giant shadows seeming to chase each other through the +dreary valley. Thus, sauntering along they took no note of time, when at +last the long low cottage, where the priest lived, came in sight. It was +an humble abode, but beautifully situated at the bottom of the glen; the +whole valley lying expanded in front, with its bright rivulet and its bold +sides of granite. The cottage itself was little better than that of a poor +farmer; and save from the ornament of some creepers, which were trained +against the walls, and formed into a deep porch at the entrance, differed +in no respect from such. A few straggling patches of cultivation, of the +very rudest kind, were seen, here and there, but all without any effort at +fence or enclosure. Some wild fruit-trees were scattered over the little +lawn in front, if the narrow strip of grass that flanked the river could +be called such, and here, a small Kerry cow was grazing, the only living +thing to be seen. +</p> +<p> +A little well, arched over with pieces of rock, and surmounted by a small +wooden cross, stood close to the road-side, and the wild-thorn that +overshadowed it was hung on every side with small patches of rags of every +colour and texture that human dress ever consisted of; a sight new to the +eyes of the travellers, who knew not, that the shrine was deemed holy, and +the tree, the receptacle of the humble offering of those, whose sorrows of +mind and body came there for alleviation and succour. +</p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke dismounted and approached the door, which lay wide open; he +knocked gently with his whip, and as no answer to his summons was +returned, repeated it again and again. He now ventured to call aloud, but +no one came, and at last, both father and daughter began to suspect there +might be no one in the house. +</p> +<p> +“This is most strange,” said he, after a long pause, and an effort to peep +in through the windows, half hid with honey-suckle. +</p> +<p> +“The place seems totally deserted. Let us try at the back, however.” + </p> +<p> +As the old baronet wended his way to the rear of the cottage, he muttered +a half upbraiding against his daughter for not complying with his desire +to have a groom along with them—a want, which now increased the +inconvenience of their position. She laughingly defended herself against +the charge, and at the same moment sprang down from her saddle, to assist +in the search. +</p> +<p> +“I certainly perceived some smoke from the chimney as we came up the glen +and there must have been some one here lately, at least,” said she, +looking eagerly around on every side. +</p> +<p> +“This is indeed solitude,” muttered her father, as he listened for some +minutes, during which the stillness had an effect most appalling. +</p> +<p> +While he was speaking, Miss Travers had drawn near to a low latticed +window which lay half open, and as she peeped in, immediately drew back, +and beckoned with her hand for her father to approach, intimating by a +cautious gesture that he should do so noiselessly. Sir Marmaduke came +stealthily to her side, and, leaning over her shoulder, looked into the +room. As both father and daughter exchanged glances, they seemed with +difficulty to refrain from laughing, while astonishment was strongly +depicted on the countenance of each. As they continued to gaze, their +first emotion gradually yielded to a look of intense interest at the scene +before them. +</p> +<p> +Seated beside the large turf fire of the priest's kitchen, for such it +was, was a youth of some fifteen or sixteen years. His figure, light and +well proportioned, was clad in a fashion which denoted his belonging to +the better class, though neglect and time had made many an inroad on the +Costume. His brow was lofty and delicately formed—the temples marked +with many a thin blue rein, which had given ft look of delicacy to the +countenance, if the deep glow of health had not lit up his cheeks, and +imparted a bright lustre to his eyes. He held before him an open volume, +from which he declaimed rather than read aloud, as it seemed, for the +special delight and amusement of a small ragged urchin of about nine years +old—who, with bare legs and feet, was seated on a little pyramid of +turf, right opposite to him. +</p> +<p> +Well might Sir Marmaduke and his daughter feel surprise; the volume was +Homer, from which, with elevated voice and flashing eye, the boy was +reading—the deep-toned syllables ringing through the low-vaulted +chamber with a sweet but a solemn music. Contrasted with the fervid +eloquence of the youth, was the mute wonder and rapt attention of the +little fellow who listened. Astonishment, awe, and eager curiosity, +blended together in that poor little face, every lineament of which +trembled with excitement. If a high soaring imagination and elevated tone +of thought were depicted in the one, the other, not less forcibly realized +the mute and trembling eagerness of impassioned interest. +</p> +<p> +The youth paused for a few seconds, and seemed to be reflecting over what +he read, when the boy, in an accent broken with anxiety, cried out— +</p> +<p> +“Read it, again, Master Herbert. Oh, read it again. It's like the cry of +the big stag-hound at Carrig-na-curra.” + </p> +<p> +“It is the language of the gods, Mickey—finer and grander than ever +man spoke,” replied the youth with fervour. “Listen to this, here;” and +then, with solemn cadence he declaimed some twenty lines, while, as if the +words were those of an incantation, the little fellow sat spellbound, with +clasped hands and staring eye-balls gazing before him. +</p> +<p> +“What does it mean, Master Herbert?—what is it?” said he, in panting +eagerness. +</p> +<p> +“It's about a great hero, Mickey, that was preparing for battle. He was +putting on his armour, a coat and a cap of steel, and he was belting on +his sword.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes,” broke in the little fellow, “and wasn't he saying how he'd +murther and kill all before him?” + </p> +<p> +“Bight enough,” said the youth, laughing. “You guessed it well.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, I knew it,” said the boy. “I saw how you clenched your fist, and your +eyes wor shinin' like sparks of fire, and I knew it was darin' them he +was, in the book there. What did he do after, Master Herbert? Just tell me +that, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“He went out in his chariot—” + </p> +<p> +“Say it like himself first, sir, av it's plazin' to ye,” said he, with a +most imploring look of entreaty. “I do be glad to hear it out of the +book.” + </p> +<p> +The youth, thus entreated, resumed the volume, and read on for several +minutes without stopping. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, that's grand!” said the boy, in a burst of enthusiasm. “'Tis for all +the world the way the thunder comes down the glen—moanin' first, far +off on the mountains, and then swellin' into a big roar, and afterwards +going clap! clap! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he kill the inimy, +master dear?” + </p> +<p> +“No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over the battlefield.” + </p> +<p> +“Wirra, wirra, wirra!” broke in the child, while he rung his hands, and +burst forth into a torrent of tumultuous grief. +</p> +<p> +“He was killed, Mickey, and listen to the lament of his friends for his +death.” + </p> +<p> +Scarcely had the youth read a few lines, when Sir Marmaduke, advancing a +little farther, his shadow fell across the chamber. The youth sprang up at +once, and came towards them. The flush of surprise—it might be, too, +of shame—was on his features; but there was less of awkwardness than +many might have exhibited in the manner of his address, as he said— +</p> +<p> +“Father Luke is from home, sir. He has been sent for to Ballyvourney—” + </p> +<p> +“You are his relation, I presume?” said Sir Marmaduke, without letting him +finish his speech. +</p> +<p> +“I am his pupil,” replied the youth, with a tone in which offended pride +was clearly confessed. +</p> +<p> +“<i>I</i> ask pardon,” said the baronet hastily. “It was merely that I +might convey my respectful greetings to the worthy father that I asked the +question. Perhaps you will allow me to trespass so far upon you, and say, +that Sir Marmaduke Travers has been here.” + </p> +<p> +“While Sir Marmaduke was speaking, the youth's eyes were fixed with a +steadfast gaze on the features of the young girl, of whose presence till +then he seemed unconscious. Fixed and earnest as his stare was, there was +nothing in it of rudeness, still less of insult. It was the unequivocal +expression of astonishment, the suddenly-awakened sense of admiration in +one, on whom, till that very instant, beauty had shed no fascination. His +eyes were bent upon her, as Sir Marmaduke thus finished speaking, and the +old man smiled as he saw the wonder-struck admiration of the boy. +</p> +<p> +“You will please to say Sir Marmaduke Travers,” repeated he once more, to +recall the scattered senses of the youth. +</p> +<p> +“And his daughter?” murmured the other, as he still continued to stare at +her. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, his daughter,” replied Sir Marmaduke, smiling. “May I ask if there +be no shorter road back to 'the Lodge,' than that yonder? for I perceive +it is full two hours later than I suspected.” + </p> +<p> +“None for those on horseback. The mountain path lies yonder, but even on +foot it is not without danger.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, then, Sybella; let us lose no time. We must ride briskly, to reach +home by day-light. We are late enough already.” + </p> +<p> +“Too late, if you ride not very fast,” replied the youth. “The rain has +fallen heavily on the mountains this afternoon. See that waterfall yonder. +I crossed it dry-shod at day-break, and now, it is a cataract. This river +rises rapidly, and in a single night's rain I have seen the valley all one +lake.” + </p> +<p> +“What are we to do then?” cried Miss Travers, eagerly, for now she felt +self-reproach at her refusal to take a groom along with them, and was +vexed with herself, as well as uneasy for her father. +</p> +<p> +“Keep the left of the valley till you reach the tall black rock they call +'the pulpit'—you know it, at least you must have seen it, as you +came along—then cross the stream, it will be fordable enough by that +time, and make the best of your way along under the cliffs, till you +arrive at the broken bridge—the two buttresses, I mean. Re-cross the +stream there, and gain the meadows, and in some hundred yards you are safe +upon the high road. Away then; lose no more time, now; a minute is all the +space between risk and safety;” and with these words he sprang forward, +and lifted the young girl to her saddle, ere she had time or forethought +to decline the service. +</p> +<p> +“May we not know the name of our kind adviser?” asked Sir Marmaduke, as he +mounted his horse. +</p> +<p> +“Hark! there it comes!” said the youth, pointing upwards to the brow of a +cliff, over which a leaping torrent had just bounded. “The mountain lakes +are flooded, when Derrybahn is spouting. Away! away! if you care for +safety.” + </p> +<p> +They turned their horses' heads as he spoke, and with a hasty “good bye” + they spurred forwards. Short as the time had been since they travelled the +same path, the scene was wonderfully changed; the placid stream that stole +along, murmuring over its gravelly bed, now rushed onward with a yellow +current streaked with white foam; the tiny rivulets that came in slender +drops upon the road-side, were now become continuous streams of water, +hurrying on to bear their tribute to the river. The sky itself was black +and louring, resting midway on the mountains, or drifting past in heavy +clouds, while no breeze was stirring below. The many torrents as they +fell, filled the air with a low monotonous sound, like the noise of tree +tops moved by a distant-storm. +</p> +<p> +“I thought I heard a voice calling to us,” said Sir Marmaduke, as for the +first time they slackened their pace, to clear several loose stones that +obstructed the way—“did you hear it?” + </p> +<p> +“I half thought so, too,” replied his daughter; “but I can see no one +near. There it is again!” + </p> +<p> +They halted and listened; but the swelling uproar of the waterfalls +drowned every sound, and they spurred forward once more, fearing to loiter +longer; yet, both as they went, thought they could trace the words, “come +back, come back;” but from some strange dread of communicating fears that +might not be real, neither told the other. +</p> +<p> +“He said the left side of the valley; but surely he mistook: see how the +water has gained here, and the opposite bank seems dry.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us follow the advice, father,” cried Sybella, “we have no guidance +save his; he could not—would not deceive us, Is it not grand! with +all its danger, I can admire it.” + </p> +<p> +As she spoke, a tremendous clap of thunder broke above their heads, and +made the valley tremble with the sound, while, as if by the shock the +charged clouds were rent open, and the rain descended in torrents. With +the swooping gush of the ocean spray, storm-lashed and drifted, the rain +came down, wrapping in misty darkness every object around them. And now, +the swollen cataracts tore madly down the mountain sides, leaping from +crag to crag, and rending the clayey soil in deep clefts and gashes. Again +the thunder pealed out, and every echo sent hack the sound, till the whole +glen vibrated with the deafening clamour. Still they sped onward. The +terrified horses strained every limb, and dashing madly on—mid rock +and rushing water they went, now, clearing at a bound the course of some +gushing stream—now, breasting the beating rain with vigorous chest. +</p> +<p> +The storm increased; the howling wind joined with the deep-toned thunder +into one long continuous roar, that seemed to shake the very air itself. +</p> +<p> +“Yonder!” said the father, as he pointed to the tall dark pinnacle of +rock, known by the country people as “the Pulpit”—“yonder!” + </p> +<p> +Sybella strained her eye to see through the dense beating rain, and at +last caught sight of the huge mass, around whose summit the charged clouds +were flying. +</p> +<p> +“We must cross the river in this place,” said the old man, as he suddenly +checked his horse, and looked with terrified gaze on the swollen stream +that came boiling and foaming over to where they stood, with branches of +trees and fragments of rock rolling onward in the tide. “The youth told us +of this spot.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us not hesitate, father,” cried the young girl, with a tone of firm, +resolute daring she had not used before—“remember what he said, a +minute may save or ruin us. Great heaven! what is that?” + </p> +<p> +A terrific shriek followed her words, and she fell with her head upon her +horse's mane; a broad flash of lightning had burst from a dark cloud, and +came with vivid force upon her eyeballs. +</p> +<p> +“Father, dear father, my sight is gone,” she screamed aloud, as lifting up +her head she rubbed the orbs now paralyzed by the shock. +</p> +<p> +“My child, my child!” cried the old man, with the piercing shriek of a +breaking heart; “look on me, look towards me. Oh, say that you can see me, +now—my brain is turning.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh God, I thank thee!” said the terrified girl, as once more her vision +was restored, and, dimly, objects began to form themselves before her. +</p> +<p> +With bare head and upturned eyes, the aged man looked up, and poured forth +his prayer of thankfulness to heaven. The raging storm beat on his brow +unfelt; his thoughts were soaring to the Throne of Mercies, and knew not +earth, nor all its sorrows. +</p> +<p> +A clap of thunder at the moment broke from the dense cloud above them, and +then, in quick succession, like the pealing of artillery, came several +more, while the forked lightning shot to and fro, and at last, as if the +very earth was riven to its centre, a low booming sound was heard amid the +clouds; the darkness grew thicker, and a crash followed that shook the +ground beneath them, and splashed the wild waves on every side. The spray +sprung madly up, while the roaring of the stream grew louder; the clouds +swept past, and the tall Pulpit rock was gone! Struck by lightning, it had +rolled from its centre, and fallen across the river, the gushing waters of +which poured over it in floods, and fell in white sheets of foam and spray +beyond it. +</p> +<p> +“God is near us, my child,” said the old man with fervour; “let us +onward.” + </p> +<p> +Her streaming eyes turned on him one look of affection—the emblem of +a heart's love—and she prepared to follow. +</p> +<p> +To return was now impossible, the river had already extended the whole way +across the valley in the rear; the only chance of safety lay in front. +</p> +<p> +“Keep by my side, dearest,” said the father, as he rode first into the +stream, and tried to head the terrified animal against the current. +</p> +<p> +“I am near you, father, fear not for me,” said she firmly, her hold heart +nerved to the danger. +</p> +<p> +For some seconds the affrighted horses seemed rooted to the earth, and +stood amid the boiling current as if spell-bound; a fragment of a tree, +however, in its course, struck the flank of the leading horse, and he +sprung madly forward, followed by the other. Now, breasting the stream—now, +sinking to the mane beneath it, the noble beasts struggled fiercely on +till near the spot, where the Pulpit-rock had left a space between it and +the opposite bank, and here, a vast volume of water now poured along +unchecked by any barrier. +</p> +<p> +“To my side—near me, dearest—near me,” cried the father, as +his horse dashed into the seething flood and sunk above the crest beneath +it. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot, father—I cannot,” screamed the affrighted girl, as with a +bound of terror her horse sprang back from the chasm, and refused to +follow. The old man heard not the words—the current had swept him +far down into the stream, amid the rent branches and the rolling rocks—“My +child, my child,” the only accents heard above the raging din. +</p> +<p> +Twice did the heroic girl try to face the current, but in vain—the +horse plunged wildly up and threatened to fall back, when suddenly through +the white foam a figure struggled on and grasped the bridle at the head; +next moment, a man leaped forward and was breasting the surge before her— +</p> +<p> +“Head the stream—head the stream if you can,” cried he, who still +held on, while the wild waves washed over him; but the poor horse, +rendered unmanageable through fear, had yielded to the current, and was +now each moment nearing the cataract. +</p> +<p> +“Cling to me, now,” cried the youth, as with the strength of desperation +he tore the girl from the saddle, while with the other hand he grasped an +ash bough that hung drooping above his head. As he did so, the mare +bounded forward—the waves closed over her, and she was carried over +the precipice. +</p> +<p> +“Cling fast to me, and we are safe,” cried the youth, and with vigorous +grasp he held on the tree, and thus supported, breasted the stream and +reached the bank. Exhausted and worn out, both mind and body powerless, +they both fell senseless on the grass. +</p> +<p> +The last shriek of despair broke from the father's heart as the horse, +bereft of rider, swept past him in the flood. The cry aroused the fainting +girl; she half rose to her feet and called upon him. The next moment they +were locked in each other's arms. +</p> +<p> +“It was he who saved me, father,” said she in accents broken with joy and +sorrow; “he risked his life for mine.” + </p> +<p> +The youth recovered consciousness as the old man pressed him to his heart. +</p> +<p> +“Is she safe?” were the first words he said as he stared around him +vaguely, and then, as if overcome, he fell heavily back upon the sward. A +joyous cheer broke forth from several voices near, and at the instant, +several country people were seen coming forward, with Terry at their head. +</p> +<p> +“Here we are—here we are, and in good time too,” cried Terry; “and +if it wasn't that you took a fool's advice, we'd have gone the other road. +The carriage is in the glen, my lady,” said he, kneeling down beside +Sybella, who still remained clasped in her father's arms. +</p> +<p> +By this time, some of Sir Marmaduke's servants had reached the spot, and +by them the old man and his daughter were assisted toward the high road, +while two others carried the poor youth, by this time totally unable to +make the least exertion. +</p> +<p> +“This brave boy—this noble fellow,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he +stooped to kiss the pale high forehead, from which the wet hair hung +backwards—“Can no one tell me who he is?” + </p> +<p> +“He's the young O'Donoghue,” replied a half dozen voices together; “a good +warrant for courage or bravery any day.” + </p> +<p> +“The O'Donoghue!” repeated Sir Marmaduke, vainly endeavouring in the +confusion of the moment to recall the name, and where he had heard it. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, the O'Donoghue,” shouted a coarse voice near him, as a new figure +rode up on a small mountain pony. “It oughtn't to be a strange name in +these parts. Rouse yourself, Master Herbert, rouse up, my child—sure +it isn't a wettin' would cow you this way?” + </p> +<p> +“What! Kerry, is this you?” said the youth faintly, as he looked around +him with half-closed eyelids. “Where's my father?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, he's snug at the parlour fire, my darlin', where his son ought to +be, if he wasn't turning guide on the mountains, to the enemy of his kith +and kin.” + </p> +<p> +These words were said in a whisper, but with an energy that made the boy +start from the arms of those who bore him. +</p> +<p> +“Here's the pony, Master Herbert, get up on him, and be off at once; sure +there isn't a blackguard there, with lace on his coat, wouldn't be +laughing at your old clothes when the light comes.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke and his daughter were a few paces in advance as these words +were spoken, the old baronet giving directions for bestowing every care +and attention on one he deemed his guest. +</p> +<p> +The boy, ashamed and offended both, yielded to the counsel, and suffered +himself to be placed upon the saddle. +</p> +<p> +“Now, then, hould fast, and I'll guide him,” said Kerry, as elbowing the +crowd right and left, he sprung forward at a run, and in less than a +minute had disappeared in the darkness. +</p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke became distracted at the loss of his benefactor, and message +after message was despatched to bring him back, but all in vain; Kerry and +his pony had already gained so much in advance, none could overtake them. +</p> +<p> +“To-morrow then, my child,” said Sir Marmaduke, “to-morrow will, I hope, +enable me to speak my gratitude, though I shall not sleep well to-night—I +never rested with so heavy a debt unpaid before.” + </p> +<p> +And with these words they slowly wended their way homeward. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VII. SIR ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED +</h2> +<p> +It was strange that, although the old man and his tender daughter should +have sustained no other ill results from their adventure, than the terror +which even yet dwelt on their minds, the young and vigorous youth, well +trained to every accident of flood or field, felt it most seriously. +</p> +<p> +The exertions he made to overtake Sir Marmaduke and his daughter, followed +by the struggle in the swollen stream, had given such a shock to his +frame, that ere day broke the following morning, he was in a fever. The +mental excitement conspiring with fatigue and exhaustion, had brought on +the symptoms of his malady with such rapidity, that it was evident, even +to the unaccustomed observers around him, his state was precarious. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archibald was the first person at the sick youth's bed-side. The +varied fortunes of a long life, not devoid of its own share of +vicissitude, had taught him so much of medical skill, as can give warning +of the approach of fever; and as he felt the strong and frequent pulse, +and saw the flushed and almost swollen features before him, he recognized +the commencement of severe and dangerous illness. +</p> +<p> +Vague and confused images of the previous night's adventure, or visions of +the dark valley and the tempest, occupied all the boy's thoughts; and +though he endeavoured, when spoken to, to preserve coherency and memory, +the struggle was unavailing; and the immediate impression of a question +past, his mind wandered back to the theme which filled his brain. +</p> +<p> +“How was it then?” said Sir Archy, who, as he sat beside the sick bed, +questioned the youth about his adventure. “You said something of a horse?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; she was riding. Oh, how bravely she rode too! It was fine to see her +as the spray fell over her like a veil, and she shook the drops from her +hair.” + </p> +<p> +“Whence came she? Who was the lady?” + </p> +<p> +“Take care—take care,” said the youth in a solemn whisper, and with +a steadfast look before him; “Derrybahn has given warning—the storm +is coming. It is not for one so tender as you to tempt the river of the +black valley.” + </p> +<p> +“Be still, my boy,” said the old man; “you must not speak thus; your head +will ache if you take not rest—keep quiet.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; my head, my head,” muttered he vaguely, repeating the words which +clinked upon his mind. “She put her arm round my neck—There—there,” + cried he, starting up wildly in his bed, “catch it—seize it—my +feet are slipping—the rock moves—I can hold no longer; there—there,” + and with a low moaning sigh he sunk back fainting on the pillow. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archibald applied all his efforts to enforce repose and rest; and +having partially succeeded, hastened to the O'Donoghue's chamber, to +confer with the boy's father on what steps should be taken to procure +medical aid. +</p> +<p> +It was yet some hours earlier than the accustomed time of his waking, as +the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering between the +curtains of his bed. +</p> +<p> +“Well, what is it?” said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. “Has +Gubbins issued the distress? Are the scoundrels going to sell us out?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; it is another matter brings me here,” replied M 'Nab, with a +gravity even deeper than usual. +</p> +<p> +“That infernal bond! By God, I knew it; it never left my dreams these last +three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn't take the +interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money.” + </p> +<p> +“Dinna fash about these things now,” said M'Nab with impatience, “It's +that poor callant, Herbert—he's very ill—it's a fever he's +caught. I'm thinking.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh Herbert!” said O'Donoghue, with a tone of evident relief, that his +misfortunes had taken any other shape than the much-dreaded one of +money-calamity. “What of him?” + </p> +<p> +“He's in a fever; his mind is wandering already.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it; it's a mere wetting—a common cold: the boy fell +into the river last night at the old bridge there; Kerry told me something +about it; and so, maybe, Mark may reach Cork in good time after all.” + </p> +<p> +“I am no speaking of Mark just now,” said M'Nab tartly, “but of the other +lad, wha may be dangerously ill, if something be nae done quickly.” + </p> +<p> +“Then, send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a horse and ride over to +Killarney. Oh! I was forgetting; let a fellow go off on foot, he'll get +there before evening. It is confoundedly hard to have nothing in the +stables, even to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may be able to manage +matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as much as I do myself.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this rambling reply. Long +before it was over, he was half-way down stairs in search of a safe +messenger to despatch to Killarney for Doctor Roach, muttering between his +teeth as he went— +</p> +<p> +“We hae nae muckle chance of the docter if we canna send the siller to +fetch him, as weel as the flunkie. Eh, sirs?—he's a cannie chiel, is +auld Roach, and can smell a fee as soon as scent a fever,” and with this +sensible reflection he proceeded on his way. +</p> +<p> +Meanwhile the O'Donoghue himself had summoned energy enough to slip on an +old and ragged dressing-gown, and a pair of very unlocomotive slippers, +with which attired, he entered the sick boy's room. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Herbert, lad,” said he, drawing the curtains back, and suffering +the grey light to fall on the youth's features, “what is the matter? your +uncle has been routing me up with a story about you.” + </p> +<p> +He ceased suddenly, as his eyes beheld the change a few hours had wrought +in the boy's appearance: “His eyes, deep-buried in their orbits, shone +with an unnatural lustre—his cheeks were pale and sunken, save where +a bright patch of florid red marked the centre of each; his lips were dry +and shrivelled, and had a slight tremulous motion, as if he were muttering +to himself. +</p> +<p> +“Poor fellow,” said the father, “how dreadfully ill he looks. Have you any +pain, my boy?” + </p> +<p> +The boy knew the voice, and recognized the kindly accent, but could not +hear or understand the words; and as his eyes glistened with delight, he +stole his burning hand from beneath the bed-clothes, and held it out, all +trembling, towards his father. +</p> +<p> +“How sudden this has been: you were quite well last night, Herbert.” + </p> +<p> +“Last night!” echoed the boy, with a strange emphasis on the only words he +had caught up. +</p> +<p> +“No, by the way, it was the night before I mean. I did not see you last +night; but, cheer up, my dear boy; we've sent for Roach—he'll put +you to rights at once. I hope Mark may reach home before the doctor goes. +I'd like to have his advice about that strain in the back.” + </p> +<p> +These last words were uttered in soliloquy, and seemed to flow from a +train of thought very different from that arising from the object before +him. Sunk in these reflections, he drew near the window, which looked out +upon the old court-yard behind the house, and where now a very +considerable crowd of beggars had assembled to collect the alms usually +distributed each morning from the kitchen. Each was provided with an ample +canvas bag, worn over the neck by a string, and capable of containing a +sufficiency of meal or potatoes, the habitual offering, to support the +owner for a couple of days at least. They were all busily engaged in +stowing away the provender of various sorts and kinds, as luck, or the +preference of the cook, decided, laughing or grumbling over their +portions, as it might be, when Sir Archibald M'Nab hurriedly presented +himself in the midst of them—an appearance which seemed to create no +peculiar satisfaction, if one were to judge from the increased alacrity of +their movements, and the evident desire they exhibited to move off. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00079.jpg" width="100%" alt="" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +alt="079 “> +</p> +<p> +The ODonoghue laughed as he witnessed the discomfiture of the ragged mob, +and let down the window-sash to watch the scene. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis going we are; God be good to us!” + </p> +<p> +“Ye needn't be cursing that way,” said an old hag, with a sack on her +back, large enough to contain a child. +</p> +<p> +“Eyah! the Lord look down on the poor,” said a little fat fellow, with a +flannel night-cap and stockings without any feet; “there's no pity now at +all, at all.” + </p> +<p> +“The heavens be your bed, any way,” said a hard-featured little woman, +with an accent that gave the blessing a very different signification from +the mere words. +</p> +<p> +“Blessed Joseph! sure it isn't robbers and thieves we are, that ye need +hunt us out of the place.” + </p> +<p> +Such were the exclamations on every side, intermingled with an undergrowl +of the “Scotch naygur”—“the ould scrape-gut,” and other equally +polite and nattering epithets. +</p> +<p> +“This is no a place for ye, ye auld beldames and blackguards; awa wi' ye—awa +wi' ye at once.” + </p> +<p> +“Them's the words ye'll hear in heaven yet, darlint,” said an old fiend of +a woman with one eye, and a mouth garnished by a single tooth. “Them's the +very words St. Peter will spake to yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Begorra, he'll not be strange in the other place anyhow,” muttered +another. “'Tis there hell meet most of his countrymen.” + </p> +<p> +This speech was the signal for a general outburst of laughter. +</p> +<p> +“Awa wi ye, ye ragged deevils; ye'r a disgrace to a Christian country.' +</p> +<p> +“Throth we wear breeches an us,” said an old fellow on crutches; “and sure +I hear that's more nor they do, in the parts your honour comes from.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy's passion boiled over at this new indignity. He stormed and +swore, with all the impetuous rage of one beside himself with passion; but +the effect on his hearers was totally lost The only notice they took was +an occasional exclamation of— +</p> +<p> +“There it is now! Oh, blessed father! hear what he says! Oh, holy mother! +isn't he a terrible man?”—comments by no means judiciously adapted +to calm his irritation. Meanwhile symptoms of evacuating the territory +were sufficiently evident. Cripples were taken on the backs and shoulders +of their respective friends; sacks and pouches were slung over the necks. +Many a preparatory shake of the rags showed that the wearer was getting +ready for the road, when Sir Archy, suddenly checking himself in the full +torrent of his wrath, cried out— +</p> +<p> +“Bide a wee—stay a minit, ye auld beasties—I hae a word to say +to some amang ye.” + </p> +<p> +The altered tone of voice in which he spoke seemed at once to have changed +the whole current of popular feeling; for now they all chimed in with— +</p> +<p> +“Arrah, he's a good man after all; sure 'tis only a way he has”—sentiments +which increased in fervency as Sir Archibald took a tolerably well-filled +purse from his pocket, and drew out some silver into his hand, many +exclaiming— +</p> +<p> +“'Tis the kind heart often has the hard word; and sure ye can see in his +face he isn't cruel.' +</p> +<p> +“Hear till me,” cried Sir Archy aloud, as he held up a shilling before +their wistful eyes, “there's mony a ane among ye, able to earn siller. +Which o' ye now will step down to Killarney, and tell the docter he's +wanted up here wi a' despatch? Ye maun go fast and bring him, or send him +here to-night; and if ye do, I'll gie ye this piece o' siller money when +ye come back.” + </p> +<p> +A general groan from that class whose age and infirmities placed them out +of the reach of competitorship, met this speech, while from the more able +section, a not less unequivocal expression of discontent broke forth. +</p> +<p> +“Down to Killarney,” cried one; “begorra, I wonder ye didn't say Kenmare +when ye war about it—the devil a less than ten miles it is.” + </p> +<p> +“Eyah! I'll like to see my own four bones going the same road; sorra a +house the whole way where there's a drop of milk or a pratie.” + </p> +<p> +“That's the charity to the poor, I suppose,” said the fat fellow of the +night-cap. “'Tis wishing it I am, the same charity.” + </p> +<p> +“We wor to bring the doctor on our back, I hope,” said a cripple in a +bowl. +</p> +<p> +“Did ever man hear or see the like o' this?” exclaimed M'Nab, as with +uplifted hands he stared in wonderment around him. “One wad na believe +it.” + </p> +<p> +“True for you, honey,” joined in one of the group. “I'm fifty-three years +on the road, and I never heerd of any one askin' us to do a hand's turn, +afore.” + </p> +<p> +“Out of my sight, ye worthless ne'er-do-weels; awa wi ye at once and for +ever. I'll send twenty miles round the country, but I'll hae a mastiff +here, 'ill worry the first o' ye that dares to come near the house.” + </p> +<p> +“On my conscience, it will push you hard to find a wickeder baste nor +yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Begorra, he won't be uglier any how.” + </p> +<p> +And with these comments, and the hearty laughter that followed, the +tattered and ragged group defiled out of the yard with all the honours of +war, leaving Sir Archy alone, overwhelmed with astonishment and anger. +</p> +<p> +A low chuckling laugh, as the sash was closed over head, made him look up, +and he just caught a glimpse of O'Donoghue as he retired from the window; +for in his amusement at the scene, the old man forgot the sick boy and all +about him, and only thought of the ridiculous interview he had witnessed. +</p> +<p> +“His ain father—his ain father!” muttered Sir Archy, as with his +brows contracted and his hands clasped behind his back, he ruminated in +sadness on all he saw. “What brings ye back again, ye lazy scoundrels? How +dare ye venture in here again?” + </p> +<p> +This not over-courteous interrogatory was addressed to poor Terry the +Woods, who, followed by one of Sir Marmaduke's footmen, had at that +instant entered the yard. +</p> +<p> +“What for, are ye come, I say? and what's the flunkie wanting beside ye?” + </p> +<p> +Terry stood thunderstruck at the sudden outbreak of temper, and turned at +once to the responsible individual, to whom he merely acted as guide, to +make a reply. +</p> +<p> +“And are ye tramping it too?” said M'Nab, with a sneering accent as he +addressed the footman. “Methinks ye might hae a meal's meat out o' the +goold lace on your hat, and look mair like a decent Christian afterwards. +Ye'r out of place maybe.” + </p> +<p> +These last words were delivered in an irony, to which a tone of +incredulity gave all the sting; and these only were intelligible to the +sleek and well-fed individual to whom they were addressed. +</p> +<p> +In all likelihood, had he been charged with felony or highway robbery, his +self-respect might have sustained his equanimity; any common infraction of +the statute-law might have been alleged against him without exciting an +undue indignation; but the contemptuous insinuation of being “out of +place”—that domestic outlawry, was more than human endurance could +stomach; nor was the insult more palatable coming from one he believed to +be a servant himself. It was therefore with the true feeling of outraged +dignity he replied— +</p> +<p> +“Not exactly out of place jest now, friend; though, if they don't treat +you better than your looks show, I'd recommend you trying for a new +situation.” + </p> +<p> +Of a verity, Sir Archibald's temper was destined to sore trials that +morning; but this was a home thrust, for which no forethought could have +prepared him. +</p> +<p> +“I hope I am no' going to lose my senses,” said he, as he pressed his +hands on either side of his temples. “May the Lord keep me from that worst +of a' human calamities.” + </p> +<p> +This pious wish, uttered with real, unfeigned fervency, seemed to act like +a charm upon the old man's temper, as though the very appeal had suggested +a calmer and more patient frame of mind. It was, then, with all the +dignity of his natural character, when unclouded by momentary flashes of +passion, that he said— +</p> +<p> +“What may be your errand here this morning?” + </p> +<p> +Few and simple as the words were, there was that in their quiet, +unassuming delivery, which in a second recalled the footman to a full +consciousness of his impertinent mistake. He saw at once the immeasurable +gulph, impassible to any effort of assumption or insolence, which +separated them, and with the ready tact of his calling, he respectfully +took off his hat, and held forth a sealed letter, without one word of +reply or apology. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archibald put on his spectacles, and having carefully read the +superscription, turned back towards the house without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“Here is a letter for you, O'Donoghue,” said he, as he entered the parlour +where the chief was already seated at his breakfast, while Kerry O'Leary, +a short distance behind his chair, was relating the circumstances of the +last night's adventure. +</p> +<p> +“Is it from Mark?” said the old man eagerly; and then glancing at the +writing, he threw it from him in disappointment, and added, “I am getting +very uneasy about that lad.” + </p> +<p> +“Had ye no' better read the letter; the messenger wha brought it seems to +expect an answer,” interposed M'Nab. +</p> +<p> +“Messenger!—eh—not by post? Is Hemsworth come back?” exclaimed +O'Donoghue, with an evident degree of fear in his manner. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir,” said Kerry, guessing to what topic his master's thoughts were +turning; “the Captain is not coming, they say, for a month or six weeks +yet.” + </p> +<p> +“Thank God,” muttered O'Donoghue; “that scoundrel never leaves me a +night's rest, when I hear he's in the neighbourhood. Will you see what's +in it, Archy?—my head is quite confused this morning; I got up three +hours before my time.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archibald resumed his spectacles, and broke the seal. The contents +were at some length it would seem, for as he perused the letter to +himself, several minutes elapsed. +</p> +<p> +“Go on, Kerry,” said O'Donoghue; “I want to hear all about this business.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I believe your honour knows the most of it now; for when I came up +to the glen, they were all safe over, barrin' the mare; poor Kittane, she +was carried down the falls, and they took her up near a mile below the old +bridge, stone dead; Master Mark will fret his heart out when he hears it.” + </p> +<p> +“This is a very polite note,” interposed Sir Archy, as he laid the letter +open before him, “from Sir Marmaduke Travers, begging to know when he may +be permitted to pay his personal respects to you, and express his deep and +grateful sense—his own words—of your son's noble conduct in +rescuing his daughter at the hazard of his life. It is written with much +modesty and good sense, and the writer canna be other than a true +gentleman.” + </p> +<p> +“Travers—Travers,” repeated O'Donoghue; “why that's the man himself. +It was he bought the estate; he's Hemsworth's principal.” + </p> +<p> +“And if he be,” replied M'Nab, “canna an honest man ha'e a bad servant? +There's nothing about Hemsworth here. It's a ceevil demand from one +gentleman to anither.” + </p> +<p> +“So it is, then, Sir Marmaduke, that has been staying at the lodge these +some weeks past. That was Mark's secret—poor dear boy, he wouldn't +tell me, fearing it would annoy me. Well, what is it he wants.” + </p> +<p> +“To visit you, O'Donoghue.” + </p> +<p> +“What nonsense; the mischiefs done already. The mortgage is forclosed; and +as for Carrignacurra, they can do nothing before the next term; Swaby says +so, at least.” + </p> +<p> +“Can ye no' comprehend. It is no law document; but a ceevil way to make +your acquaintance. Sir Marmaduke wad pay his respects to ye.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, let him come,” said O'Donoghue, laughing; “he's sure to find me at +home. The sheriff takes care of that for him. Mark will be here to-morrow +or next day; I hope he won't come before that.” + </p> +<p> +“The answer must be a written one,” said M'Nab; “it wad na be polite to +gie the flunkie the response.” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart, Archy, so that I am not asked to indite it. Miles +O'Donoghue are the only words I have written for many a year”—and he +added, with a half bitter laugh—“it would have been as well for poor +Mark, if I had forgotten even that same.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archibald retired to write the answer, with many a misgiving as to the +substance of the epistle; for while deeply gratified at heart, that his +favourite, Herbert, had acquitted himself so nobly, his own pride was +mortified, as he thought over the impressions a visit to the O'Donoghue +household might have on the mind of a “haughty Southern,” for such in his +soul he believed him. +</p> +<p> +There was no help for it, however; the advances were made in a spirit so +very respectful, every line breathed such an evident desire, on the +writer's part, to be well received, that a refusal, or even a formal +acceptance of the proffered visit, was out of the question. His reply, +then, accepted the intended honour, with a profession of satisfaction; +apologising for his omission in calling on Sir Marmaduke, on the score of +ill health, and concluded by a few words about Herbert, for whom many +inquiries were made in the letter. This, written in the clear, but quaint, +old-fashioned characters of the writer's time, and signed, “O'Donoghue,” + was carefully folded, and enclosed in a large square envelope, and with it +in his hand, M'Nab re-entered the breakfast room. +</p> +<p> +“Wad you like to hear the terms of the response, O'Donoghue, before I seal +it up?” asked Sir Archy, with an air of importance. +</p> +<p> +“No, no; I am sure it's all right and proper. You mentioned, of course, +that Mark was from home, but we were expecting him back every day.” + </p> +<p> +“I didna make ony remark o' that kind. I said ye wad be happy to see him, +and felt proud at the honour of making acquaintance wi' him.” + </p> +<p> +“Damn me if I do, then, Archy,” broke in the old man roughly. “For so +great a stickler for truth as yourself, the words were somewhat out of +place. I neither feel pride nor honour on the subject. Let it go, however, +and there's an end to it.” + </p> +<p> +“I've despatched a messenger for Roach to Killarney; that bit of a +brainless body, Terry, is gone by the mountain road, and we may expect the +docter here to-night;” and with these words, Sir Archy departed to send +off his epistle; and the O'Donoghue leaned back in his easy chair, sorely +wearied and worried by the fatigues of the day. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VIII. THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS +</h2> +<p> +How painfully is the sense of severe illness diffused through every part +of a household. How solemn is the influence it sheds on every individual, +and every object; the noiseless step, the whispered words, the closed +curtains, the interruption to the ordinary avocations of life, or the +performance of them in gloom and sadness. When wealth and its appliances +exist, these things take all the features of extreme care and solicitude +for the sufferer; all the agencies of kindness and skill are brought into +active exertion, to minister to the rich man in sickness; but when poverty +and its evils are present—when the struggle is against the pressure +of want, as well as the sufferings of malady, the picture is indeed a dark +one. +</p> +<p> +The many deficiencies in comfort, which daily habit has learned to +overlook, the privations which in the active conflict with the world are +forgotten, now, come forth in the solitude of the sick house, to affright +and afflict us, and we sorrow over miseries long lost to memory till now. +</p> +<p> +Never since the fatal illness which left O'Donoghue a widower, had there +been any thing like dangerous sickness in the house; and like most people +who have long enjoyed the blessings of uninterrupted health, they had no +thought for such a calamity, nor deemed it among the contingencies of +life. Now, however, the whole household felt the change. The riotous +laughter of the kitchen was silenced, the loud speaking hushed, the doors +banged by the wind, or the ruder violence of careless hands, were closed +noiselessly—every thing betokened that sorrow was there. O'Donoghue +himself paced to and fro in the chamber of the old tower, now, stopping to +cast a glance down the glen, where he still hoped to see Mark approaching, +now, resuming his melancholy walk in sadness of heart. +</p> +<p> +In the darkened sick-room, and by the bed, sat Sir Archibald, concealed by +the curtain, but near enough to give assistance to the sick boy should he +need it. He sat buried in his own gloomy thoughts, rendered gloomier, as +he listened to the hurried breathings and low mutter-ings of the youth, +whose fever continued to increase upon him. The old ill-tempered cook, +whose tongue was the terror of the region she dwelt in, sat smoking by the +fire, nor noticed the presence of the aged fox hound, who had followed +Kerry into the kitchen, and now lay asleep before the fire. Kerry himself +ceased to hum the snatches of songs and ballads, by which he was +accustomed to beguile the weary day. There was a gloom on every thing, nor +was the aspect without doors more cheering. The rain beat heavily in +drifts against the windows; the wind shook the old trees violently, and +tossed their gnarled limbs in wild confusion, sighing with mournful +cadence along the deep glen, or pouring a long melancholy note through the +narrow corridors of the old house. The sound of the storm, made more +audible by the dreary silence, seemed to weigh down every heart. Even the +bare-legged little gossoon, Mickey, who had come over from Father Luke's +with a message, sat mute and sad, and as he moved his naked foot among the +white turf ashes, seemed to feel the mournful depression of the hour. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis a dreadful day of rain, glory be to God!” said Kerry, as he drew a +fragment of an old much-soiled newspaper from his pocket, and took his +seat beside the blazing fire. For some time he persevered in his +occupation without interruption; but Mrs. Branaghan having apparently +exhausted her own reflections, now turned upon him to supply a new batch. +</p> +<p> +“What's in the news, Kerry O'Leary? I think ye might as well read it out, +as be mumbling it to yourself there,” said she, in a tone seldom disputed +in the realm she ruled. +</p> +<p> +“Musha then,” said Kerry, scratching his head, “the little print bates me +entirely; the letters do be so close, they hav'n't room to stir in, and my +eyes is always going to the line above, and the line below, and can't keep +straight in the furrow at all. Come here, Mickey, alanah! 'tis you ought +to be a great scholar, living in the house with his reverence. They tell +me,” continued he, in a whisper to the cook—“they tell me, he can +sarve mass already.” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Branaghan withdrew her dudeen at these words, and gazed at the little +fellow with unmixed astonishment, who, in obedience to the summons, took +his place beside Kerry's chair, and prepared to commence his task. +</p> +<p> +“Where will I begin, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“Begin at the news, av coorse,” said Kerry, somewhat puzzled to decide +what kind of intelligence he most desired. “What's this here with a large +P in the first of it?” + </p> +<p> +“Prosperity of Ireland, sir,” said the child. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, read about that, Mickey,” said the cook, resuming her pipe. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00088.jpg" width="100%" alt="088 " /> +</div> +<p> +With a sing-song intonation, which neither regarded paragraph nor period, +but held on equably throughout a column, the little fellow began— +</p> +<p> +“The prospect of an abundant harvest is now very general throughout the +country; and should we have a continuance off the heavenly weather for a +week or so longer, we hope the corn will all be saved.” + </p> +<p> +As the allusion made here by the journalist, was to a period of several +years previous, the listeners might be excused for not feeling a perfect +concurrence in the statement.' +</p> +<p> +“Heavenly weather, indeed!” grunted out the cook, as she turned her eyes +towards the windows, against which the plashing rain was beating—Mike +read on. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Foran was stopped last night in Baggot-street, and robbed of his +watch and clothes, by four villains who live in Stoney-batter; they are +well known, and are advised to take care, as such depredations cannot go +long unpunished. The two villains that broke into the house of the +Archbishop of Dublin, and murdered the house-maid, will be turned off +'Lord Temple's trap,' on Saturday next; this, will be a lesson to the +people about the Cross-Poddle, that we hope may serve to their advantage.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir Miles M'Shane begs to inform the person who found his shoe-buckle +after the last levee, that he will receive one and eight pence reward for +the same, by bringing it to No. 2, Ely-place; or if he prefer it, Sir +Miles will toss up who keeps the pair. They are only paste, and not +diamond, though mighty well imitated.” + </p> +<p> +“Paste!” echoed Mrs. Branahan; “the lying thieves!” her notions on the +score of that material being limited to patties and pie-crusts. +</p> +<p> +“The 'Bucks' are imitating the ladies in all the arts of beautifying the +person.—Many were seen painted and patched at the duchess's last +ball. We hope this effeminacy may not spread any farther.—It is Mr. +Rigby, and not Mr. Harper, is to have the silk gown. Sir George Rose is to +get the red ribbon for his services in North America.” + </p> +<p> +“A silk gown and a red ribbon!” cried Mrs. Branaghan. “Bad luck to me, but +they might be ashamed of themselves.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, I never believed what Darby Long said before,” broke in Kerry. “He +tould me he saw the bishop of Cork in a black silk petticoat like a +famale. Is there no more murders, Mickey?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know, sir, barrin' they're in the fashionable intelligence.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, read on.” + </p> +<p> +“Donald, the beast, who refused to leave his cell in Trim gaol at the last +assizes, and was consequently fired at by a file of infantry, had his leg +amputated yesterday by Surgeon Huston of this town, and is doing +remarkably well.” + </p> +<p> +“Where's the sporting news?” said Kerry. “Is not this it, here?” as he +pointed to a figure of a horse above a column. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Connolly's horse, Gabriel, would have been in first, but he stopped +to eat Whaley, the jockey, when he fell. The race is to be run again on +Friday next. It was Mr. Daly, and not Mr. Crosbie, horse-whipped the +attorney over the course last Tuesday. Mr. Crosbie spent the day with the +Duke of Leinster, and is very angry at his name being mentioned in the +wrong, particularly as he is bound over to keep the peace towards all +members of the bar for three years.” + </p> +<p> +“Captain Heavyside and Mr. Malone exchanged four shots each on the Bull +this morning. The quarrel was about racing and politics, and miscellaneous +matters.” + </p> +<p> +“It is rumoured that if the Chief Justice be appointed from England, he +will decline giving personal satisfaction to the Master of the Rolls; but +we cannot credit the report—” + </p> +<p> +“The Carmelites have taken Banelagh-house for a nunnery.” + </p> +<p> +“That's the only bit in the paper I'd give the snuff of my pipe for,” said +Mrs. Branaghan. “Read it again, acushla.” + </p> +<p> +The boy re-read the passage. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well, I wonder if Miss Kate will ever come back again,” said she, +in a pause. +</p> +<p> +“To be sure she will,” said Kerry; “what would hinder her? hasn't she a +fine fortune out of the property? ten thousand, I heerd the master say.” + </p> +<p> +“Ayeh! sure it's all gone many a day ago; the sorra taste of a brass +farthen's left for her or any one else. The master sould every stick an' +stone in the place, barrin' the house that's over us, and sure that's all +as one as sould too. Ah, then, Miss Kate was the purty child, and had the +coaxing ways with her.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis a pity to make her a nun,” said Kerry. +</p> +<p> +“A pity! why would it be a pity, Kerry O'Leary?” said the old lady, +bristling up with anger. “Isn't the nuns happier, and dacenter, and higher +nor other women, with rapscallions for husbands, and villians of all kinds +for childher? Is it the likes of ye, or the crayture beside ye, that would +teach a colleen the way to heaven? Musha, but they have the blessed times +of it—fastin' and prayin', and doing all manner of penance, and +talking over their sins with holy men.” + </p> +<p> +“Whisht! what's that? there's the bell ringing above stairs,” said Kerry, +suddenly starting up and listening. “Ay, there it is again,” and, so +saying, he yawned and stretched himself, and after several interjectional +grumblings over the disturbance, slowly mounted the stairs towards the +parlour. +</p> +<p> +“Are ye sleepin' down there, ye lazy deevils?” cried Sir Archy from the +landing of the stairs. “Did ye no hear the bell?” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis now I heerd it,” said Kerry composedly, for he never vouchsafed the +same degree of deference to Sir Archy, he yielded to the rest of the +family. +</p> +<p> +“Go see if there be any lemon's in the house, and lose no time about it.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, I needn't go far then to find out,” whined Kerry; “the master had +none for his punch these two nights; they put the little box into a damp +corner, and, sure enough, they had beards on them like Jews, the same +lemons, when they went to look for them.” + </p> +<p> +“Go down then to the woman, M'Kelly's, in the glen, and see if she hae na +some there.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh murther! murther!” muttered Kerry to himself, as the whistling storm +reminded him of the dreadful weather without doors. “'Tis no use in going +without the money,” said he slyly, hoping that by this home-thrust he +might escape the errand. “Ye maun tell her to put it in the account, man.” + “'Tis in bad company she'd put it then,” muttered Kerry below his breath, +then added aloud—“Sorrow one she'd give, if I hadn't the sixpence in +my hand.” + </p> +<p> +“Canna ye say it's no' for yoursel', it's for the house—she wad na +refuse that.” + </p> +<p> +“No use in life,” reiterated he solemnly; “she's a real naygur, and would, +not trust Father Luke with a week's snuff, and he's dealt there for +sneeshin these thirty years.” + </p> +<p> +“A weel, a weel,” said M'Nab in a low harsh voice; “the world's growing +waur and waur. Ye maun e'en gie her a shilling, and mind ye get nae bad +bawbees in change; she suld gie ye twelve for saxpence.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry took the money without a word in reply; he was foiled in the plan of +his own devising, and with many a self-uttered sarcasm on the old +Scotchman, he descended the stairs once more. +</p> +<p> +“Is Master Herbert worse?” said the cook, as the old huntsman entered the +kitchen. +</p> +<p> +“Begorra he must be bad entirely, when ould Archy would give a shilling to +cure him. See here, he's sending me for lemons down to Mary's.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry rung the coin upon the table as if to test its genuiness, and +muttered to himself— +</p> +<p> +“'Tis a good one, devil a lie in it.” + </p> +<p> +'"There's the bell again; musha, how he rings it.” + </p> +<p> +This time the voice of Sir Archy was heard in loud tones summoning Kerry +to his assistance, for Herbert had become suddenly worse, and the old man +was unable to prevent him rising from his bed and rushing from the room. +</p> +<p> +The wild and excited tones of the youth were mixed with the deeper +utterings of the old man, who exerted all his efforts to calm and restrain +him as Kerry reached the spot. By his aid the boy was conveyed back to his +bed, where, exhausted by his own struggles, he lay without speaking or +moving for some hours. +</p> +<p> +It was not difficult to perceive, however, that this state boded more +unfavourably than the former one. The violent paroxysms of wild insanity +betokened, while they lasted, a degree of vital energy and force, which +now seemed totally to have given way; and although Kerry regarded the +change as for the better, the more practised and skilful mind of Sir +Archibald drew a far different and more dispiriting augury. +</p> +<p> +Thus passed the weary hours, and at last the long day began to decline, +but still no sign, nor sound, proclaimed the doctor's coming, and M'Nab's +anxiety became hourly more intense. +</p> +<p> +“If he come na soon,” said he, after a long and dreary silence, “he need +na tak' the trouble to look at him.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis what I'm thinking too.” said Kerry, with a sententious gravity +almost revolting—“when the fingers does be going that way, it's a +mighty bad sign. If I seen the hounds working with their toes, I never +knew them recover.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IX. A DOCTOR'S VISIT +</h2> +<p> +The night was far advanced as the doctor arrived at the O'Donoghue's +house, drenched with rain, and fatigued by the badness of the roads, where +his gig was often compelled to proceed for above a mile at a foot pace. +Doctor Roach was not in the most bland of tempers as he reached his +destination; and, of a verity, his was a nature that stood not in any need +of increased acerbity. The doctor was a type of a race at one time very +general, but now, it is hard to say wherefore, nearly extinct in Ireland. +But so it is; the fruits of the earth change not in course of years more +strikingly, than the fashions of men's minds. The habits, popular enough +in one generation, survive as eccentricities in another, and are extinct +in a third. +</p> +<p> +There was a pretty general impression in the world, some sixty or seventy +years back, that a member of the medical profession, who had attained to +any height in his art, had a perfect right to dispense with all the +amenities and courtesies which regulate social life among less privileged +persons. The concessions now only yielded to a cook, were then extended to +a physician; and in accordance with the privilege by which he administered +most nauseous doses to the body, he was suffered to extend his dominion, +and apply scarcely more palatable remedies to the minds of his patients. +As if the ill-flavoured draughts had tinctured the spirit that conceived +them, the tone of his thoughts usually smacked of bitters, until at last +he seemed to have realized, in his own person, the conflicting agencies of +the pharmacopoeia, and was at once acrid, and pungent, and soporific +together. +</p> +<p> +The College of Physicians could never have reproached Doctor Roach with +conceding a single iota of their privileges. Never was there one who more +stoutly maintained, in his whole practice through life, the blessed +immunity of “the Doctor.” The magic word “Recipe,” which headed his +prescriptions, suggested a tone of command to all he said, and both his +drugs and dicta were swallowed without remonstrance. +</p> +<p> +It may not be a flattering confession for humanity, but it is assuredly a +true one, that the exercise of power, no matter how humble its sphere, or +how limited its range, will eventually generate a tyrannical habit in him +who wields it. Doctor Roach was certainly not the exception to this rule. +The Czar himself was not more autocrat in the steppes of Russia, than was +he in any house where sickness had found entrance. From that hour he +planted his throne there. All the caprices of age, all the follies of +childhood, the accustomed freedoms of home, the indulgences which grow up +by habit in a household, had to give way before a monarch more potent than +all, “the Doctor.” Men bore the infliction with the same patient endurance +they summoned to sustain the malady. They felt it to be grievous and +miserable, but they looked forward to a period of relief, and panted for +the arrival of the hour, when the disease and the doctor would take their +departure together. +</p> +<p> +If the delight they experienced at such a consummation was extreme, so to +the physician it savoured of ingratitude. “I saved his life yesterday,” + saith he, “and see how happy he is, to dismiss me to-day.” But who is ever +grateful for the pangs of a toothache?—or what heart can find +pleasure in the memory of sententiousness, senna, and low diet? +</p> +<p> +Never were the blessings of restored health felt with a more suitable +thankfulness than by Doctor Roach's patients. To be free once more from +his creaking shoes, his little low dry cough, his harsh accents, his +harsher words, his contradictions, his sneers, and his selfishness, shed a +halo around recovery, which the friends of the patient could not properly +appreciate. +</p> +<p> +Such was the individual whose rumbling and rattling vehicle now entered +the court-yard of Carrig-na-curra, escorted by poor Terry, who had +accompanied him the entire way on foot. The distance he had come, his more +than doubts about the fee, the severity of the storm, were not the +accessories likely to amend the infirmities of his temper; while a still +greater source of irritation than all existed in the mutual feeling of +dislike between him and Sir Archibald M'Nab. An occasional meeting at a +little boarding-house in Killarney, which Sir Archy was in the habit of +visiting each summer for a few days—the only recreation he permitted +himself—had cultivated this sentiment to such a pitch, that they +never met without disagreement, or parted without an actual quarrel. The +doctor was a democrat, and a Romanist of the first water; Sir Archy was a +member of the Scottish Episcopal Church; and, whatever might have been his +early leanings in politics, and in whatever companionship his active years +were passed, experience had taught him the fallacy of many opinions, which +owe any appearance of truth or stability they possess, to the fact, that +they have never advanced beyond the stage of speculative notions, into the +realms of actual and practical existence;—but, above all, the +prudent Scotchman dreaded the prevalence of these doctrines among young +and unsettled minds, ever ready to prefer the short and hazardous career +of fortune, to the slow and patient drudgery of daily industry. +</p> +<p> +If the doctor anticipated but little enjoyment in the society of Sir +Archy, neither did the latter hope for any pleasure to himself from +Roach's company. However, as the case of poor Herbert became each hour +more threatening, the old man resolved to bury in oblivion every topic of +mutual disagreement, and, so long as the doctor remained in the house, to +make every possible or impossible concession to conciliate the good-will +of one, on whose services so much depended. +</p> +<p> +“Do ye hear?” cried Roach in a harsh voice to Kerry, who was summoned from +the kitchen-fire to take charge of his horse; “let the pony have a mash of +bran—a hot mash, and don't leave him till he's dry.” + </p> +<p> +“Never fear, sir,” replied Kerry, as he led the jaded and way-worn beast +into the stable, “I'll take care of him as if he was a racer;” and then, +as Roach disappeared, added—“I'd like to see myself strapping the +likes of him—an ould mountaineer. A mash of bran, indeed! Cock him +up with bran! Begorra, 'tis thistles and docks he's most used to;” and, +with this sage reflection on the beast's habits, he locked the stable +door, and resumed his former place beside the blazing turf fire. +</p> +<p> +O'Donoghue's reception of the doctor was most cordial. He was glad to see +him on several accounts. He was glad to see any one who could tell him +what was doing in the world, from which all his intercourse was cut off; +he was glad, because the supper was waiting an hour and a half beyond its +usual time, and he was getting uncommonly hungry; and, lastly, he really +felt anxious about Herbert, whenever by any chance his thoughts took that +direction. +</p> +<p> +“How are you, Roach?” cried he, advancing to meet him with an extended +hand. “This is a kind thing of you—you've had a dreadful day, I +fear.” + </p> +<p> +“D—n me, if I ever saw it otherwise in this confounded glen. I never +set foot in it, that I wasn't wet through.” + </p> +<p> +“We have our share of rain, indeed,” replied the other, with a +good-humoured laugh; “but if we have storm, we have shelter.” + </p> +<p> +Intentionally misunderstanding the allusion, and applying to the ruined +mansion the praise bestowed on the bold mountains, the doctor threw a +despairing look around the room, and repeated the word “shelter” in a +voice far from complimentary. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue's blood was up in a moment. His brow contracted and his +cheek flushed, as, in a low and deep tone, he said— +</p> +<p> +“It is a crazy old concern. You are right enough—neither the walls +nor the company within them, are like what they once were.” + </p> +<p> +The look with which these words were given, recalled the doctor to a sense +of his own impertinence; for, like certain tethered animals, who never +become conscious of restraint till the check of the rope lays them on +their back, nothing short of such a home-blow could have staggered his +self-conceit. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, ay,” muttered he, with a cackling apology for a laugh, “time is +telling on us all.—But I'm keeping the supper waiting.” + </p> +<p> +The duties of hospitality were always enough to make O'Donoghue forget any +momentary chagrin, and he seated himself at the table with all his wonted +good-humour and affability. +</p> +<p> +As the meal proceeded, the doctor inquired about the sick boy, and the +circumstances attending his illness; the interest he bestowed on the +narrative mainly depending on the mention of Sir Marmaduke Travers's name, +whose presence in the country he was not aware of before, and from whose +residence he began already to speculate on many benefits to himself. +</p> +<p> +“They told me,” continued O'Donoghue, “that the lad behaved admirably. In +fact, if the old weir-rapid be any thing like what I remember it, the +danger was no common one. There used to be a current there strong enough +to carry away a dozen horsemen.” + </p> +<p> +“And how is the young lady? Is she nothing the worse from the cold, and +the drenching, and the shock of the accident?” + </p> +<p> +“Faith, I must confess it, I have not had the grace to ask after her. +Living as I have been for some years back, has left me sadly in arrear +with every demand of the world. Sir Marmaduke was polite enough to say +he'd call on me; but there is a still greater favour he could bestow, +which is, to leave me alone.” + </p> +<p> +“There was a law-suit or dispute of some kind or other between you, was +there not?” + </p> +<p> +“There is something of that kind,” said O'Donoghue, with an air of +annoyance at the question; “but these are matters gentlemen leave to their +lawyers, and seek not to mix themselves up with.” + </p> +<p> +“The strong purse is the sinew of war,” muttered the inexorable doctor; +“and they tell me he is one of the wealthiest men in England.” + </p> +<p> +“He may be, for aught I know or care.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well,” resumed the other, after a long deliberative pause, “there's +no knowing how this little adventure may turn out. If your son saved the +girl's life, I scarcely think he could press you so hard about—” + </p> +<p> +“Take care, sir,” broke in O'Donoghue, and with the words he seized the +doctor's wrist in his strong grasp; “take care how you venture to speak of +affairs which no wise concern you;” then, seeing the terrified look his +speech called up, he added—“I have been very irritable latterly, and +never desire to talk on these subjects; so, if you please, we'll change +the topic.” + </p> +<p> +The door was cautiously opened at this moment, and Kerry presented +himself, with a request from Sir Archibald, that, as soon as Doctor Roach +found it convenient, he would be glad to see him in the sick-room. +</p> +<p> +“I am ready now,” said the doctor, rising from his chair, and not by any +means sorry at the opportunity of escaping a <i>tête-a-tête</i> he had +contrived to render so unpalatable to both parties. As he mounted the +stairs, he continued in broken phrases to inveigh against the house and +the host in a half soliloquy—“A tumble-down old barrack it is—not +fifty shillings worth of furniture under the roof—the ducks were as +tough as soaked parchment—and where's the fee to come from—I +wish I knew that—unless I take one of these old devils instead of +it;” and he touched the frame of a large, damp, discoloured portrait of +some long-buried ancestor, several of which figured on the walls of the +stair-case. +</p> +<p> +“The boy is worse—far worse,” whispered a low, but distinct voice +beside him. “His head is now all astray—he knows no one.” + </p> +<p> +Doctor Roach seemed vexed at the ceremony of salutation being forgotten in +Sir Archibald's eagerness about the youth, and drily answered— +</p> +<p> +“I have the honour to see you well, sir, I hope.” + </p> +<p> +“There is one here very far from well,” resumed Sir Archy, neither caring +for, nor considering the speech. “We have lost too much time already—I +trust ye may na be too late now.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor made no reply, but rudely taking the candle from his hand, +walked towards the bed— +</p> +<p> +“Ay, ay,” muttered he, as he beheld the lustrous eyes and widespread +pupils—the rose-red cheek, and dry, cracked lips of the youth; “he +has it sure enough.” + </p> +<p> +“Has what?—what is it?” + </p> +<p> +“The fever—brain fever, and the worst kind of it too.” + </p> +<p> +“And there is danger then?” whispered M'Nab. +</p> +<p> +“Danger, indeed! I wonder how many come through it. Pshaw! there's no use +trying to count his pulse;” and he threw the hand rudely back upon the +bed. “That's going as fast as ever his father went with the property.” A +harsh, low, cackling laugh followed this brutal speech, which demanded all +Sir Archy's predetermined endurance to suffer unchecked. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know me?” said the doctor, in the loud voice used to awaken the +dormant faculty of hearing. “Do you know me?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” replied the boy, staring steadfastly at him. +</p> +<p> +“Well, who am I, then? Am I your father?” + </p> +<p> +A vacant gaze was all the answer. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me, am I your father?” + </p> +<p> +No reply followed. +</p> +<p> +“Am I your uncle, then?” said the doctor, still louder. +</p> +<p> +The word, “uncle,” seemed to strike upon some new chord of his awakened +sense: a faint smile played upon his parched lips, and his eyes wandered +from the speaker, as if in search of some object, till they fell upon Sir +Archy, as he stood at the foot of the bed, when suddenly his whole +countenance was lighted up, and he repeated the word, “uncle,” to himself +in a voice indescribably sweet and touching. +</p> +<p> +“He has na forgotten me,” murmured M'Nab, in a tone of deep emotion. “My +ain dear boy—he knows me yet.” + </p> +<p> +“You agitate him too much,” said Roach, whose nature had little sympathy +with the feelings of either. “You must leave me alone here to examine him +myself.” + </p> +<p> +M'Nab said not a word, but, with noiseless step, stole from the room. The +doctor looked after him as he went, and then followed to see that the door +was closed behind. This done, he beckoned to Kerry, who still remained, to +approach, and deliberately seated himself in a chair near the window. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me, my good fellow,” said he, affecting an air of confidence as he +spoke, “an't they all broke here? Isn't the whole thing smashed?” + </p> +<p> +“Broke—smashed!” repeated Kerry, as he held up both hands in feigned +astonishment; “'tis a droll smash: begorra, I never see money as plenty +this many a year. Sure av there wasn't lashings of it, would he be looking +out for carriage-horses, and buying hunters, not to say putting the kennel +in order.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it truth you are telling?” said Roach, in astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“True as my name is Kerry O'Leary. We offered Lanty Lawler a hundred and +twenty guineas on Friday last for a match wheeler, and we're not off of +him yet; he's a big brown horse, with a star on his face; and the cob for +the master cost forty pounds. He'll be here tomorrow, or next day, sure +ye'll see him yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“The place is falling to ruin—the roof will never last the winter,” + broke in the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“Well, and whose fault is it, but that spalpeen Murphy's, that won't set +the men to work till he gets oak timber from the Black Say—'tis the +finest wood in the world, they tell me, and lasts for ever and ever.” + </p> +<p> +“But, don't they owe money every where in the country? There isn't a +little shop in Killarney without an account of their's in it.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course they do, and the same in Cork—ay, and in Tralee, for the +matter of that. Would you have them not give encouragement to more places +nor one? There's not one of those crayturs would send in their bill—no, +though we do be asking for it, week after week. They're afraid of losing +the custom; and I'll engage now, they do be telling you they can't get +their money by hook or by crook; that's it—I knew it well.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor meditated long on these strange revelations, so very opposite +to all he had heard of the circumstances of the O'Donoghues; and while his +own convictions were strongly against Kerry's narrative, that worthy man's +look of simplicity and earnest truth puzzled him considerably, and made +him hesitate which side to credit. +</p> +<p> +After a long pause, from which the incoherent ravings of the sick boy +aroused him, he looked up at Kerry, and then, with a motion of his thumb +towards the bed, he muttered— +</p> +<p> +“He's going fast.” + </p> +<p> +“Going fast!” echoed Kerry, in a voice very different from his former +accent. “Oh, wirra! there's nothing so bad as death! Distress and poverty +is hard enough, but that's the raal misfortune.” + </p> +<p> +A dry sarcastic grin from the doctor seemed to say that poor Kerry's +secret was discovered. The allusion to want of means came too naturally +not to be suggested by present circumstances; and the readiness of Doctor +Roach's apprehension clinched the discovery at once. +</p> +<p> +“We'll go down now,” said the doctor; “I believe I know the whole state of +the case;” and, with these words of ambiguous meaning he returned to the +drawing-room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER X. AN EVENING AT “MARY” M'KELLY's +</h2> +<p> +If sorrow had thrown its sombre shadow over the once-proud house of the +O'Donoghue, within whose walls now noiseless footsteps stole along, and +whispered words were spoken: a very different scene presented itself at +the small hostel of Mary M'Kelly. There, before the ample fireplace, a +quarter of a sheep was roasting—while various utensils of cookery, +disposed upon and around the fire, diffused a savoury odour through the +apartment. A table, covered with a snow-white napkin, and containing +covers for a party of six, occupied the middle of the room; cups and +drinking vessels of richly chased silver, silver forks and spoons, of +handsome pattern, were there also—strange and singular spectacle +beneath the humble thatch of a way-side cabin. Mary herself displayed in +her toilet a more than usual care and attention, and wore in her becoming +cap, with a deep lace border, a bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, +coquettishly knotted, and with the ends falling loosely on her neck. While +she busied herself in the preparation for the table, she maintained from +time to time a running conversation with a person who sat smoking in the +chimney corner. Although screened from the glare of the fire, the light +which was diffused around showed enough of the dress and style of the +wearer to recognize him at once for Lanty Lawler, the horse-dealer. His +attitude, as he lolled back on one chair, and supported his legs on +another, bespoke the perfection of ease, while in the jaunty manner he +held the long pipe-stick between his fingers, could be seen the +affectation of one who wished to be thought at home, as well as to feel +so. +</p> +<p> +“What hour did they mention, Mary?” said he, after a pause of some +minutes, during which he puffed his pipe assiduously. +</p> +<p> +“The gossoon that came from Beerhaven, said it would be nine o'clock at +any rate; but sure it's nigher to ten now. They were to come up on the +flood tide. Whisht, what was that?—Wasn't that like the noise of +wheels?” + </p> +<p> +“No; that's the wind, and a severe night it is too. I'm thinking, Mary, +the storm may keep them back.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it; there's a creek down there, they tell me, safer nor e'er +a harbour in Ireland; and you'd never see a bit of a vessel till you were +straight over her: and sure it's little they mind weather. That Captain +Jack, as they call him, says there's no time for business like a gale of +wind. The last night they were here there was two wrecks in the bay.” + </p> +<p> +“I mind it well, Mary. Faix, I never felt a toast so hard to drink as the +one they gave after supper.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't be talking about it,” said Mary, crossing herself devoutly; “they +said it out of devilment, sorra more.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, may be so,” muttered he sententiously. “They're wild chaps any way, +and they've a wild life of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Troth, if I was a man, tis a life I'd like well,” said Mary, with a look +of resolute determination, well becoming the speech. “Them's the fine +times they have, going round the world for sport, and nothing to care for—as +much goold as they'd ask—fine clothes—the best of eating and +drinking; sure there's not one of them would drink out of less than +silver.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, they may have iron round their ancles for it, after all, Mary.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra bit of it—the jail isn't built yet, that would howld them. +What's that noise now? That's them. Oh, no; it's the water running down +the mountain.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I wish they'd come any way,” said Lanty; “for I must be off early +to-morrow—I've an order from the ould banker here above, for six +beasts, and I'd like to get a few hours' sleep before morning.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis making a nice penny you are there, Lanty,” said Mary, with a +quizzical look from the corner of her eye. +</p> +<p> +“A good stroke of business, sure enough, Mary,” replied he, laughingly. +“What d'ye think I did with him yesterday morning? I heerd here, ye know, +what happened to the grey mare I bought from Mark O'Donoghue—that +she was carried over the weir-gash and drowned. What does I do, but goes +up to the Lodge and asks for Sir Marmaduke; and says I, 'I'm come, sir, to +offer a hundred and fifty for the little mare I sould you the other day +for a hundred; 'tis only now I found out her real value, and I can get two +hundred for her in Cork, the day I bring her up; and sure your honour +wouldn't prevent a poor man making a trifle in the way of his trade.' +'You're an honest fellow, Lanty,' says he—divil a lie in it Mary, +don't be laughing—'you're an honest fellow; and although I cannot +let you have your mare back again, for she was killed last night, you +shall have your own price for the four carriage-horses and the two +roadsters I ordered.' With that I began blubbering about the mare, and +swore I was as fond of her as if she was my sister. I wish you'd seen his +daughter then; upon my conscience it was as good as a play. 'They have so +much feelin', says she to her father. 'For fun,' says I to myself. 'O +murther, murther. Mary, and them's the people that rules us!'” + </p> +<p> +“Omadhauns they are, the devil a' more!” interposed Mary, whose hearty +contempt for the Saxon originated in the facility by which he could be +imposed upon. +</p> +<p> +“That's what I'm always saying,” said Lanty. “I'd rather have the chaytin' +than the bayting of John Bull, any day! You'll humbug him out of his +shirt, and faix it's the easiest way to get it after all.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a mane way, Lanty,” interposed Mary, with a look of pride; “it's a +dirty, mane way, and doesn't become an Irishman?” + </p> +<p> +“Wait till the time comes, Mary M'Kelly,” said Lanty, half angrily, “and +maybe I'd be as ready as another.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish it was come,” said Mary, sighing; “I wish to the Virgin it was; +I'm tired heerin' of the preparations. Sorra one of me knows what more +they want, if the stout heart was there. There's eight barrels of +gunpowder in that rock there,” said she, in a low whisper, “behind yer +back—you needn't stir, Lanty. Begorra, if a spark was in it, 'twould +blow you and me, and the house that's over us, as high as Hungry +mountain.” + </p> +<p> +“The angels be near us!” said Lanty, making the sign of the cross. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” resumed Mary, “and muskets for a thousand min, and pikes for two +more. There's saddles and bridles, eighteen hogsheads full.” + </p> +<p> +“True enough,” chimed in Lanty; “and I have an order for five hundred +cavalry horses—the money to be paid out of the Bank of France. +Musha, I wish it was some place nearer home.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it doubting them ye are, Lanty Lawler?” + </p> +<p> +“No, not a bit; but it's always time enough to get the beasts, when we see +the riders. I could mount two thousand men in a fortnight, any day, if +there was money to the fore; ay, and mount them well, too: not the kind of +devils I give the government, that won't stand three days of hard work. +Musha, Mary, but it's getting very late; that mutton will be as dry as a +stick.” + </p> +<p> +“The French likes it best that way,” said Mary, with a droll glance, as +though to intimate she guessed the speaker's object. “Take a look down the +road, Lanty, and try if you can hear any one coming.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty arose from his comfortable corner with evident reluctance, and laid +down his pipe with a half sigh, as he moved slowly towards the door of the +cabin, which having unbarred he issued forth into the darkness. +</p> +<p> +“It's likely I'd hear any thing such a night as this,” grumbled he to +himself, “with the trees snapping across, and the rocks tumbling down! +It's a great storm entirely.” + </p> +<p> +“Is there any sign of them, Lanty?” cried Mary, as she held the door ajar, +and peeped out into the gloomy night. +</p> +<p> +“I couldn't see my hand fornint me.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you hear nothing?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix I hear enough over my head; that was thunder! Is there any fear of +it getting at the powder, Mary?” + </p> +<p> +“Divil a fear; don't be unasy about that,” said the stout-hearted Mary. +“Can you see nothing at all?” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra a thing, barrin' the lights up at Carrig-na-curra; they're moving +about there, at a wonderful rate. What's O'Donoghue doing at all?” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis the young boy, Herbert, is sick,” said Mary, as she opened the door +to admit Lanty once more. “The poor child is in a fever. Kerry O'Leary was +down here this evening for lemons for a drink for him. Poor Kerry! he was +telling me, himself has a sore time of it, with that ould Scotchman that's +up there; nothing ever was like him for scoulding, and barging, and +abusing; and O'Donoghue now minds nothing inside or out, but sits all day +long in the big chair, just as if he was asleep. Maybe he does take a nap +sometimes, for he talks of bailiffs, and writs, and all them things. Poor +ould man! it's a bad end, when the law comes with the grey hairs!” + </p> +<p> +“They've a big score with yourself, I'll be bound,” said Lanty +inquiringly. +</p> +<p> +“Troth, I'd like to see myself charge them with any thing,” said she, +indignantly. “It's to them and their's I owe the roof that's over me, and +my father, and my father's father before me owes it. Musha, it would +become me to take their money, for a trifle of wine and spirits, and tay +and tobacco, as if I wasn't proud to see them send down here—the +raal ould stock that's in it! Lanty, it must be very late by this. I'm +afeard something's wrong up in the bay.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis that same I was thinking myself,” said Lanty, with a sly look +towards the roasted joint, whose savoury odour was becoming a temptation +overmuch for resistance. +</p> +<p> +“You've a smart baste in the stable,” said Mary; “he has eaten his corn by +this time, and must be fresh enough; just put the saddle on him, Lanty +dear, and ride down the road a mile or two—do, and good luck attend +you.” + </p> +<p> +There never was a proposition less acceptable to the individual to whom it +was made; to leave a warm fire-side was bad enough, but to issue forth on +a night it would have been inhumanity to expose a dog to, was far too much +for his compliance; yet Lanty did not actually refuse; no, he had his own +good reasons for keeping fair with Mary M'Kelly; so he commenced a system +of diplomatic delay and discussion, by which time at least might be +gained, in which it was possible the long-expected guests would arrive, or +the project fall to the ground on its own merits. +</p> +<p> +“Which way will they come, Mary?” said he, rising from his seat. +</p> +<p> +“Up the glen, to be sure—what other way could they from the Bay. +You'll hear them plain enough, for they shout and sing every step of the +road, as if it was their own; wild devils they are.” + </p> +<p> +“Sing is it? musha, now, do they sing?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, faix, the drollest songs ever ye heerd; French and Roosian songs—sorra +the likes of them going at all.” + </p> +<p> +“Light hearts they have of their own.” + </p> +<p> +“You may say that, Lanty Lawler; fair weather or foul, them's the boys +never change; but come now be alive, and get out the baste.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm going, I'm going; it's myself would like to hear them sing a Roosian +song. Whisht! what's that? did ye hear a shout there?” + </p> +<p> +“Here they are; that's them,” said Mary, springing towards the door, and +withdrawing the bolt, while a smart knock was heard, and the same instant, +a voice called out— +</p> +<p> +“Holloa! house ahoy!” + </p> +<p> +The door at the moment flew open, and a short, thick-set looking man, in a +large boat cloak, entered, followed by a taller figure, equally muffled. +The former dropping his heavy envelope, and throwing off an oil-skin cap +from his head, held out his arms wide as, he said— +</p> +<p> +“<i>Marie, ma mie! embrasse moi</i>;” and then, not waiting for a +compliance with the request, sprang forward, and clasped the buxom +landlady in his arms, and kissed her on each cheek, with an air compounded +of true feeling, and stage effect. +</p> +<p> +“Here's my friend and travelling companion, Henry Talbot, come to share +your hospitality, Mary,” said he in English, to which the slightest +foreign accent lent a tone of recitative. “One of us, Mary—one of +us.” + </p> +<p> +The individual alluded to had by this time dropped his cloak to the +ground, and displayed the figure of a slight and very young man, whose +features were singularly handsome, save for a look of great effeminacy; +his complexion was fair as a girl's, and, flushed by exercise, the tint +upon his cheek was of a pale rose colour; he was dressed in a riding coat, +and top boots, which, in the fashion of the day, were worn short, and +wrinkled around the leg; his hair he wore without powder, and long upon +his neck; a heavy riding whip, ornamented with silver, the only weapon he +carried, composed his costume—one as unlike his companion's as could +be. +</p> +<p> +Captain Jacques Flahault was a stout-built, dark-complexioned fellow, of +some four or five and forty; his face a grotesque union of insolence and +drollery; the eyes black as jet, shaded by brows so arched, as to give +always the idea of laughing to a countenance, the lower part of which, +shrouded in beard and moustache, was intended to look stern and savage. +</p> +<p> +His dress was a short blue frock, beneath which he wore a jersey shirt, +striped in various colours, across which a broad buff leather belt, +loosely slung, supported four pistols and a dirk; jack boots reached about +the middle of the thigh, and were attached to his waist by thongs of +strong leather, no needless precaution apparently, as in their looseness +the wearer might at any moment have stepped freely from them; a black +handkerchief, loosely knotted round his neck, displayed a throat brawny +and massive as a bull's, and imparted to the whole head an appearance of +great size—the first impression every stranger conceived regarding +him. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! ah! Lawler, you here; how goes it, my old friend? Sit down here, and +tell me all your rogueries since we parted. <i>Par St, Pierre</i>, Henry, +this is the veriest <i>fripon</i> in the kingdom”—Talbot bowed, and +with a sweetly courteous smile saluted Lanty, as if accepting the speech +in the light of an introduction—“a fellow that in the way of his +trade could cheat the Saint Père himself.” + </p> +<p> +“Where's the others, Captain Jack?” said Mary, whose patience all this +time endured a severe trial—“where's the rest?” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Place pour la potage! Ma Mie!</i>—soup before a story; you shall +hear every thing by and by. Let us have the supper at once.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty chimed in a willing assent to this proposition, and in a few moments +the meat smoked upon the table, around which the whole party took their +places with evident good-will. +</p> +<p> +“While Mary performed her attentions as hostess, by heaping up each plate, +and ever supplying the deficiency caused by the appetite of the guests, +the others eat on like hungry men. Captain Jacques alone intermingling +with the duties of the table, a stray remark from time to time. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Ventre bleu!</i> how it blows; if it veers more to the southard, there +will be a heavy strain on that cable. <i>Trinquons mon ami, Trinquons +toujours; Ma belle Marie</i>, you eat nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis unasy I am, Captain Jack, about what's become of the others,” said +Mrs. M'Kelly. +</p> +<p> +“Another bumper, <i>Ma Mie</i>, and I'm ready for the story—the more +as it is a brief one. <i>Allons donc</i>—now for it. We left the bay +about nine o'clock, or half-past, perhaps, intending to push forward to +the glen at once, and weigh with the morning's tide, for it happens that +this time our cargo is destined for a small creek, on the north-west +coast; our only business here being to land my friend, Harry”—here +Talbot bowed and smiled—“and to leave two hogsheads of Bourdeaux, +for that very true-hearted, kind, <i>brave homme</i>, Hemsworth, at the +Lodge there. You remember last winter we entered into a compact with him +to stock his cellar, provided no information of our proceedings reached +the revenue from any quarter. Well, the wine was safely stored in one of +the caves on the coast, and we started with a light conscience; we had +neither despatches nor run-brandy to trouble us—nothing to do but +eat our supper; saluer madame”—here he turned round, and with an air +of mock respect kissed Mary's hand—“and get afloat again. As we came +near the 'Lodge,' I determined to make my visit a brief one; and so +leaving all my party, Harry included, outside, I approached the house, +which, to my surprise, showed lights from nearly every window. This made +me cautious, and so I crept stealthily to a low window, across which the +curtain was but loosely drawn, and <i>Mort de ma vie!</i> what did I +behold, but the prettiest face in Europe. <i>Une ange de beauté</i>. She +was leaning over a table copying a drawing, or a painting of some sort or +other. <i>Tête bleu!</i> here was a surprise. I had never seen her before, +although I was with Hemsworth a dozen times.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on—go on,” said Lanty, whose curiosity was extreme to hear what +happened next. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Eh bien</i>—I tried the sash, but it was fastened. I then went +round the house, and examined the other windows, one after the other—all +the same. <i>Que faire!</i> I thought of knocking boldly at the back-door, +but then I should have no chance of a peep at <i>la belle</i> in that +way.” + </p> +<p> +“What did you want with a peep at her?” asked Mary, gruffly. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Diable!</i> what did I want? <i>Pour l'admirer, l'adorer</i>—or, +at least to make my respects, as becomes a stranger, and a Frenchman. <i>Pursuivons</i>. +There was no <i>entrée</i>, without some noise—so I preferred the +room she was in, to any other, and gently disengaging my dirk, I slipped +it between the two sashes, to lift up the latch that fastened them. <i>Mort +bleu!</i> the weapon slipped, and came slap through the pane, with a +tremendous fracas. She started up, and screamed—there was no use in +any more delay. I put my foot through the window, and pushed open the sash +at once—but before I was well in the room, bells were ringing in +every quarter of the house, and men's voices calling aloud, and shouting +to each other—when, suddenly, the door opened, and whiz went a +pistol-ball close by my head, and shattered the shutter behind me. My +fellows, outside, hearing the shot, unslung their pieces, and before I +could get down to them, poured in a volley—why, wherefore, or upon +whom, the devil himself, that instigated them, can tell. The garrison +mustered strong, however, and replied—that they did, by Jove, for +one of ours, Emile de Louvois, is badly wounded. I sounded the retreat, +but the scoundrels would not mind me—and before I was able to +prevent it, <i>tête bleu!</i> they had got round to the farmyard, and set +fire to the corn-stacks; in a second, the corn and hay blazed up, and +enveloped house and all in smoke. I sounded the retreat once more, and off +the villains scampered, with poor Emile, to the boat; and I, finding my +worthy friend here an inactive spectator of the whole from a grove near +the road, resolved not to give up my supper—and so, <i>me voici!</i>—but +come, can none of you explain this affair? What is Hemsworth doing, with +all this armed household, and this captive princess?” + </p> +<p> +“Is the 'Lodge' burned down?” said Lanty, whose interest in the +inhabitants had a somewhat selfish origin. +</p> +<p> +“No, they got the fire tinder. I saw a wild-looking devil mount one of the +ricks, with a great canvas sail all wetted, and drag it over the burning +stack—and before I left the place, the Lodge was quite safe.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm sorry for it,” said Mary, with a savage determination. “I'm sorry to +the heart's core. Luck nor grace never was in the glen, since the first +stone of it was laid—nor will be again, till it is a ruin! Why +didn't they lay it in ashes, when they were about it?” + </p> +<p> +“Faith, it seemed to me,” said Talbot, in a low soft voice, “they would +have asked nothing better. I never saw such bull-dogs in my life. It was +all you could do, Flahault, to call them off.” + </p> +<p> +“True enough,” replied Jacques, laughing. “They enjoy a <i>brisée</i> like +that with all their hearts.” + </p> +<p> +“The English won't stay long here, after this night,” was Lanty's sage +reflection, but one which he did not utter aloud in the present company. +And then, in accordance with Jacques' request, he proceeded to explain by +what different tenants the Lodge became occupied since his last visit; and +that an English baronet and his daughter, with a household of many +servants, had replaced Hemsworth and his few domestics. At every stage of +the recital, Flahault stopped the narrative, to give him time to laugh. To +him the adventure was full of drollery. Even the recollection of his +wounded comrade little damped his enjoyment of a scene, which might have +been attended by the saddest results; and he chuckled a hundred times over +what he suspected the Englishman must feel, on this, his first visit to +Ireland. “I could rob the mail to-morrow, for the mere fun of reading his +letters to his friends,” said he. “<i>Mort bleu!</i> what a description of +Irish rapparrees, five hundred in number, armed with pikes.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish ye'd gave him the cause to do it,” said Mary, bitterly—“what +brings them here? who wants them? or looks for them?” + </p> +<p> +“You are right, Mary,” said Talbot, mildly. “Ireland for the Irish!” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, Ireland for the Irish!” repeated Mary and Lanty; and the sentiment +was drank with all the honours of a favoured toast. +</p> +<p> +For some time the party continued to discuss Flahault's story, and +calculate on every possible turn the affair might give rise to. All +agreeing, finally, on one point, that Sir Marmaduke would scarcely venture +to protract his stay in a country, where his visit had been signalized by +such a reception. The tone of the conversation seemed little to accord +with Captain Jacques' humour, whose convivial temperament found slight +pleasure in protracted or argumentative discussions of any kind. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Que le diable l'importe</i>,” cried he, at last. “This confounded talk +has stopped the bottle this half-hour. Come, Talbot, let's have a song, my +lad; never shake your head, <i>mon enfant,</i>—— Well, then, +here goes.” + </p> +<p> +Thus saying, Flahault pushed back his chair a little from the table, and +in a rich deep bass voice, which rung through the high rafters of the +cabin, chanted out the following rude verses, to a French vaudeville air—giving +the final <i>e</i> of the French words, at the end of each line, that +peculiar accentuation of <i>a</i>—which made the word sound <i>contrabanda!</i> +</p> +<p> +Though this information as to Captain Jacques' performance seems of little +moment, yet such was the fact, that any spirit the doggerel possessed +could only be attributed to the manner of the singer, and the effect +produced by the intonation we have mentioned. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +LA CONTRABANDE. + +A bumper, “mes enfans,” to swallow your care, +A full bumper, we pledge, “a L'Irlande;” + The land of “belles femmes”—le pays de bonne chere, +“Et toujours de la Contrabande.” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Some like to make love, and some like to make war, +Some of beauty obey “la commande;” + But what is a glance from an eye, “bleu,” or “noir,” + Except it be, “la Contrabande.” + +When a prince takes the cash that a peasant can't spare, +And lets him lie down “sur la lande;” + Call it, as you like—but the truth is, I swear, +“C'est bien pire que—la Contrabande.” + +Stolen kisses are ever the sweetest, we're told, +They sink like a “navire qui fende;” + And what's true of a kiss, is the same, too, of gold, +They're both, in their way, “Contrabande!” + +When kings take your money, they won't even say, +“Mon ami le Dieu vous le rende;” + While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay, +“C'est partout et toujours, Contrabande.” + +The good things of life are not equal, I'm sure, +Then, how pleasant to make the “amende;” + To take from the wealthy, and give to the poor, +“Voila! que j'appelle, Contrabande.” + +Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange, +That even “La France et L'Irlande,” + If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange, +There are folks who call that, “Contrabande.” + </pre> +<p> +“<i>Vive la Contrabande, mes amis</i>,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose +glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice +repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis an elegant song, any way,” said Lanty, “if one only understood it +all—and the tune's mighty like the 'Cruiskeen Lawn.'” + </p> +<p> +“Well, Harry,” said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “will +the song persuade you to turn smuggler? I fear not. You'd rather practise +your own 'Contrabande' among the bright eyes and dark locks of the +capital. Well, there are worse 'metiers.' I have had a turn at it these +fifteen years, and whether on the waters of Ontario, or Champlain, or +scudding along under the fog-banks of the Scheldt, I never grew weary of +it. But, now for a little business talk—where is the <i>Padre?</i> +where's Father Luke? was he not to have been here to-night?” + </p> +<p> +Mary whispered the answer in the captain's ear. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Ah! parbleu</i>,” exclaimed he aloud—“is it so? Practising a +little 'Contrebande' of his own—trying to see a poor fellow safe +over the frontier, into the next world.” + </p> +<p> +“Fie for shame, Captain Jacques,” said Mary, with pious horror. “That's +not the way to talk of the holy offices.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivières, he's +the boy could despatch them without trouble.” + </p> +<p> +Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault's new turn of +the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he went on— +</p> +<p> +“We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois Rivières, +when a messenger came from Lachégon, for the Père to administer the last +rites to a 'mourant.' Maurice promised to be there in half-an-hour, but +never stirred—and though three other messengers came for him, the +answer was all the same—until, at last came word, '<i>Cest trop +tard, il est mort</i>.' +</p> +<p> +“'<i>Trop tard!</i>' said Maurice, 'not a bit of it; give me a pen and +ink, and some paper.' With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and wrote— +</p> +<p> +“'Mon cher Pierre—Fais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre diable, +qui s'est glissé hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement il était bien +pressé; mais tu l'arrangera pour le mieux. +</p> +<p> +“'Ton viel ami.' +</p> +<p> +“'Maurice Dulang. “'St. Pierre, à la Conciergerie au Paradis.' +</p> +<p> +“'Put that in his mouth,' said Maurice, 'and there's no fear of him.'” + </p> +<p> +“'Twas a blessed gospel he gave him,” said Mary, who did not comprehend +the French portion of the story, “and sure it's as good as any thing.” + </p> +<p> +“We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at Lyons, when he +was led out to the guillotine—but though the Commissaire laughed +heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a breviary in his +portmanteau, and they couldn't let him off. Pauvre bête! To travel about +the world with the 'pièce de conviction' in his possession. What, Harry, +no more wine?” + </p> +<p> +“I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a temptation.” + </p> +<p> +“A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master Lawler—does it +suit your palate?” + </p> +<p> +“I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,” said Lanty; “I'm +not genteel enough for wine, God help me—but it's time to turn in, +any how—and there's Mary asleep already.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't stir till I finish the flask,” said Jacques, firmly; “and if you +won't drink, you needn't grudge me your company. It's hard to say when we +meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn't that so? +</p> +<p> +“Yes, and that's the point I wish to come to—where and how shall I +find a mount?—I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, but +he has not made his appearance.” + </p> +<p> +“You never fell upon your legs more fortunately—here's your man for +a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what's to be had now?” + </p> +<p> +“Devil a thing can be got for love or money,” said Lanty. “If the +gentleman only told me yesterday—” + </p> +<p> +“Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the Western Ocean—but +that's gone by—let us talk of to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, I'll sell +him; but he's a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price.” + </p> +<p> +“Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his +condition bear it?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll answer for it—you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you +give him ten minutes' rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom.” + </p> +<p> +“That's enough—what's his price?” + </p> +<p> +“Take a look at him first,” replied Lanty, “for if you are judge of a +beast, you'll not refuse what I ask you.” With these words he lighted a +candle, and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against the wall, +and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, by a narrow +passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by Talbot, Flahault +remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. Scarcely, however, had +the two figures disappeared in the distance, when he shook Mary violently +by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, but collected tone— +</p> +<p> +“Mary—Mary, I say—is that fellow all safe?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay is he safe,” said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a second. “Why +do you ask now?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll tell you why—for myself I care not a sous—I'm here +to-day, away to-morrow—but Talbot's deep in the business—his +neck's in the halter—can we trust Lawler on his account—a man +of rank and large fortune as he is, cannot be spared—what say you?” + </p> +<p> +“You may trust him, Captain,” said Mary, “he knows his life would not be +his own two hours if he turned informer—and then this Mr. Talbot, +he's a great man you tell me?” + </p> +<p> +“He's a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the game—that's +all I know, Mary—and, indeed, the present voyage was more to bring +him over, than any thing else—but hush, here they come.” + </p> +<p> +“You shall have your money—you've no objection to French gold, I +hope—for several years I have seen no other,” said Talbot entering. +</p> +<p> +“I know it well,” said Lanty, “and would just as soon take it, as if it +had King George on it.” + </p> +<p> +“You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far off—will that do?” + said the youth, as he emptied a heavily filled purse of gold, upon the +table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer. +</p> +<p> +“As well as the best, sir,” said Lanty, as he stored the money in his long +leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket. +</p> +<p> +“Will Mrs. M'Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake,” said the +youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Venetian +work, and threw it gallantly over Mary's; “this is the first shelter I +have found, after a long exile from my native land; and you, my old +comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are in the +lugger—and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at once—I +should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems over.” + </p> +<p> +Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young man +and the others; for, although he had mingled but little in the evening's +conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the charm of his +good looks, had won their favourable opinions; besides that he was pledged +to a cause which had all their sympathies. +</p> +<p> +While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and bridled +the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still raging fiercely, +and the night dark as ever. +</p> +<p> +“You'd better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him,” said Mary, +as she looked out into the wild and dreary night. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis what I mean to do,” said Lanty, “I'll show him as far as the turn of +the road.” + </p> +<p> +Though the stranger declined the proffered civility, Lanty was firm in his +resolution, and the young man, vaulting lightly into the saddle, called +out a last farewell: to the others, and rode on beside his guide. +</p> +<p> +Mary had scarcely time to remove the remains of the supper, when Lanty +re-entered the cabin. +</p> +<p> +“He's the noble-hearted fellow, any way,” said he, “and never took a +shilling off the first price I asked him;” and with that he put his hand +into his breast pocket to examine, once more, the strange coin of France. +With a start, a tremendous oath broke from him—“My money—my +pocket-book is lost,” exclaimed he, in wild excitement, while he ransacked +pocket after pocket of his dress. “Bad luck to that glen, I dropt it out +there, and with the torrent of water that's falling, it will never be +found—och, murther, this is too bad.” + </p> +<p> +In vain the others endeavoured to comfort and console him—all their +assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its being discovered the +next morning, were in vain. Lanty re-lighted the lantern, and muttering +maledictions on the weather, the road, and his? own politeness, he issued +forth to search after his treasure, an occupation which, with all his +perseverance, was unsuccessful; for when day was breaking, he was still +groping along the road, cursing his hard fate, and every thing which had +any share in inflicting it. +</p> +<p> +“The money is not the worst of it,” said Lanty, as he threw himself down, +exhausted and worn out, on his bed. “The money's not the worst of it—there +was papers in that book, I wouldn't have seen for double the amount.” + </p> +<p> +Long after the old smuggler was standing out to sea the next day, Lanty +Lawler wandered backwards and forwards in the glen, now searching among +the wet leaves that lay in heaps by the way side, or, equally in vain, +sounding every rivulet and water-course which swept past. His search, was +fruitless; and well it might be—the road was strewn with fragments +of rocks and tree-tops for miles—while even yet the swollen stream +tore wildly past, cutting up the causeway in its passage, and foaming on +amid the wreck of the hurricane. +</p> +<p> +Yet the entire of that day did he persevere, regardless of the beating +rain, and the cold, drifting wind, to pace to and fro, his heart bent upon +recovering what he had lost. +</p> +<p> +“Yer sowl is set upon money; devil a doubt of it, Lanty,” said Mary, as +dripping with wet,# and shaking with cold, he at last re-entered the +cabin; “sorra one of me would go rooting there, for a crock of goold, if I +was sure to find it.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not the money, Mary, I tould you before—it's something else +was in the pocket-book,” said he, half angrily, while he sat down to brood +in silence over his misfortune. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then,” said she, with a spice of +jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his +addresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable. +</p> +<p> +“May be it is, and may be it is not,” was the cranky reply. +</p> +<p> +“Well, she'll have a saving husband, any way,” said Mary, tartly, “and one +that knows how to keep a good grip of the money.” + </p> +<p> +The horse-dealer made no answer to this enconium on his economy, but with +eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on his loss; meanwhile Mrs. M'Kelly's +curiosity, piqued by her ineffectual efforts to obtain information, grew +each instant stronger, and at last became irrepressible. +</p> +<p> +“Can't you say what it is you've lost? sure there's many a one goes by, +here, of a Saturday to market—and if you leave the token—” + </p> +<p> +“There's no use in it—sorra bit,” said he, despondingly. +</p> +<p> +“You know your own saycrets best,” said Mary, foiled at every effort; “and +they must be the dhroll saycrets too, when you're so much afraid of their +being found out.” + </p> +<p> +“Troth then,” said Lanty, as a ray of his old gallantry shot across his +mind; “troth then, there isn't one I'd tell a saycrct too as soon as +yourself, Mary M'Kelly; you know the most of my heart already, and Why +wouldn't you know it all?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix it's little I care to hear about it,” said Mary, with an affectation +of indifference, the most finished coquetry could not have surpassed. “Ye +may tell it, or no, just as ye plaze.” + </p> +<p> +“That's it now,” cried Lanty—“that's the way of women, the whole +world over; keep never minding them, and bad luck to peace or case you +get; and then try and plaze them, and see what thanks you have. I was +going to tell you all about it.” + </p> +<p> +“And why don't you?” interrupted she, half fearing lest she might have +pulled the cord over-tight already; “why don't you tell it, Lanty dear?” + </p> +<p> +These last words settled the matter. Like the feather that broke the +camel's back, these few and slight syllables were all that was wanting to +overcome the horse-dealer's resistance. +</p> +<p> +“Well, here it is now,” said he, casting, as he spoke, a cautious glance +around, lest any chance listener should overhear him. “There was in that +pocket-book, a letter, sealed with three big seals, that Father Luke gave +me yesterday morning, and said to me, 'Lanty Lawler, I'm going over to +Ballyvourney, and after that, I'm going on to Cork, and it's mighty likely +I'll go as far as Dublin, for the Bishop may be there, and if he is, I +must follow him; and here's a letter,' says he, 'that you must give the +O'Donoghue with your own hands'—them was the words—'with your +own hands, Lanty; and now swear you'll not leave it to any one else, but +do as I tell you;' and, faix, I took my oath of it, and see, now, it's +lost; may I never, but I don't know how I'll ever face him again; and sure +God knows what was in it.” “And there was three seals on it,” said Mary, +musingly, as if such extraordinary measures of secrecy could bode nothing +good. +</p> +<p> +“Each of them as big as a half-crown—and it was thick inside too; +musha 'twas the evil day I ever set eyes on it!” and with this allusion to +the lost money, which, by an adroitness of superstition, he coupled with +the bad luck the letter had brought him, Lanty took his farewell of Mary, +and, with a heavy heart, set out on his journey. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XI. MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES. +</h2> +<p> +The occurrence so briefly mentioned by Flahault, of the night attack on +the “Lodge.” was not so easily treated by the residents; and so many +different versions of the affair were in circulation, that Miss Travers, +the only one whose information could have thrown any light upon it, was +confused by the many marvels she heard, and totally unable to recall to +mind what had really taken place. Sir Marmaduke himself examined. the +servants, and compared their testimony; but fear and exaggeration +conspired to make the evidence valueless. Some asserting that there were +at least a hundred assailants surrounding the house at one time—others, +that they wore a kind of uniform, and had their faces blackened—some +again had seen parties prowling about the premises during the day, and +could positively swear to one man, “a tall fellow in a ragged blue coat, +and without shoes or stockings”—no uncommon phenomena in those +parts. But the butler negatived all these assertions, and stoutly +maintained that there had been neither attack nor assailants—that +the whole affair was a device of Terry's, to display his zeal and bravery; +and, in short, that he had set fire to the rick in the haggard, and “got +up” the affray for his own benefit. +</p> +<p> +In proportion as any fact occurred to throw discredit on the testimony of +each, he who proffered it became a thousand times more firm and resolute +in his assertion—circumstances dubious a moment before, were then +suddenly remembered and sworn to, with numerous little aids to +corroboration newly recalled to mind. To one point, however, all the +evidence more or less converged, and that was, to accuse Terry of being +the cause, or at least an accomplice in the transaction. Poor fellow—his +own devotedness had made enemies for him every where—the alacrity +with which he mounted the burning stack was an offence not soon to be +forgotten by those who neither risked life nor limb; nor were the taunts +he lavished on their sluggish backwardness to be forgiven now. Unhappily, +too, Terry was not a favourite among the servants: he had never learnt how +much deference is due from the ragged man to the pampered menial of a rich +household; he had not been trained to that subserviency of demeanour which +should mark the intercourse of a poor, houseless, friendless creature like +himself, with the tagged and lace-covered servants of a wealthy master. +Terry, by some strange blunder of his nature, imagined that, in his +freedom and independence, he was the better man of the two; he knew that +to do nothing, was the prerogative of the great; and as he fulfilled that +condition to a considerable extent, he fancied he should enjoy its +privileges also. For this reason he had ever regarded the whole class of +servants as greatly his inferiors; and although he was ready and willing +to peril his life at any moment for Sir Marmaduke or his daughter, the +merest common-place services he would refuse to the others, without a +moment's hesitation. Neither intimidation could awe, nor bribery bend him—his +nature knew not what fear was in any shape, save one—that of being +apprehended and shot for a deserter—and as to any prospect of buying +his good offices, that was totally out of the question. +</p> +<p> +In an Irish household Terry's character would have been appreciated at +once. The respect which is never refused to any bereavement, but, in +particular, to that greatest of all afflictions, would have secured for +him, there, both forgiveness and affection—his waywardness and +caprice would have been a law to the least good-tempered servant of the +family; but Sir Marmaduke's retainers were all English, and had about as +much knowledge of, or sympathy with, such a creature, as he himself +possessed of London life and manners. +</p> +<p> +As his contempt was not measured by any scale of prudence, but coolly +evinced on every occasion of their intercourse, they, one and all, +detested him beyond bounds—most, asserting that he was a +thoroughpaced knave, whose folly was a garb assumed to secure a life of +idleness—and all, regarding him in the light of a spy, ever ready to +betray them to their master. +</p> +<p> +When, therefore, one after another, the servants persisted in either +openly accusing or insinuating suggestions against Terry, Sir Marmaduke +became sorely puzzled. It was true, he himself had witnessed his conduct +the night before; but if their version was correct, all his daring, +energy, and boldness were so many proofs against him. He was, indeed, +reluctant to think so badly of the poor fellow—but how discredit the +evidence of his entire household? His butler had been in his service for +years—and oh! what a claim for all the exercise of evil influence—for +all the petty tyranny of the low-minded and the base-born—tracking +its way through eaves-dropping, and insinuating its venom in moments of +unguarded freedom. His footman too—but why go on? His daughter alone +rejected the notion with indignation; but in her eager vindication of the +poor fellow's honour, her excitement militated against success—for +age thus ever pronounces upon youth, and too readily confounds a +high-spirited denunciation of wrong, with a mistaken, ill-directed +enthusiasm. He listened, it is true, to all she said of Terry's +devotedness and courage—of his artless, simple nature—of his +single-minded, gentle character; but by a fatal tendency, too frequent as +we advance in years, the scales of doubt ever lean against, and not to the +side favourable to human nature, and as he shook his head mournfully, he +said— +</p> +<p> +“I wish I did not suspect him.” + </p> +<p> +“Send for him at least,” said his daughter, as with an effort she +restrained the emotion that agitated her; “speak to him yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“To what end, my child, if he really is innocent?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! yes, indeed—indeed he is,” she exclaimed, as the tears at +length fell fast upon heir cheek. +</p> +<p> +“Well then, be it so,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he rung the bell, and +ordered Terry to be sent for. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00119.jpg" width="100%" alt="119 " /> +</div> +<p> +While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her hands, her father paced +slowly up and down the room; and so absorbed was he in his thoughts, that +he had not noticed Terry, who had meanwhile entered the room, and now +stood respectfully beside, the door. When the old man's eyes did fall on +him, he started back, with horror and astonishment. The poor fellow's +clothes were actually reduced to a mass of burned rags—one sleeve +was completely gone, and, there, could be seen his bare arm scorched and +blackened by the fire—a bandage of coarse linen wrapping the hand +and fingers—a deep cut marked his brow—and his hair was still +matted and clotted with the blood—awhile his face was of the colour +of death itself. +</p> +<p> +“Can you doubt him now, father,” whispered the young girl, as she gazed on +the poor fellow, whose wandering eyes roamed over the ornaments of the +chamber, in total unconsciousness of himself and his sufferings. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Terry,” said Sir Marmaduke after a pause, “what account do you give +of last night's business?” + </p> +<p> +“That's a picture of Keim-an-Eigh,” said Terry, as he fixed his large +eyes, open to their widest extent, on a framed drawing on the wall. +“There's the Eagle's Cliff, and that's Murrow Waterfall—and there's +the lake—ay, and see if there isn't a boat on it. Well, well, but +it's beautiful—one could walk up the shepherd's path there, where +the goat is—ay, there's a fellow going up—musha, that's me—I'm +going over to Cubber-na-creena, by the short cut.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me all you know of what happened last night, Terry,” repeated Sir +Marmaduke. +</p> +<p> +“It was a great fire, devil a doubt of it,” said Terry, eagerly; “the +blaze from the big stack was twice as high as the roof; but when I put the +wet sail of the boat on it, it all went into black smoke; it nearly choked +me.” + </p> +<p> +“How did it catch fire first, Terry? can you tell us that?” + </p> +<p> +“They put a piece of tindir in it; I gave them an ould rag, and they +rubbed it over with powder, and set it burning.' +</p> +<p> +“Who were they that did this?” + </p> +<p> +“The fellows that threw me down—what fine pistols they had, with +silver all over them! They said that they would not beat me at all, and +they didn't either. When I gave them the rag, they said, 'Now, my lad, +we'll show you a fine fire;' and, true for them, I never seen a grander.” + </p> +<p> +In this vague, rambling strain, did Terry reply to every question put to +him, his thoughts ever travelling in one narrow circle. Who they were that +fired the haggard, how many, and what kind of appearance they wore, he +knew nothing of whatever; for in addition to his natural imbecility of +mind, the shock of the adventure, and the fever of his wounds and bruises, +had utterly routed the small remnant of understanding which usually served +to guide him. +</p> +<p> +To one question only did his manner evince hesitation and doubt in the +answer, and that was, when Sir Marmaduke asked him, how it happened that +he should have been up at the Lodge at so late an hour, since the doors +were all locked and barred a considerable time previous. +</p> +<p> +Terry's face flushed scarlet at the question, and he made no reply; he +stole a sharp, quick glance towards Miss Travers, beneath his eyelids, but +as rapidly withdrew it again, when his colour grew deeper and deeper. +</p> +<p> +The old man marked the embarrassment, and all his suspicions were revived +at once. “You must tell me this, Terry,” said he, in a voice of some +impatience; “I insist upon knowing it.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Terry, speak it out freely; you can have no cause for concealment,” + said Sybella, encouragingly. +</p> +<p> +“I'll not tell it!” said he, after a pause of some seconds, during which +he seemed to have been agitating within himself all the reasons on either +side—“I'll not tell it.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke angrily, “I must and will know this; your +hesitation has a cause, and it shall be known.” + </p> +<p> +The boy started at the tones so unusual to his ears, and stared at the +speaker in mute astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“I am not displeased with you, Terry—at least I shall not be, if you +speak freely and openly to me. Now, then, answer my question—What +brought you about the Lodge at so late an hour?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll not tell,” said the youth resolutely. +</p> +<p> +“For shame, Terry,” said Sybella, in a low, soothing voice, as she drew +near him; “how can you speak thus to my father. You would not have <i>me</i> +displeased with you?” + </p> +<p> +The boy's face grew pale as death, and his lips quivered with agitation, +while his eyes, glazed with heavy tears, were turned downwards; still he +never spoke a word. +</p> +<p> +“Well, what think you of him, now?” said Sir Marmaduke in a whisper to his +daughter. +</p> +<p> +“That he is innocent—perfectly innocent,” replied she, triumphantly. +“The poor fellow has his own reasons—shallow enough, doubtless—for +his silence; but they have no spot or stain of guilt about them, Let me +try if I cannot unfathom this business—I'll go down to the +boat-house.” + </p> +<p> +The generous girl delayed not a moment, but hastened from the room as she +spoke, leaving Sir Marmaduke and Terry silently confronting each other. +The moment of his daughter's departure, Sir Marmaduke felt relieved from +the interference her good opinion of Terry suggested, and, at once +altering his whole demeanour, he walked close up to him, and said— +</p> +<p> +“I shall but give you one chance more, sir. Answer my question now, or +never.” + </p> +<p> +“Never, then!” rejoined Terry, in a tone of open defiance. +</p> +<p> +The words, and the look by which they were accompanied, overcame the old +man's temper in a moment, and he said— +</p> +<p> +“I thought as much. I guessed how deeply gratitude had sunk in such a +heart. Away! Let me see you no more.” + </p> +<p> +The boy turned his eyes from the speaker till they fell upon his own +seared and burned limb, and the hand swathed in its rude bandage. That +mute appeal was all he made, and then burst into a flood of tears. The old +man turned away to hide his own emotions, and when he looked round, Terry +was gone. The hall door lay open. He had passed out and gained the lawn—no +sight of him could be seen. +</p> +<p> +“I know it, father, I know it all now,” said Sybella, as she came running +up the slope from the lake. +</p> +<p> +“It is too late, my child; he has gone—left us for ever, I fear,” + said Sir Marmaduke, as in shame and sorrow he rested his head upon her +shoulder. +</p> +<p> +For some seconds she could not comprehend his words; and, when at last she +did so, she burst forth— +</p> +<p> +“And, oh, father, think how we have wronged him. It was in his care and +devotion to us, the poor fellow incurred' our doubts. His habit was to sit +beneath the window each night, so long as lights gleamed within. Till they +were extinguished, he never sought his rest. The boatman tells me this, +and says, his notion was, that God watches over the dark hours only, and +that man's precautions were needed up to that time.” + </p> +<p> +With sincere and heartfelt sorrow Sir Marmaduke turned away. Servants were +despatched on foot and horseback to recover the idiot boy, and persuade +him to return; but his path lay across a wild and mountain region, where +few could follow; and at nightfall the messengers returned unsuccessful in +their search. +</p> +<p> +If there was real sorrow over his departure in the parlour, the very +opposite feeling pervaded the kitchen. There, each in turn exulted in his +share of what had occurred, and took pains to exaggerate his claims to +gratitude, for having banished one so unpopular and unfriended. +</p> +<p> +Alarm at the attack of the previous night, and sorrow for the unjust +treatment of poor Terry, were not Sir Marmaduke's only emotions on this +sad morning. His messenger had just returned from Carrig-na-curra with +very dispiriting tidings of Herbert O'Donoghue. Respect for the feelings +of the family under the circumstances of severe illness, had induced him +to defer his intended visit to a more suitable opportunity; but his +anxiety for the youth's recovery was unceasing, and he awaited the return +of each servant sent to inquire after him, with the most painful +impatience. In this frame of mind was he as evening drew near, and he +wandered down his avenue to the road-side to learn some minutes earlier +the last intelligence of the boy. It was a calm and peaceful hour; not a +leaf moved in the still air; and all in the glen seemed bathed in the +tranquil influence of the mellow sunset. The contrast to the terrific +storm which so lately swept through the mountain-pass was most striking, +and appealed to the old man's heart, as reflecting back the image of human +life, so varying in its aspect, so changeful of good and evil. He stood +and meditated on the passages of his own life, whose tenor had, till now, +been so equable, but whose fortunes seemed already to participate in the +eventful fate of a distracted country. He regretted, deeply regretted, +that he had ever come to Ireland. He began to learn how little power there +is to guide the helm of human fortune, when once engaged in the stormy +current, and he saw himself already the sport of a destiny he had never +anticipated. +</p> +<p> +If he was puzzled at the aspect of a peasantry, highly gifted with +intelligence, yet barbarously ignorant—active and energetic, yet +indolent and fatalist—the few hints he had gathered of his +neighbour, the O'Donoghue, amazed him still more; and by no effort of his +imagination could he conceive the alliance between family pride and +poverty—between the reverence for ancestry, and an utter +indifference to the present. He could not understand such an anomaly as +pretension without wealth; and the only satisfactory explanation he could +arrive at, to himself, was, that in a wild and secluded tract, even so +much superiority as this old chieftain possessed, attracted towards him +the respect of all humbler and more lowly than himself, and made even his +rude state seem affluence and power. If in his advances to the O' Donoghue +he had observed all the forms of a measured respect, it was because he +felt so deeply his debtor for a service, that he would omit nothing in the +repayment: his gratitude was sincere and heartfelt, and he would not admit +any obstacle in the way of acknowledging it. +</p> +<p> +Reflecting thus, he was suddenly startled by the sound of wheels coming up +the glen—he listened, and now heard the low trot of a horse, and the +admonitions of a man's voice, delivered in tones of anger and impatience. +The moment after, an old-fashioned gig, drawn by a small miserable pony, +appeared, from which a man had dismounted to ascend the hill. +</p> +<p> +“A fine evening, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, as the stranger, whose dress +bespoke one of the rank of gentleman, drew near. +</p> +<p> +The other stopped suddenly, and surveyed the baronet without speak ing; +then, throwing down the collar of his great coat, which he wore high round +his face, he made a respectful salute, and said— +</p> +<p> +“A lovely evening, sir. I have the honour to see Sir Marmaduke Travers, I +believe? May I introduce myself, Doctor Roach, of Killarney?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, indeed! Then you are probably come from Mr. O'Donoghue's house? Is +the young gentleman better this evening?” + </p> +<p> +Roach shook his head dubiously, but made no reply. +</p> +<p> +“I hope, sir, you don't apprehend danger to his life?” asked Sir +Marmaduke, with an effort to appear calm as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed I do, then,” said Roach, firmly; “the mischiefs done already.” + </p> +<p> +“He's not dead?” said Sir Marmaduke, almost breathless in his terror. +</p> +<p> +“Not dead; but the same as dead: effusion will carry him off some time +to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“And can you leave him in this state? Is there nothing to be done? Nothing +you could suggest?” cried the old man, scarcely able to repress his +indignant feeling at the heartless manner of the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“There's many a thing one might try,” said Roach, not noticing the temper +of the question, “for the boy is young; but for the sake of a chance, how +am I to stay away from my practice and my other patients? And indeed +slight a prospect as he has of recovery, my own of a fee is slighter +still. I think I've all the corn in Egypt in my pocket this minute,” said +he, slapping his hand on his purse: “one of the late king's guineas, +wherever they had it lying by till now.” + </p> +<p> +“I am overjoyed to have met you, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke hastily, and by +a great exertion concealing the disgust this speech suggested. “I wish for +an opinion about my daughter's health—a cold, I fancy—but +to-morrow will do better. Could you return to Mr. O'Donoghue's tonight? I +have not a bed to offer you here. This arrangement may serve both parties, +as I fervently hope something may yet be done for the youth.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll visit Miss Travers in the morning with pleasure.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't leave him, sir, I entreat you, till I send over; it will be quite +time enough when you hear from me: let the youth be your first care, +doctor; in the mean while accept this slight retainer, for I beg you to +consider your time as given to me now,” and with that he pressed several +guineas into the willing palm of the doctor. +</p> +<p> +As Roach surveyed the shining gold, his quick cunning divined the old +baronet's intentions, and with a readiness long habit had perfected, he +said— +</p> +<p> +“The case of danger before all others, any day. I'll turn about at once +and see what can be done for the lad.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke leaned towards him, and said some words hastily in a low +whispering voice. +</p> +<p> +“Never fear—never fear, Sir Marmaduke,” was the reply, as he mounted +to the seat of his vehicle, and turned the pony's head once more down the +glen. +</p> +<p> +“Lose no time, I beseech you,” cried the old man, waving his hand in token +of adieu; nor was the direction unheeded, for, using his whip with +redoubled energy, the doctor sped along the road at a canter, which +threatened annihilation to the frail vehicle at every bound of the animal. +</p> +<p> +“Five hundred!” muttered Sir Marmaduke to himself, as he looked after him. +“I'd give half my fortune to see him safe through it.” + </p> +<p> +Meanwhile Roach proceeded on his way, speculating on all the gain this +fortunate meeting might bring to him, and then meditating what reasons he +should allege to the O'Donoghue for his speedy return. +</p> +<p> +“I'll tell him a lucky thought struck me in the glen,” muttered he; “or, +what! if I said I forgot something—a pocket-book, or case of +instruments—any thing will do;” and, with this comfortable +reflection, he urged his beast onward. +</p> +<p> +The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow +causeway, which led to the old keep; and here, now, Kerry O'Leary was +closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a bolt +and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. The sound +of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman's ear, for he +hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of the gate, and +as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred with iron, +resembled the grated aperture of a convent door. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00127.jpg" width="100%" alt="127 " /> +</div> +<p> +“You're late this time, any how,” cried Kerry. “Tramp back again, friend, +the way you came; and be thankful it's myself seen you; for, by the +blessed Father, if it was Master Mark was here, you'd carry away more lead +in your skirts than you'd like.” + </p> +<p> +“What, Kerry?—what's that you're saying?” said the astonished +doctor; “don't you know me, man?” + </p> +<p> +“Kerry's my name, sure enough; but artful as you are, you'll just keep the +other side of the door. Be off now, in God's name. 'Tis a fair warning I +give you; and faix if you won't listen to my son, you might hear worse;” + and as he spoke, that ominous sound, the click of a gun-cock, was heard, +and the muzzle of a carbine peeped between the iron bars. +</p> +<p> +“Tear-and-ounds! ye scoundrel! you're not going to fire a bullet at me?” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis slugs they are,” was the reply, as Kerry adjusted the piece, and +seemed to take as good an aim as the darkness permitted; “divil a more nor +slugs, as you'll know soon. I'll count three, now, and may I never wear +boots, if I don't blaze, if you're not gone before it's over. Here's one,” + shouted he, in a louder key. +</p> +<p> +“The saints protect me, but I'll be murdered,” muttered old Roach, +blessing himself, but unable from terror to speak aloud, or stir frozen +the spot. +</p> +<p> +“Here's two!” cried Kerry, still louder. +</p> +<p> +“I'm going!—I'm going! give me time to leave this blasted place; bad +luck to the day and the hour I ever saw it.” + </p> +<p> +“It's too late,” shouted Kerry. “Here's three!” and as he spoke bang went +the piece, and a shower of slugs and duck-shot came peppering over the +head and counter of the old pony; for in his fright, Roach had fallen on +his knees to pray. The wretched quadruped, thus rudely saluted, gave a +plunge and a kick, and then wheeled about with an alacrity long forgotten, +and scampered down the causeway with the old gig at his heels, rattling as +if it were coming in pieces. Kerry broke into a roar of laughter, and +screamed out— +</p> +<p> +“I'll give you another yet, begorra! that's only a true copy; but you'll +get the original now, you ould varmint!” + </p> +<p> +A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, was the +only response; for in his fear he thought the contents of the piece were +in his body. +</p> +<p> +“Musha, I hope he isn't dead,” said Kerry, as he opened the wicket +cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. “Mister Cassidy—Mister +James, get up now—it's only joking I was.—Holy Joseph! is he +kilt?” and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry +stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. “By all +that's good, I've done for the sheriff,” said he, as he stood over the +body. “Oh! wirra, wirra! who'd think a few grains of shot would kill him.” + </p> +<p> +“What's the matter here? who fired that shot?” said a deep voice, as Mark +O'Donoghue appeared at Kerry's side, and snatching the lantern, held it +down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“I'm murdered! I'm murdered!” was the faint exclamation of old Roach. +“Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O'Leary murdered me.” + </p> +<p> +“Where are you wounded? where's the ball?” cried Mark, tearing open the +coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety.. +</p> +<p> +“I don't know, I don't know; it's inside bleeding I feel.” + </p> +<p> +“Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you; you're +frightened, that's all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we'll help him in.” + </p> +<p> +But Kerry had fled; the idea of the gallows had just shot across his mind, +and he never waited for any further disclosures about his victim; but deep +in the recesses of a hay-loft he lay cowering in terror, and endeavouring +to pray. Meanwhile Mark had taken the half lifeless body on his shoulder, +and with the ease and indifference he would have bestowed upon an +inanimate burden, coolly earned him into the parlour, and threw him upon a +sofa. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XII. THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT. +</h2> +<p> +“What have you got there, Mark?” called out the O'Donoghue, as the young +man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa. +</p> +<p> +“Old Roach, of Killarney,” answered Mark sullenly. “That confounded fool, +Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were saying, +and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of slugs at +him—that's certain; but I don't think there's much mischief done.” + As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste of +ceremony, poured it down the Doctor's throat. “You're nothing the worse, +man,” added he, roughly; “you've given many a more dangerous dose +yourself, I'll be bound, and people have survived it too.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something better; +but may I never leave this spot if I don't prosecute that scoundrel, +O'Leary. It was all malice—I can swear to that.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no—don't tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. +He filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before +me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me +for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Roach, don't be angry; it's all past and over now; the fellow +did it for the best.” + </p> +<p> +“Did it for the best! Fired a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow-creature +for the best!” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure he did,” broke in Mark, with an imperious look and tone. +“There's no harm done, and you need not make such a work about it.” + </p> +<p> +“Where's the pony and the gig, then?” called out Roach, suddenly +remembering the last sight he had of them. +</p> +<p> +“I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty +kettles at his tail. They'll stop him at last; and if they shouldn't, I +don't suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn't worth a five pound +note—no, even giving the owner into the bargain,” muttered he, as he +turned away. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00132.jpg" width="100%" alt="132 " /> +</div> +<p> +The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon Roach; as if +galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust his +hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his invariable +signal for close action. “What, sir, do you tell me that my conveniency, +with the pony, harness and all—” + </p> +<p> +“Have patience, Roach,” interposed the old man; “Mark was but jesting. +Come over and join us here.” At the same instant the door was flung +suddenly wide, and Sir Archy rushed in, with a speed very unlike his +ordinary gait. “There's a change for the better,” cried he, joyfully; “the +boy has made a rally, and if we could overtake that d——d auld +beestie, Roach, and bring him back again, we might save the lad.” + </p> +<p> +“The d——d auld beestie,” exclaimed Roach, as he sprung from +the sofa and stood before him, “is very much honoured by your flattering +mention of him.” Then turning towards the O'Donoghue, he added—“Take +your turn out of me now, when you have me; for, by the Father of Physic, +you'll never see Denis Roach under this roof again.” + </p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue laughed till his face streamed with the emotion, and he +rocked in his chair like one in a convulsion. “Look, Archy,” cried he—“see +now!—hear me, Roach,” were the only words he could utter between the +paroxysms, while M'Nab, the very picture of shame and confusion, stood +overwhelmed with his blunder, and unable to say a word. +</p> +<p> +“Let us not stand fooling here,” said Mark, gruffly, as he took the +Doctor's arm; “come and see my brother, and try what can be done for him.” + </p> +<p> +With an under-growl of menace and rage, old Roach suffered himself to be +led away by the young man, Sir Archy following slowly, as they mounted the +stairs. +</p> +<p> +Although alone, the O'Donoghue continued to laugh over the scene he had +just witnessed; nor did he know which to enjoy more—the stifled rage +of the Doctor, or the mingled shame and distress of M'Nab. It was, indeed, +a rare thing to obtain such an occasion for triumph over Sir Archy, whose +studied observance of all the courtesies and proprieties of life, formed +so strong a contrast with his own careless and indifferent habits. +</p> +<p> +“Archy will never get over it—that's certain, and begad he shan't do +so for want of a reminder. The d——d auld beestie!” and with +the words came back his laughter, which had not ceased as Mark re-entered +the room. “Well, lad,” he cried, “have they made it up—what has Sir +Archy done with him?” + </p> +<p> +“Herbert's better,” said the youth, in a low deep voice, and with a look +that sternly rebuked the heartless forgetfulness of his father. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! better, is he? Well, that is good news, Mark; and Roach thinks he may +recover?” + </p> +<p> +“He has a chance now; a few hours will decide it. Roach will sit up with +him till four o'clock, and then, I shall take the remainder of the night, +for my uncle seems quite worn out with watching.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Mark, my boy, you must not lose your night's rest; you've had a long +and tiresome ride to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not tired, and I'll do it,” replied he, in the determined tone of his +self-willed habit—one, which his father had never sought to control, +from infancy upwards. There was a long pause after this, which Mark broke, +at length, by saying—“So, it is pretty clear now that our game is up—the +mortgage is foreclosed. Hemsworth has noticed the Ballyvourney tenants not +to pay us the rents, and the ejectment goes on.” + </p> +<p> +“What of Callaghan?” asked the O'Donoghue, in a sinking voice. +</p> +<p> +“Refused—flatly refused to renew the bills. If we give him five +hundred down,” said the youth, with a bitter laugh, “he says, he'd strain +a point.” + </p> +<p> +“You told him how we were circumstanced, Mark? Did you mention about +Kate's money?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said Mark, sternly, as his brows met in a savage frown. “No, sir, I +never said a word of it. She shall not be made a beggar of, for our +faults. I told you before, and I tell you now, I'll not suffer it.” + </p> +<p> +“But hear me, Mark. It is only a question of time. I'll repay——” + </p> +<p> +“Repay!” was the scornful echo of the young man, as he turned a withering +glance at his father. +</p> +<p> +“Then there's nothing but ruin before us,” said the O'Donoghue, in a +solemn tone—“nothing!” + </p> +<p> +The old man's head fell forward on his bosom, and, as his hands dropped +listlessly down at either side, he sat the very impersonation of +overwhelming affliction, while Mark, with heavy step and slow, walked up +and down the roomy chamber. +</p> +<p> +“Hemsworth's clerk hinted something about this old banker's intention of +building here,” resumed he, after a long interval of silence. +</p> +<p> +“Building where?—-over at 'the Lodge?'” + </p> +<p> +“No, here—at Carrig-na-curra—throwing down this old place, I +suppose, and erecting a modern villa instead.” + </p> +<p> +“What!” exclaimed the O'Donoghue, with a look of fiery indignation. “Are +they going to grub us out, root and branch? Is it not enough to banish the +old lords of the soil, but they must remove their very landmarks also?” + </p> +<p> +“It is for that he's come here, I've no doubt,” resumed Mark; “he only +waited to have the whole estate in his possession, which this term will +give him.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish he had waited a little longer—a year, or at most, two, would +have been enough,” said the old man, in a voice of great dejection, then +added, with a sickly smile—“You have little affection for the old +walls, Mark.” + </p> +<p> +The youth made no reply, and he went on—“Nor is it to be wondered +at. You never knew them in their happy days! but I did, Mark—ay, +that I did. I mind the time well, when your grandfather was the head of +this great county—when the proudest and the best in the land stood +uncovered when he addressed them, and deemed the highest honour they could +receive, an invitation to this house. In the very room where we are +sitting, I've seen thirty guests assembled, whose names comprised the rank +and station of the province; and yet, all—every man of them, +regarded him as their chief, and he was so, too—the descendant of +one who was a king.” + </p> +<p> +The animated features of the young man, as he listened, encouraged the +O'Donoghue, and he went on. “Thirty-seven thousand acres descended to my +grandfather, and even that was but a moiety of our former possessions.” + </p> +<p> +“Enough of this,” interrupted Mark rudely. “It is but an unprofitable +theme. The game is up, father,” added he, in a deep stern voice, “and I, +for one, have little fancy to wait for the winner to claim the stakes. +Could I but see you safely out of the scrape, I'd be many a mile away, ere +a week was over.” + </p> +<p> +“You would not leave me, boy!” cried the old man, as he grasped the +youth's hands in his, and gazed on him with streaming eyes. “You would not +desert your poor old father. Oh, no—no, Mark; this would not be like +you. A little patience, my child, and death will save you that cruelty.” + </p> +<p> +The young man's chest heaved and fell like a swelling wave; but he never +spoke, nor changed a muscle of his rigid features. +</p> +<p> +“I have borne all misfortunes well till now,” continued the father. “I +cared little on my own account, Mark; my only sorrow was for you; but so +long as we were together, boy—so long as hand in hand we stood +against the storm, I felt that my courage never failed me. Stay by me, +then, Mark—tell me that whatever comes, you'll never leave me. Let +it not be said, that when age and affliction fell upon the O'Donoghue, his +son—the boy of his heart—deserted him. You shall command in +every thing,” said he, with an impassioned tone, as he fixed his eyes upon +the youth's countenance. “I ask for nothing but to be near you. The house—the +property—all shall be yours.” + </p> +<p> +“What house—what property—do you speak of?” said Mark, rudely. +“Are we not beggars?” + </p> +<p> +The old man's head dropped heavily; he relinquished the grasp of his son's +hand, and his outstretched arm fell powerless to his side. “I was +forgetting,” murmured he, in a broken voice—“it is as you say—you +are right, Mark—you <i>must</i> go.” + </p> +<p> +Few and simple as the words were, the utterance sunk deep into the young +man's heart; they seemed the last effort of courage wrung from despair, +and breathed a pathos he was unable to resist. +</p> +<p> +“I'll not leave you,” said he, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper: +“there's my hand upon it,” and he wrung in his strong grasp the +unresisting fingers of the old man. “That's a promise, father, and now let +us speak no more about it.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll get to my bed, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, as he pressed his hands +upon his throbbing temples. It was many a day since anything like emotion +had moved him, and the conflict of passion had worn and exhausted him. +“Good-night, my boy—my own boy;” and he fell upon the youth's +shoulder, half choked with sobs. +</p> +<p> +As the O'Donoghue slowly ascended the stairs, towards his bedroom, Mark +threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands. His sorrow +was a deep one. The resolve he had just abandoned, had been for many a day +the cherished dream of his heart—his comfort under every affliction—his +support against every difficulty. To seek his fortune in some foreign +service—to win an honourable name, even though in a strange land, +was the whole ambition of his life; and so engrossed was he in his own +calculations, that he never deigned a thought of what his father might +feel about it. The poverty that eats its way to the heart of families +seldom fails to loosen the ties of domestic affection. The daily struggle, +the hourly conflict with necessity, too often destroy the delicate and +trustful sense of protection that youth should feel towards age. The +energies that should have expanded into homely affection and mutual +regard, are spent in warding off a common enemy; and with weary minds and +seared hearts the gentler charities of life have few sympathies. Thus was +it here. Mark mistook his selfishness for a feeling of independence; he +thought indifference to others meant confidence in himself—and he +was not the first who made the mistake. +</p> +<p> +Tired with thinking, and harassed with difficulties, through which he +could see no means of escape, he threw open the window, to suffer the cool +night air to blow upon his throbbing temples, and sat down beside the +casement, to enjoy its refreshing influence. The candles had burned down +in the apartment, and the fire, now reduced to a mere mass of red embers, +scarce threw a gleam beyond the broad hearth-stone. The old tower itself +flung a dark shadow upon the rock, and across the road beneath it, and, +except in the chamber of the sick boy, in a distant part of the building, +not a light was to be seen. +</p> +<p> +The night was calm and star-lit: a stillness almost painful reigned +around. It seemed as if exhausted nature, tired with the work of storm and +hurricane, had sunk into a deep and wearied sleep. Thousands of bright +stars speckled the dark sky; yet the light they shed upon the earth, but +dimly distinguished mountain and valley, save where the' calm surface of +the lake gave back their lustre, in a heaven, placid and motionless as +their own. Now and then, a bright meteor would shoot across the blue +vault, and disappear in the darkness; while in tranquil splendour, the +planets shone on, as though to say, the higher destiny is to display an +eternal brightness, than the brilliancy of momentary splendour, however +glittering its wide career. +</p> +<p> +The young man gazed upon the sky. The lessons which, from human lips, he +had rejected with scorn and impatience, now sunk deeply into his nature, +from those silent monitors. The stars looked down, like eyes, into his +very soul, and he felt as if he could unburthen his whole heart of its +weary load, and make a confidence with heaven. +</p> +<p> +“They point ever downwards,” said he to himself, as he watched the bright +streak of the falling stars, and moralized on their likeness to man's +destiny. But as he spoke, a red line shot up into the sky, and broke into +ten thousand glittering spangles, shedding over glen and mountain, a faint +but beauteous gleam, scarce more lasting than the meteor's flash. It was a +rocket sent up from the border of the Bay, and was quickly answered by +another from the remote end of the Glen. The youth started, and leaning +out from the window, looked down the valley; but nothing was to be seen or +heard—all was silent as before, and already the flash of the +signals, for such they must have been he could not doubt, had faded away, +and the sky shone in its own spangled beauty. +</p> +<p> +“They are smugglers!” muttered Mark, as he sank back in his chair; for in +that wild district such signals were employed without much fear, by those +who either could trust the revenue as accomplices, or dare them by +superior numbers. More than once it had occurred to him to join this +lawless band, and many a pressing invitation had he received from the +leaders to do so; but still, the youth's ambition, save in his darkest +hours, took a higher and a nobler range: the danger of the career was its +only fascination to him. Now, however, all these thoughts were changed: he +had given a solemn pledge to his father never to leave him; and it was +with a feeling of half apathy he sat, pondering over what cutter it might +be that had anchored, or whose party were then preparing to land their +cargo. +</p> +<p> +“Ambrose Denner, belike,” muttered he to himself, “the Flemish fellow, +from the Scheldt—a greedy old scoundrel too, he refused a passage to +a poor wretch that broke the jail in Limerick, because he could not pay +for it. I wish the people here may remember it to him. Maybe its Hans 'der +Teufel,' though, as they call him; or Flahault—he's the best of +them, if there be a difference. I've half a mind to go down the Glen and +see;” and while he hesitated, a low, monotonous sound of feet, as if +marching, struck on his ear; and as he listened, he heard the distant +tramp of men, moving in, what seemed, a great number. These could not be +the smugglers, he well knew: reckless and fearless as they were, they +never came in such large bodies as these noises portended. +</p> +<p> +There is something solemn in the sound of marching heard in the stillness +of the night, and so Mark felt it, as with cautious breathing he leaned +upon the window, and bent his ear to listen. Nearer and nearer they came, +till at last the footfalls beat loudly on the dull ground as, in measured +tread, they stepped. At first a dark moving mass, that seemed to fill the +narrow road, was all he could discern, but as this came closer, he could +perceive that they marched in companies of divisions, each headed by his +leader, who, from time to time, stepped from his place, and observed their +order and precision. They were all country people; their dress, as well as +he could discern, the common costume of every day, undistinguished by any +military emblem. Nor did they carry arms; the captains alone wore a kind +of white scarf over the shoulder, which could be distinctly seen, even by +the imperfect light. They, alone, carried swords, with which they checked +the movements from time to time. Not a word was uttered in the dense ranks—not +a murmur broke the stillness of the solemn scene, as that host poured on. +The one command, “Right shoulders forward—wheel!” being given at +intervals, as the parties defiled beneath the rock, at which place the +road made an abrupt turning. +</p> +<p> +So strange the spectacle, so different from all he had ever witnessed or +heard of, the youth, more than once half doubted lest, a wearied and +fevered brain had not called up the illusion; but as he continued to gaze +on the moving multitude, he was assured of its reality; and now was he +harassed by conjectures what it all should mean. For nearly an hour—to +him it seemed many such—the human tide flowed on, till at length the +sounds grew fainter, and the last party moved by, followed, at a little +distance, by two figures on horseback. Their long cloaks concealed the +wearers completely from his view, but he could distinctly mark the steel +scabbards of swords, and hear their heavy clank against the horses' +flanks. +</p> +<p> +Suffering their party to proceed, the horsemen halted for a few seconds at +the foot of the rock, and as they reined in, one called out to the other, +in a voice, every syllable of which fell distinctly on Mark's ears— +</p> +<p> +“That's the place, Godfrey; and even by this light you can judge of its +strength.” + </p> +<p> +“But why is he not with us?” said the other hastily. “Has he not an +inheritance to win back—a confiscation to wipe out?” + </p> +<p> +“True enough,” said the first speaker; “but eighty winters do not improve +a man's nerve for an hazardous exploit. He has a son though, and, as I +hear, a bold fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“Look to him, Harvey: it is of moment that we should have one so near the +Bay. See to this quickly. If he be like what you say, and desires a +command—” The rest was lost in the sound of their retreating hoofs, +for already the party resumed their journey, and were in a few minutes +hidden from his view. +</p> +<p> +With many a conflicting doubt, and many a conjecture, each wilder than the +other, Mark pondered over what he had seen, nor noted the time as it +slipped past, till the grey tint of day-dawn warned him of the hour. The +rumbling sounds of a country cart just then attracted his attention, and +he beheld a countryman, with a little load of turf, on his way to the +market at Killarney. Seeing that the man must have met the procession, he +called aloud— +</p> +<p> +“I say, my good man, where were they all marching, to-night—those +fellows?” + </p> +<p> +“What fellows, your honour?” said the man, as he touched his hat +obsequiously. +</p> +<p> +“That great crowd of people—you could not help meeting them—there +was no other road they could take.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra man, woman, or child I seen, your honour, since I left home, and +that's eight miles from this,” and so saying he followed his journey, +leaving Mark in greater bewilderment than before. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIII. THE GUARDSMAN +</h2> +<p> +Leaving for a brief season Glenflesk and its inhabitants, we shall ask of +our readers to accompany us to London, to a scene somewhat different from +that of our last chapter. +</p> +<p> +In a handsomely furnished drawing-room in St. James's street, where the +appliances of ease and luxury were blended with the evidence of those +tastes so popular among young men of fashion of the period, sat, or rather +lay, in a deep cushioned arm-chair, a young officer, who, even in the +dishabille of the morning, and with the evident traces of fatigue and +dissipation on his brow, was strikingly handsome. Though not more than +three or four-and-twenty, the habits of his life, and the assured features +of his character, made him appear several years older. In figure he was +tall and well-proportioned, while his countenance bore those lineaments +which are pre-eminently distinguished as Saxon,—massive but +well-chiselled features, the harmony of whose expression is even more +striking than their individual excellence, a look of frank daring, which +many were prone to attribute to superciliousness, was the most marked +trait in his face, nor was the impression lessened by a certain “<i>hauteur</i>,” + which military men of the time assumed, and which, he, in particular, +somewhat prided himself on. +</p> +<p> +The gifts of fortune and the graces of person will often seem to invest +their possessor with attributes of insolence and overbearing, which are, +in reality, nothing more than the unbridled buoyancy of youth and power +revelling in its own exercise. +</p> +<p> +We have no fancy to practise mystery with our reader, and shall at once +introduce him to Frederick Travers, Sir Marmaduke's only son, and Captain +in the first regiment of Guards. Wealth and good looks were about as +popular fifty years ago, as they are in the year we write in, and +Frederick Travers was as universal a favorite in the circles he frequented +as any man of his day. Courtly manners, spirits nothing could depress, a +courage nothing could daunt, expensive tastes, gratified as rapidly as +they were conceived, were all accessaries which won their way among his +acquaintances, and made them proud of his intimacy, and boastful of his +friendship. That circumstances like these should have rendered a young man +self-willed and imperious, is not to be wondered at, and such was he in +reality—less, however, from the unlimited license of his position, +than from an hereditary feature which distinguished every member of his +family, and made them as intolerant of restraint, as they were wayward in +purpose. The motto of their house was the index of their character, and in +every act and thought they seemed under the influence of their emblazoned +inscription, “A tort et à travers.” + </p> +<p> +Over his father, Frederick Travers exercised an unlimited influence; from +his boyhood upward he had never met a contradiction, and the natural +goodness of his temper, and the affectionate turn of his disposition, made +the old man believe in the excellence of a system, whose success lay less +in its principle, than in the virtue of him, on whom it was practised. +</p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke felt proud of his son's career in the world, and enjoyed to +the utmost all the flattery which the young man's acceptance in society +conferred; he was proud of him, almost as much as he was fond of him, and +a letter from Frederick had always the effect of restoring his spirits, no +matter how deep their depression the moment before. +</p> +<p> +The youth returned his father's affection with his whole heart; he knew +and valued all the high and generous principles of his nature; he +estimated with an honest pride those gifts which had won Sir Marmaduke the +esteem and respect of his fellow-citizens; but yet, he thought he could +trace certain weaknesses of character, from which his own more enlarged +sphere of life had freed him. +</p> +<p> +Fashionable associates, the society of men of wit and pleasure, seem often +to suggest more acute and subtle views of life, than are to be obtained in +less exalted and distinguished company; the smart sayings and witty +epigrams which are current among clever men appear to be so many texts in +the wisdom of the world. Nothing is more common than this mistake; nothing +more frequent than to find, that intercourse with such people diffuses +few, if any, of their distinguishing merits among their less gifted +associates, who rarely learn any thing from the intercourse, but a hearty +contempt for all who are debarred from it. Frederick was of this school; +the set he moved in was his religion—their phrases, their +prejudices, their passions, he regarded as standards for all imitation. It +is not surprising, then, if he conceived many of his father's notions +obsolete and antiquated, and had they not been his, he would have treated +them as ridiculous. +</p> +<p> +This somewhat tedious explanation of a character with whom we have not any +very lengthened business hereafter, demands some apology from us, still, +without it we should be unable to explain to our reader the reason of +those events to whose narrative we are hastening. +</p> +<p> +On the table, among the materials of a yet untasted breakfast, lay an open +letter, of which, from time to time, the young man read, and as often +threw from him, with expressions of impatience and anger. A night of more +than ordinary dissipation had made him irritable, and the contents of the +epistle did not seem of a character to calm him. +</p> +<p> +“I knew it,” said he at last, as he crushed the letter in his hand. “I +knew it, well; my poor father is unfit to cope with those savages; what +could ever have persuaded him to venture among them I know not! the few +hundreds a year the whole estate produces, are not worth as many weeks' +annoyance. Hemsworth knows them well; he is the only man fit to deal with +them. Heigho!” said he, with a sigh, “there is nothing for it I suppose, +but to bring them back again as soon as may be—and this confounded +accident Hemsworth has met with in the Highlands, will lay him on his back +these five weeks—I must e'en go myself. Yet nothing was ever more +ill-timed. The Queen's fête at Frogmore, fixed for Wednesday; there's the +tennis match on Friday,—and Saturday, the first day of the Stag +hounds. It is too bad. Hemsworth is greatly to blame; he should have been +candid about these people, and not have made his Pandemonium an Arcadia. +My father is also to blame; he might have asked my advice about this trip; +and Sybella, too—why didn't she write? She above all should have +warned me about the folly;” and thus did he accuse in turn all the parties +concerned in a calamity, which, after all, he saw chiefly reflected in the +inconvenience it caused himself. +</p> +<p> +Now, assuredly, Hemsworth requires some vindication at our hands. It had +never entered into that worthy man's most imaginative conceptions, to +believe a visit from Sir Marmaduke to his Irish property within the reach +of possibility; for although, as we have already said, he was in the +constant habit of entreating Sir Marmaduke to bestow this mark of +condescension on his Irish tenants, he ever contrived to accompany the +recommendation with certain casual hints about the habits and customs of +the natives, as might well be supposed sufficient to deter a more +adventurous traveller than the old baronet; and while he pressed him to +come, and see for himself, he at the same time plied him with newspapers +and journals, whose columns were crammed with the fertile theme of +outrage; the editorial comments on which often indicated a barbarism even +deeper than the offence they affected to deplore. The accident which +ultimately led to Sir Marmaduke's hurried journey, was a casualty which +Hemsworth had overlooked, and when he heard that the family were actually +domesticated at “the Lodge,” his regrets were indeed great. It was only on +the day before the intelligence reached him—for the letter had +followed him from place to place for a fortnight—that he had the +misfortune to break his leg, by a fall from a cliff in deer shooting. +Whatever the urgency of the measure, he was totally incapable of +undertaking a journey to Ireland, whither, under other circumstances, he +would have hastened with all speed. Hemsworth's correspondent, of whom we +shall have occasion to speak more, hereafter, was the sub-agent of the +estate,—a creature of his own, in every sense, and far more in his +interest, than in that of his principal. He told him, in forcible terms, +how Sir Marmaduke had commenced his work of Irish reformation; that, +already, both the baronet and his daughter had undertaken the task of +improvement among the tenantry; that rents were to be lowered, +school-houses erected, medical aid provided for the sick and suffering, +more comfortable dwellings built, more liberal wages allowed; he narrated, +how rapidly the people, at first suspicious and distrustful, were learning +to feel confidence in their benefactor, and anxious to avail themselves of +his benevolence; but more than all, he dwelt upon the conviction, which +every hour gained ground among them, that Hemsworth had misrepresented the +landlord, and that, so far from being himself the instrument of, he had +been the obstacle to, their welfare and happiness. The letter concluded +with a pressing entreaty for his speedy return to “the Lodge,” as, should +he be longer absent, the mischief would become past remedy. +</p> +<p> +Never did agent receive an epistle more alarming; he saw the game, for +which he had been playing half a lifetime, slip from him at the very +moment of winning. For above twenty years his heart was set upon becoming +the owner of the estate; all his plans, his plots, his machinations, had +no other end or object. From the deepest stroke of his policy, to the most +trivial act of his power, he had held this in view. By his artful +management a veil was intercepted between the landlord and the people, +which no acuteness on either side could penetrate. The very acts intended +as benefits by the owner of the soil, passed through such a medium, that +they diverged from their destined direction, and fell, less as blessings +than inflictions. The landlord was taught to regard the tenant, as +incurably sunk in barbarism, ignorance, and superstition. The tenant to +suppose the landlord, a cruel, unfeeling task-master, with no care but for +his rent; neither sympathy for their sufferings, nor sorrow for their +calamities. Hemsworth played his game like a master; for while obtaining +the smallest amount of rental for his chief, he exacted the most onerous +and impoverishing terms from the people. Thus diminishing the apparent +value of the property, he hoped one day to be able to purchase, and at the +same time preparing it for becoming a lucrative and valuable possession, +for although the rents were nominally low, the amount of fees and +“duty-labor” were enormous. There was scarcely a man upon the property +whose rent was paid to the day and hour, and for the favour of some brief +delay, certain services were exacted, which virtually reduced the tenants +to a vassalage the most miserable and degrading. +</p> +<p> +If, then, the eye ranged over a district of a poverty-struck and starving +peasantry, with wretched hovels, naked children, and rude, unprofitable +tillage, let the glance but turn to the farm around “the Lodge,” and, +there, the trim fences, the well-weeded corn, and the nicely-cultivated +fields, were an evidence of what well-directed labour could effect; and +the astounding lesson seemed to say:—Here is an object for +imitation. Look at yonder wheat: see that clover, and the meadow beyond +it. They could all do likewise. Their land is the same, the climate the +same, the rent the same; but yet ignorance and obstinacy are incurable. +They will not be taught—prefer their own barbarous ways to newer and +better methods—in fact, are beyond the lessons of either precept or +example. +</p> +<p> +Yet what was the real case? To till that model-farm, to make these fields +the perfection you see them, families were starving—age, left to +totter to the grave, uncared-for—manhood, pining in want and misery, +and infancy, to dawn upon suffering, to last a life long. Duty-labour +calls the poor man from the humble care of his own farm, to come, with his +whole house, and toil upon the rich man's fields, the requital for which +is some poor grace of a week's or a month's forbearance, ere he be called +on for that rent these exactions are preventing him from earning. +Duty-labour summons him from his own profitless ground, to behold the +fruits his exertions are raising for another's enjoyment, and of which he +must never taste! Duty-labour calls the days of fair sky and sunshine, and +leaves him the gloomy hours of winter, when, with darkness without, and +despair within, he may brood, as he digs, over the disproportioned +fortunes of his tyrant and himself! Duty-labour is the type of a slavery, +that hardens the heart, by extinguishing all hope, and uprooting every +feeling of self-confidence and reliance, till, in abject and degraded +misery, the wretched man grows reckless of his life, while his vengeance +yearns for that of his task master. +</p> +<p> +Nor does the system end here;—the agent must be conciliated by +presents of various kinds;—the humble pittance, wrung from misery, +and hoarded up by industry, must be offered to him, as the means of +obtaining some poor and petty favour, most frequently, one, the rightful +due of the asker. A tyranny like this spreads its baneful influence far +beyond the afflictions of mere poverty—it breaks down the spirit, it +demoralizes the heart of a people; for where was black-mail ever extorted, +that it did not engender cruelty on the one hand, and abject slavery on +the other? +</p> +<p> +So far from regarding those placed above them in rank and station, as +their natural friends and protectors, the peasantry felt the great man as +their oppressor; they knew him not, as their comforter in sickness, their +help in time of trouble—they only saw in him, the rigid exactor of +his rent, the merciless task-master, who cared not for time or season, +save those that brought round the period of repayment; and as, year by +year, poverty and misery ate deeper into their natures, and hope died out, +fearful thoughts of retribution flashed upon minds, on which no prospect +of better days shone; and, in the gloomy desolation of their dark hours, +they wished and prayed for any change, come in what shape, and surrounded +by what danger it might, if only this bondage should cease. +</p> +<p> +Men spoke of their light-heartedness, their gaiety of temper, their +flashing and brilliant wit. How little they knew that such qualities, by +some strange incongruity of our natures, are the accompaniments of +deeply-reflective and imaginative minds, overshadowed by lowering fortune. +The glittering fancy, that seems to illumine the path of life, is often +but the wild-fire that dances over the bleak and desolate heath. +</p> +<p> +Their apathy and indifference to exertion was made a matter of reproach to +them; yet, was it ever known that toil should be voluntary, when hopeless, +and that labour should be endured without a prospect of requital? +</p> +<p> +We have been led, almost unconsciously, into this somewhat lengthened +digression, for which, even did it not bear upon the circumstances of our +story, we would not seek to apologize to our reader. Such we believe to +have been, in great part, the wrongs of Ireland—the fertile source +of those thousand evils under which the land was suffering. From this one +theme have arisen, most, if not all, the calamities of the country. Happy +were it, if we could say that such existed no longer—that such a +state of things was a matter for historical inquiry, or an old man's +memory—and that in our own day these instances were not to be found +among us. +</p> +<p> +When Hemsworth perceived that the project of his life was in peril, he +bethought him of every means by which the danger could be averted. Deep +and well-founded as was his confidence in the cleverness of his deputy, +his station was an insurmountable barrier to his utility at the present +conjuncture. Sam Wylie, for so this worthy was called, was admirable as a +spy, but never could be employed as minister plenipotentiary: it needed +one, now, who should possess more influence over Sir Marmaduke himself. +For this purpose, Frederick Travers alone seemed the fitting person; to +him, therefore, Hemsworth wrote a letter marked “strictly confidential,” + detailing, with pains-taking accuracy, the inevitable misfortunes Sir +Marmaduke's visit would entail upon a people, whose demands no benevolence +could satisfy, whose expectations no concessions could content. +</p> +<p> +He narrated the fearful instances of their vengeance, whenever +disappointment had checked the strong current of their hopes; and told, +with all the semblance of truth, of scenes of bloodshed and murder, no +cause for which could be traced, save in the dark suspicions of a people +long accustomed to regard the Saxon as their tyrant. +</p> +<p> +The night attack upon “the Lodge” furnished also its theme of terror; and +so artfully did he blend his fact and fiction, his true statement, and his +false inference, that the young man read the epistle with an anxious and +beating heart, and longed for the hour, when he should recall those he +held dearest, from such a land of anarchy and misfortune. +</p> +<p> +Not satisfied with the immediate object in view, Hemsworth ingeniously +contrived to instil into Frederick's mind misgivings as to the value of an +estate thus circumstanced, representing, not without some truth on his +side, that the only chance of bettering the condition of a peasantry so +sunk and degraded, was by an actual residence in the midst of them, a +penalty, which to the youth, seemed too dear for any requital whatever. +</p> +<p> +On a separate slip of paper, marked “to be burned when read,” Frederick +deciphered the following lines:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Above all things, I would caution you regarding a family +who, though merely of the rank of farmer, affect a gentility +which had its origin some dozen centuries back, and has had +ample opportunity to leak out in the meantime; these are +the 'O'Donoghues,' a dangerous set, haughty, ill- +conditioned, and scheming. They will endeavour, if they can, +to obtain influence with your father, and I cannot too +strongly represent the hazard of such an event. Do not, I +entreat you, suffer his compassion, or mistaken benevolence, +to be exercised in their behalf. Were they merely unworthy, +I should say nothing on the subject; but they are highly and +eminently dangerous, in a land, where their claims are +regarded as only in abeyance—deferred, but not obliterated, +by confiscation. + +“E. H.” + </pre> +<p> +It would in no wise forward the views of our story, were we to detail to +our readers the affecting scenes which preluded Frederick's departure from +London, the explanations he was called on to repeat, as he went from house +to house, for a journey at once so sudden and extraordinary; for even so +late as fifty years ago, a visit to Ireland was a matter of more moment, +and accompanied by more solemn preparation, than many now bestow on an +overland journey to India. The Lady Marys and Bettys of the fashionable +world regarded him pretty much as the damsels of old did some doughty +knight, when setting forth on his way to Palestine. That filial affection +could exact such an instance of devotion, called up their astonishment, +even more than their admiration; and many were the cautions, many the +friendly counsels, given to the youth for his preservation in a land so +rife with danger. +</p> +<p> +Frederick was a soldier, and a brave one; but still, he was not entirely +divested of those apprehensions which the ignorance of the day propagated; +and although only accompanied by a single servant, they were both armed to +the teeth, and prepared to do valiant battle, if need be, against the +Irish “rogues and rapparrees.” + </p> +<p> +Here, then, for the present, we shall leave him, having made his last +“adieux” to his friends, and set out on his journey to Ireland. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIV. THE COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTURE +</h2> +<p> +Brief as has been the interval of our absence from Glenflesk, time's +changes have been there. Herbert O'Donoghue had experienced a fortunate +change in his malady, and on the day following Roach's eventful return, +became actually out of danger. The symptoms of his disease, so suddenly +subdued, seemed to reflect immortal honour on the Doctor, who certainly +did not scruple to attribute to his skill, what, with more truth, was +owing to native vigour and youth. Sir Archy alone was ungrateful enough to +deny the claim of physic, and slightly hinted to Roach, that he had at +least benefited his patient by example, if not precept, since he had slept +the entire night through, without awaking. The remark was a declaration of +war, at once; nor was Roach slow to accept the gage of battle—in +fact, both parties were well wearied of the truce, and anxious for the +fray. Sir Archibald had only waited till the moment Roach's services in +the sick-room could be safely dispensed with, to re-open his fire; while +Roach, harassed by so unexpected a peace, felt like a beleaguered fortress +during the operation of the miners, and knew not when, and how, the +dreaded explosion was to occur. Now, however, the signal-gun was fired—-hesitation +was at an end; and, of a verity, the champions showed no disinclination +for the field. +</p> +<p> +“Ye'll be hungry this morning, Doctor,” said Sir Archy, “and I have +ordered breakfast a bit early. A pick o' ham at twelve o'clock, and a +quart of sherry, aye gives a man a relish for breakfast.” + </p> +<p> +“Begad so it might, or for supper too,” responded Roach, “when the ham was +a shank bone, and the sherry-bottle like a four ounce mixture.” + </p> +<p> +“Ye slept surprisingly after your slight refection. I heerd ye snoring +like a grampus.” + </p> +<p> +“'Twasn't the night-mare, from indigestion, any how,” said Roach, with a +grin. “I'll give you a clean bill of health from that malady here.” + </p> +<p> +“It's weel for us, that we ken a cure for it—more than ye can say +for the case you've just left.” + </p> +<p> +“I saved the boy's life,” said Roach indignantly. +</p> +<p> +“Assuredly ye did na kill him, and folks canna a'ways say as muckle for +ye. We maun thank the Lord for a' his mercies; and he vouchsafed you, a +vara sound sleep.” + </p> +<p> +How this controversy was to be carried on further, it is not easy to say; +but at this moment the door of the breakfast-room opened cautiously, and a +wild rough head peeped stealthily in, which gradually was followed by the +neck, and in succession the rest of the figure of Kerry O'Leary, who, +dropping down on both knees before the Doctor, cried out in a most +lamentable accent— +</p> +<p> +“Oh! Docther darlint—Docther dear—forgive me—for the +love of Joseph, forgive me!” + </p> +<p> +Roach's temper was not in its blandest moment, and his face grew purple +with passion, as he beheld the author of his misfortunes at his feet. +</p> +<p> +“Get out of my sight, you scoundrel, I never want to set eyes on you, till +I see you in the dock—ay, with handcuffs on you.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, murther, murther, is it take the law of me, for a charge of swan +drops? Oh, Docther acushla, don't say you'll do it.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll have your life, as sure as my name's Roach.” + </p> +<p> +“Try him wi' a draught,” interposed M'Nab. +</p> +<p> +“Begorra, I'm willn',” cried Kerry, grasping at the mediation. “I'll take +any thing, barrin' the black grease he gave the masther—that would +kill the divil.” + </p> +<p> +This exceptive compliment to his skill was not so acceptable to the +Doctor, whose passion boiled over at the new indignity. +</p> +<p> +“I'll spend fifty guineas, but I'll hang you,—there's my word on +it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, wirra! wirra!” cried Kerry, whose apprehensions of how much law might +be had for the money, made him tremble all over—“that's what I get +for tramping the roads all night after the pony.” + </p> +<p> +“Where's the pony—where's the gig?” called out Roach, suddenly +reminded by material interests, that he had more at stake than mere +vengeance. +</p> +<p> +“The beast is snug in the stable—that's where he is, eating a peck +of oats—last year's corn—divil a less.” + </p> +<p> +“And the gig?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, the gig, is it? Musha, we have the gig too,” responded Kerry, but +with a reluctance that could not escape the shrewd questioner. +</p> +<p> +“Where is it, then?” said Roach, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“Where would it be, but in the yard?—we're going to wash it.” + </p> +<p> +The Doctor did not wait for the conclusion of this reply, but hastening +from the room, passed down the few stairs that led towards the old +court-yard, followed by Sir Archy and Kerry, the one, eager to witness the +termination of the scene—the other, muttering in a very different +spirit—“Oh, but it's now we'll have the divil to pay!” + </p> +<p> +As soon as Roach arrived at the court-yard, he turned his eyes on every +side, to seek his conveyance; but although there were old harrows, broken +ploughs, and disabled wheel-barrows in numbers, nothing was there, that +bore any resemblance to what he sought. +</p> +<p> +“Where is it?” said he, turning to Kerry, with a look of exasperation that +defied all attempt to assuage by mere “blarney”—“where is it?” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00151.jpg" width="100%" alt="151 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Here it is, then,” said O'Leary, with the tone of one, whose courage was +nerved by utter despair, while at the same time, he drew forth two wheels +and an axle, the sole surviving members of the late vehicle, As he +displayed the wreck before them, the ludicrous—always too strong for +an Irish peasant, no matter how much it may be associated with his own +personal danger—overcame his more discreet instincts, and he broke +forth into a broad grin, while he cried—“'There's the inside of her, +now!' as Darby Gossoon said, when he tuk his watch in pieces, 'and +begorra, we'll see how she's made, any way!'” + </p> +<p> +This true history must not recount the expressions in which Roach +permitted himself to indulge; it is enough to say, that his passion took +the most violent form of invective, against the house, the glen, the +family, and their retainers, to an extreme generation, while he stamped +and gesticulated like one insane. +</p> +<p> +“Ye'll hae sma' space for yer luggage in you,” said M'Nab, with one of his +driest laughs, while he turned back and re-entered the house. +</p> +<p> +“Where's my pony?—where's my pony?” shouted out the Doctor, +determined to face all his calamities at once. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, faix, he's nothing the worse,” said Kerry, as he unlocked the door of +the stable, and pointed with all the pride of veracity to a beast in the +stall before them. “There, he is, jumping like a kid, out of his skin wid' +fun this morning.” + </p> +<p> +Now, although the first part of Kerry's simile was assuredly incorrect, as +no kid, of which we have any record, ever bore the least resemblance to +the animal in question, as to the fact of being “out of his skin” there +could not be a second opinion, the beast being almost entirely flayed from +his shoulders to his haunches, his eyes being represented by two globular +masses, about the size of billiard-balls, and his tail bearing some +affinity to an overgrown bamboo, as it hung down, jointed and knotted, but +totally destitute of hair. +</p> +<p> +“The thief of the world,” said Kerry, as he patted him playfully; “he +stripped a trifle of hair off him with kicking; but a little gunpowder and +butter will bring it on again, in a day or two.” “Liar that thou art, +Kerry—it would take a cask of one, and a firkin of the other to make +up the necessary ointment!” + </p> +<p> +There are some evils which no anticipation can paint equal to their +severity, and these, in compensation perhaps, are borne for the most part, +without the same violent exuberance of sorrow lesser misfortunes elicit. +So it was—Roach spoke not a word: one menace of his clenched hand +towards Kerry, was the only token he gave of his malice, and he left the +stable. +</p> +<p> +“I've a note here for Doctor Roach,” said a servant, in Sir Marmaduke's +livery, to Kerry, as he proceeded to close and lock the stable-door. +</p> +<p> +“I'm the person,” said the Doctor, taking the billet and breaking the +seal. “Have you the carriage here now?” asked he, when he had finished +reading. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, it's on the road. Sir Marmaduke desired me not to drive up, for +fear of disturbing the sick gentleman.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm ready, then,” said the Doctor; “and never casting a look backward, +nor vouchsafing another word, he passed out of the gate, and descended +towards the high road. +</p> +<p> +“I'll take good care of the baste till I see you, sir,” shouted Kerry +after him; and then, as the distance widened, he added, “and may I never +see your ould yallow wig agin, I pray this day. Divil take me, but I hope +you've some of the slugs in ye, after all;” and with these pious wishes, +expressed fervently, Kerry returned to the house, his heart considerably +lightened by the Doctor's departure. +</p> +<p> +Scarcely was he seated beside the kitchen fire—the asylum he +regarded as his own—when, all fears for his misconduct and its +consequences past, he began speculating in a very Irish fashion, on the +reasons of the Doctor's sudden departure. +</p> +<p> +“He's off now to 'the Lodge'—devil fear him—faix if he gets in +there, they'll not get him out so asy—they'll have a pain for every +day of the week before he leaves them. Well, well, thanks be to God, he's +out of this.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he gone, Kerry?” said Mrs. Branagan. “Did he leave a 'cure' for Master +Herbert before he went?” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra bit,” cried Kerry, as if a sudden thought struck him, “that's what +he didn't!” and without hesitating another moment, he sprung from his +chair, and mounted the stairs towards the parlour, where now the +O'Donoghue, Mark, and Sir Archy were assembled at breakfast. +</p> +<p> +“He's away, sir, he's off again,” said Kerry, as though the nature of his +tidings did not demand any more ceremonious preliminary. +</p> +<p> +“Who's away? Who's gone?” cried they all in breath. +</p> +<p> +“The Doctor, sir, Doctor Roach. There was a chap in a sky-blue livery came +up with a bit of a letter for him to go down there, and when he read it, +he just turned about, this way,” here Kerry performed a not over graceful +pirouette, “and without saying by yer leave, he walks down the road and +gets into the coach. 'Won't you see Master Herbert before you go, sir,' +says I; 'sure you're not leaving him that way?' but bad luck to one word +he'd say, but went away wid a grin on him.” + </p> +<p> +“What!” cried Mark, as his face crimsoned with passion. “Is this true?—are +you sure of what you're saying?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll take the book an it,” said Kerry, solemnly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Archy,” said the O'Donoghue, addressing his brother-in-law. “You +are a good judge of these matters. Is this conduct on the part of our +neighbour suitable or becoming? Was it exactly right and proper to send +here for one, whose services we had taken the trouble to seek, and might +much have needed besides? Should we not have been consulted, think you?” + </p> +<p> +“There's not a poor farmer in the glen would not resent it!” cried Mark, +passionately. +</p> +<p> +“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” said Sir Archy, cautiously, “we hae na heard a' +the tale yet. Roach may perhaps explain.” + </p> +<p> +“He had better not come here, to do so,” interrupted Mark, as he strode +the room in passion; “he has a taste for hasty departures, and, by G—, +I'll help him to one; for out of that window he goes, as sure as my name +is Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis the way to serve him, divil a doubt,” chimed in Kerry, who was not +sorry to think how agreeably he might thus be relieved from any legal +difficulties. +</p> +<p> +“I am no seeking to excuse the man,” said Sir Archy, temperately. “It's +weel kenned we hae na muckle love for ane anither; but fair play is bonnie +play.” + </p> +<p> +“I never heard a mean action yet, but there was a Scotch adage to warrant +it,” muttered Mark, in a whisper inaudible by the rest. +</p> +<p> +“Its no' improbable but that Sir Marmaduke Travers did ask if the Doctor +could be spared, and it's no' impossible, either, that Roach took the +answering the question in his ain hands.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think so,” broke in Mark; “the whole thing bears a different +aspect. It smacks of English courtesy to an Irish kern.” + </p> +<p> +“By Jove, Mark is right,” said the O'Donoghue, whose prejudices, +strengthened by poverty, too readily chimed in with any suspicion of +intended insult. +</p> +<p> +“They were not long learning the game,” said Mark, bitterly; “they are, if +I remember aright, scarce two months in the country, and, see, they treat +us as 'mere Irish' already. +</p> +<p> +“Ye'r ower hasty, Mark. I hae na muckle respect for Roach, nor wad I vouch +for his good breeding; but a gentleman, as this Sir Marmaduke's note +bespeaks him——.” + </p> +<p> +“What note? I never heard of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! it was a polite kind of message, Mark, to say he would be obliged if +I permitted him to pay his respects here. I forget to tell you of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Does the enemy desire a peep at the fortress, that he may calculate how +long we can hold out?” said the youth, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Begorra, with the boys from Ballyvourney and Inchigeela, we'll howld the +place agin the English army,” said Kerry, mistaking the figurative meaning +of the speech; and he rubbed his hands with delight at the bare prospect +of such a consummation. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archy turned an angry look towards him, and motioned with his hand for +him to leave the room. Kerry closed the door after him, and for some +minutes the silence was unbroken. +</p> +<p> +“What does it matter after all?” said the O'Donoghue, with a sigh. “It is +a mere folly to care for these things, now. When the garment is worn and +threadbare, one need scarce fret that the lace is a little tarnished.” + </p> +<p> +“True, sir, quite true; but you are not bound to forget or forgive him, +who would strip it rudely off, even a day or an hour before its time.” + </p> +<p> +“There is na muckle good in drawing inferences from imaginary evils. +Shadows are a' bad enough; but they needna hae children and grandchildren; +and so I'll even take a cup o' tea to the callant;” and thus, wise in +practice and precept, Sir Archibald left the room, while O'Donoghue and +Mark, already wearied of the theme, ceased to discuss it further. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XV. SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. +</h2> +<p> +In the small, but most comfortable apartment of the Lodge, which in virtue +of its book-shelves and smartly bound volumes was termed “the Study,” sat +Sir Marmaduke Travers. Before him was a table covered with writing +materials, books, pamphlets, prints, and drawings; his great arm-chair was +the very ideal of lounging luxury, and in the soft carpet his slippered +feet were almost hidden. Through the window at his right hand, an alley in +the beech-wood opened a view of mountain scenery, it would have been +difficult to equal in any country of Europe. In a word, it was a very +charming little chamber, and might have excited the covetousness of those +whose minds must minister to their maintenance, and who rarely pursue +their toilsome task, save debarred from every sound and sight that might +foster imagination. How almost invariably is this the case! Who has not +seen, a hundred times over, some perfect little room, every detail of +whose economy seemed devised to sweeten the labour of the mind, teeming +with its many appliances for enjoyment, yet encouraging thought more +certainly than ministering to luxury—with its cabinet pictures, its +carvings, its antique armour, suggestive in turn of some passage in +history, or some page in fiction;—who has not seen these devoted to +the half hour lounge over a newspaper, or the tiresome examination of +house expenditure with the steward, while he, whose mental flights were +soaring midway 'twixt earth and heaven, looked out from some gloomy and +cobwebbed pane upon a forest of chimneys, surrounded by all the evils of +poverty, and tortured by the daily conflict with necessity. +</p> +<p> +Here sat Sir Marmaduke, a great volume like a ledger open before him, in +which, from time to time, he employed himself in making short memoranda. +Directly in front of him stood, in an attitude of respectful attention, a +man of about five-and-forty years of age, who, although dressed in an +humble garb, had yet a look of something above the common; his features +were homely, but intelligent, and though a quick sharp glance shot from +his grey eye when he spoke, yet in his soft, smooth voice the words came +forth with a measured calm, that served to indicate a patient and gentle +disposition. His frame betokened strength, while his face was pale and +colourless, and without the other indications of active health in his gait +and walk, would have implied a delicacy of constitution. This was Sam +Wylie the sub-agent—one whose history may be told in a few words:—His +father had been a butler in the O'Donoghue house, where he died, leaving +his son, a mere child, as a legacy to his master. The boy, however, did +not turn out well; delinquencies of various kinds—theft among the +number—were discovered against him; and after many, but ineffectual +efforts, to reclaim him, he was turned off, and advised, as he wished to +escape worse, to leave the county. He took the counsel, and did so; nor +for many a year after was he seen or heard of. A report ran that he passed +fourteen years in transportation; but however that might be, when he next +appeared in Kerry, it was in the train of a civil engineer, come to make +surveys of the county. His cleverness and skill in this occupation +recommended him to the notice of Hemsworth, who soon after appointed him +as bailiff, and, subsequently, sub-agent on the estate; and in this +capacity he had now served about fifteen years, to the perfect +satisfaction, and with the full confidence of his chief. Of his +“antecedents,” Sir Marmaduke knew nothing; he was only aware of the +implicit trust Hemsworth had in him, and his own brief experience +perfectly concurred in the justice of the opinion. He certainly found him +intelligent, and thoroughly well-informed on all connected with the +property. When questioned, his answers were prompt, direct, and to the +purpose; and to one of Sir Marmaduke's business habits, this quality +possessed merit of the highest order. If he had a fault with him, it was +one he could readily pardon—a leniency towards the people—a +desire to palliate their errors and extenuate their failings—and +always to promise well for the future, even when the present looked least +auspicious. His hearty concurrence with all the old baronet's plans for +improvement were also highly in his favour; and already Wylie was looked +on as “a very acute fellow, and with really wonderful shrewdness for his +station;” as if any of that acuteness or that shrewdness, so estimated, +could have its growth in a more prolific soil, than in the heart and mind +of one bred and reared among the people; who knew their habits, their tone +of thinking, their manners, and their motives—not through any false +medium of speculation and theory, but practically, innately, instinctively—who +had not studied the peasantry like an algebraic formula, or a problem iu +Euclid, but read them, as they sat beside their turf fires, in the smoke +of their mud hovels, cowering from the cold of winter, and gathering +around the scanty meal of potatoes—the only tribute they had not +rendered to the landlord. +</p> +<p> +“Roger Sweeny,” said Sir Marmaduke—“Roger Sweeny complains of his +distance from the bog; he cannot draw his turf so easily, as when he lived +on that swamp below the lake; but I think the change ought to recompense +him for the inconvenience.” + </p> +<p> +“He's a Ballyvourney man, your honour,” said Sam, placidly, “and if you +couldn't bring the turf up to his door, and cut it for him, and stack it, +and carry a creel of it inside, to make the fire, he'd not be content.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, that's it—is it?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting an explanation +he was far from thoroughly understanding. “Then here's Jack Heffernan—what +does this fellow mean by saying that a Berkshire pig is no good?” + </p> +<p> +“He only means, your honour, that he's too good for the place, and wants +better food than the rest of the family.” + </p> +<p> +“The man's a fool, and must learn better. Lord Mudford told me that he +never saw such an excellent breed, and his swine-herd is one of the most +experienced fellows in England. Widow Mul—Mul—what?” said he, +endeavouring to spell an unusually long name in the book before him—“Mulla——” + </p> +<p> +“Mullahedert, your honour,” slipped in Wylie, “a very dacent crayture.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why won't she keep those bee-hives; can't she see what an excellent +thing honey is in a house—if one of her children was sick, for +instance?” + </p> +<p> +“True for you, sir,” said Sam, without the slightest change of feature. +“It is wonderful how your honour can have the mind to think of these +things—upon my word, it's surprising.” + </p> +<p> +“Samuel M'Elroy refuses to drain the field—does he?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; but he says the praties isn't worth digging out of dry ground, +nor never does grow to any size. He's a Ballyvourney man, too, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, is he?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting this as a receipt in full for +any degree of eccentricity. +</p> +<p> +“Shamus M'Gillicuddy—heavens what a name! This Shamus appears a very +desperate fellow; he beat a man the other evening, coming back from the +market.” + </p> +<p> +“It was only a neighbour, sir; they live fornint each other.” + </p> +<p> +“A neighbour! but bless my heart, that makes it worse.” + </p> +<p> +“Sure, sir, it was nothing to speak of; it was Darby Lenahan said your +honour's bull was a pride to the place, and Shamus said the O'Donoghue's +was a finer baste any day; and from one word they came to another, and the +end of it was, Lenahan got a crack on the scull that laid him Quivering on +the daisies.” + </p> +<p> +“Savage ruffian, that Shamus; I'll keep a sharp eye on him.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, and there's no need—he's a Ballyvourney man.” + </p> +<p> +The old baronet looked up from his large volume, and seemed for a moment +undecided whether he should not ask the meaning of a phrase, which, +occurring at every moment, appeared most perplexing in signification; but +the thought that by doing so, he should confess his ignorance before the +sub-agent, deterred him, and he resolved to leave the interpretation to +time and his own ingenuity. +</p> +<p> +“What of this old fellow, who has the mill?—has he consented to have +the overshot wheel?” + </p> +<p> +“He tried it on Tuesday, sir,” said Sam, with an almost imperceptible +smile, “and the sluice gave way, and carried off the house and the end of +the barn into the tail race. He's gone in, to take an action again your +honour for the damages.” + </p> +<p> +“Ungrateful rascal! I told him I'd be at the whole expense myself, and I +explained the great saving of water the new wheel would ensure him.” + </p> +<p> +“True, indeed, sir; but as the stream never went dry for thirty years, the +ould idiot thought it would last his time. Begorra, he had enough of water +on Tuesday, anyhow.” + </p> +<p> +“He's a Ballyvourney man, isn't he?” + </p> +<p> +“He is sir,” replied Wylie, with the gravity of a judge. +</p> +<p> +Another temptation crossed Sir Marmaduke's mind, but he withstood it, and +went on— +</p> +<p> +“The mountain has then been divided as I ordered, has it?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; the lines were all marked out before Saturday.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I suppose the people were pleased to know, that they have, each, +their own separate pasturage?” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed, and, sir, I won't tell you a lie—they are not; they'd +rather it was the ould way still.” + </p> +<p> +“What, have I taken all this trouble for nothing then?—is it +possible that they'd rather have their cattle straying wild about the +country, than see them grazing peaceably on their own land?” + </p> +<p> +“That's just it, sir; for, you see, when they had the mountain among them, +they fed on what they could get; one, had maybe a flock of goats, another, +maybe a sheep or two, a heifer, an ass, or a bullsheen. +</p> +<p> +“A what?” + </p> +<p> +“A little bull, your honour; and they didn't mind if one had more nor +another, nor where they went, for the place was their own; but now. that +it is all marked out and divided, begorra, if a beast is got trespassing, +out comes some one with a stick, and wallops him back again, and then the +man that owns him, natural enough, would'nt see shame on his cow, or +whatever it was, and that leads to a fight; and faix, there's not a day +now, but there's blood spilt over the same boundaries.” + </p> +<p> +“They're actually savages!” said Sir Marmaduke, as he threw his spectacles +over his forehead, and dropped his pen from his fingers in mute amazement; +“I never heard—I never read of such a people.” + </p> +<p> +“They're Ballyvourney men,” chimed in Wylie, assentively. +</p> +<p> +“D—— d—-” + </p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke checked himself suddenly, for the idea flashed on him that +he ought at least to know what he was cursing, and so he abstained from +such a perilous course, and resumed his search in the big volume. Alas! +his pursuit of information was not more successful as he proceeded: every +moment disclosed some case, where, in his honest efforts to improve the +condition of the people, from ignorance of their habits, from total +unconsciousness of the social differences of two nations, essentially +unlike, he discovered the failure of his plans, and unhesitatingly +ascribed to the prejudices of the peasantry, what with more justice might +have been charged against his own unskilfulness. He forgot that a people +long neglected cannot at once be won back—that confidence is a plant +of slow growth; but more than all, he lost sight of the fact, that to +engraft the customs and wants of richer communities, upon a people sunk in +poverty and want—to introduce among them new and improved modes of +tillage—to inculcate notions which have taken ages to grow up to +maturity, in more favoured lands, must be attended with failure and +disappointment. On both sides the elements of success were wanting. The +peasantry saw—for, however strange it may seem, through every phase +of want and wretchedness their intelligence and apprehension suffer no +impairment—they saw his anxiety to serve them, they believed him to +be kind-hearted and well-wishing, but they knew him to be also +wrong-headed and ignorant of the country, and what he gained on the score +of good feeling, he lost on the score of good sense; and Paddy, however +humble his lot, however hard his condition, has an innate reverence for +ability, and can rarely feel attachment to the heart, where he has not +felt respect for the head. It is not a pleasant confession to make, yet +one might explain it without detriment to the character of the people, but +assuredly, popularity in Ireland would seem to depend far more on +intellectual resources, than on moral principle and rectitude. Romanism +has fostered this feeling, so natural is it to the devotee to regard power +and goodness as inseparable, and to associate the holiness of religion, +with the sway and influence of the priesthood. If the tenantry regarded +the landlord as a simple-hearted, crotchety old gentleman with no harm in +him, the landlord believed them to be almost incurably sunk in barbarism +and superstition. Their native courtesy in declining to accept suggestions +they never meant to adopt, he looked on as duplicity; he could not +understand that the matter-of-fact sternness of English expression has no +parallel here; that politeness, as they understood it, has a claim, to +which truth itself may be sacrificed; and he was ever accepting in a +literal sense, what the people intended to be received with its accustomed +qualification. +</p> +<p> +But a more detrimental result followed than even these: the truly +well-conducted and respectable portion of the tenantry felt ashamed to +adopt plans and notions they knew inapplicable and unsuited to their +condition; they therefore stood aloof, and by their honest forbearance +incurred the reproach of obstinacy and barbarism; while the idle, the +lazy, and the profligate, became converts to any doctrine or class of +opinion, which promised an easy life and the rich man's favour. These, at +first sight, found favour with him, as possessing more intelligence and +tractibility than their neighbours, and for them, cottages were built, +rents abated, improved stock introduced, and a hundred devices organized +to make them an example for all imitation. Unhappily the conditions of the +contract were misconceived: the people believed that all the landlord +required was a patient endurance of his benevolence; they never reckoned +on any reciprocity in duty; they never dreamed that a Swiss cottage cannot +be left to the fortunes of a mud cabin; that stagnant pools before the +door, weed-grown fields, and broken fences, harmonize ill with rural +pailings, drill cultivation, and trim hedges. They took all they could +get, but assuredly they never understood the obligation of repayment. They +thought (not very unreasonably perhaps), “it's the old gentleman's hobby +that we should adopt a number of habits and customs we were never used to—live +in strange houses and work with strange tools. Be it so; we are willing to +gratify him,” said they, “but let him pay for his whistle.” + </p> +<p> +He, on the other hand, thought they were greedily adopting what they only +endured, and deemed all converts to his opinion who lived on his bounty. +Hence, each morning presented an array of the most worthless, +irreclaimable of the tenantry around his door, all eagerly seeking to be +included in some new scheme of regeneration, by which they understood +three meals a day and nothing to do. +</p> +<p> +How to play off these two distinct and very opposite classes, Mr. Sam +Wylie knew to perfection; and while he made it appear that one portion of +the tenantry whose rigid rejection of Sir Marmaduke's doctrines proceeded +from a sturdy spirit of self-confidence and independence, were a set of +wild, irreclaimable savages; he softly insinuated his compliments on the +success in other quarters, while, in his heart he well knew what results +were about to happen. +</p> +<p> +“They're here now, sir,” said Wylie, as he glanced through the window +towards the lawn, where, with rigid punctuality Sir Marmaduke each morning +held his levee; and where, indeed, a very strange and motley crowd +appeared. +</p> +<p> +The old baronet threw up the sash, and as he did so, a general mar-mur of +blessings and heavenly invocations met his ears—sounds, that if one +were to judge from his brightening eye and beaming countenance, he +relished well. No longer, however, as of old, suppliant, and entreating, +with tremulous voice and shrinking gaze did they make their advances. +These people were now enlisted in his army of “regenerators”; they were +converts to the landlords manifold theories of improved agriculture, neat +cottages, pig-styes, dove-cots, bee-hives, and heaven knows what other +suggestive absurdity, ease and affluence ever devised to plate over the +surface of rude and rugged misery. +</p> +<p> +“The Lord bless your honour every morning you rise, 'tis the iligant +little place ye gave me to live in. Musha, 'tis happy and comfortable I do +be every night, now, barrin' that the slates does be falling betimes—bad +luck to them for slates, one of them cut little Joe's head this morning, +and I brought him up for a bit of a plaster.” + </p> +<p> +This was the address of a stout, middle-aged woman, with a man's great +coat around her in lieu of a cloak. +</p> +<p> +“Slates falling—why doesn't your husband fasten them on again? he +said he was a handy fellow, and could do any thing about a house.” + </p> +<p> +“It was no lie then; Thady Morris is a good warrant for a job any day, and +if it was thatch was on it——” + </p> +<p> +“Thatch—why, woman, I'll have no thatch; I don't want the cabins +burned down, nor will I have them the filthy hovels they used to be.” + </p> +<p> +“Why would your honour?—sure there's rayson and sinse agin it,” was +the chorus of all present, while the woman resumed— +</p> +<p> +“Well, he tried that same too, your honour, and if he did, by my sowl, it +was worse for him, for when he seen the slates going off every minit with +the wind, he put the harrow on the top—” + </p> +<p> +“The harrow—put the harrow on the roof?” + </p> +<p> +“Just so—wasn't it natural? But as sure as the wind riz, down came +the harrow, and stript every dirty kippeen of a slate away with it.” + </p> +<p> +“So the roof is off,” said Sir Marmaduke with stifled rage. +</p> +<p> +“Tis as clean as my five fingers, the same rafters,” said she with unmoved +gravity. +</p> +<p> +“This is too bad—Wylie, do you hear this?” said the old gentleman, +with a face dark with passion. +</p> +<p> +“Aye,” chorused in some half dozen friends of the woman—“nothing +stands the wind like the thatch.” + </p> +<p> +Wylie whispered some words to his master, and by a side gesture, motioned +to the woman to take her departure. The hint was at once taken, and her +place immediately filled by another. This was a short little old fellow, +in yellow rags, his face concealed by a handkerchief, on removing which, +he discovered a countenance that bore no earthly resemblance to that of a +human being: the eyes were entirely concealed by swollen masses of cheek +and eye-lid—the nose might have been eight noses—and the round +immense lips, and the small aperture between, looked like the opening in a +ballot-box. +</p> +<p> +“Who is this?—what's the matter here?” said Sir Marmaduke, as he +stared in mingled horror and astonishment at the object before him. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, ye may well ax,” said the little man, in a thick guttural voice. +“Sorra one of the neighbours knew me this morning. I'm Tim M'Garrey, of +the cross-roads.” + </p> +<p> +“What has happened to you then?” asked Sir Marmaduke, somewhat ruffled by +the sturdy tone of the ragged fellow's address. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis your own doing, then—divil a less—you may be proud of +your work.” + </p> +<p> +“My doing!—how do you dare to say so?” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis no darin' at all—'tis thrue, as I'm here. Them bloody beehives +you made me take home wid me, I put them in a corner of the house, and by +bad luck it was the pig's corner, and, sorra bit, but she rooted them out, +and upset them, and with that, the varmint fell upon us all, and it was +two hours before we killed them—divil such a fight ever ye seen: +Peggy had the beetle, and I the griddle, for flattening them agin the +wall, and maybe we didn't work hard, while the childer was roarin' and +bawlin' for the bare life.” + </p> +<p> +“Gracious mercy, would this be credited?—could any man conceive +barbarism like this?” cried Sir Marmaduke, as with uplifted hands he stood +overwhelmed with amazement. +</p> +<p> +Wylie again whispered something, and again telegraphed to the applicant to +move off; but the little man stood his ground and continued. “'Twas a +heifer you gave Tom Lenahan, and it's a dhroll day, the M'Garrey's warn't +as good as the Lenahans, to say we'd have nothing but bees, and them was +to get a dacent baste!” + </p> +<p> +“Stand aside, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke; “Wylie has got my orders about +you. Who is this?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, me, sir—Andrew Maher. I'm come to give your honour the key—I +couldn't stop there any longer.” + </p> +<p> +“What! not stay in that comfortable house, with the neat shop I had built +and stocked for you? What does this mean?” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis just that, then, your honour—the house is a nate little place, +and barrin' the damp, and the little grate, that won't burn turf at all, +one might do well enough in it; but the shop is the divil entirely.” + </p> +<p> +“How so—what's wrong about it?” + </p> +<p> +“Every thing's wrong about it. First and foremost, your honour, the +neighbours has no money; and though they might do mighty well for want of +tobacco, and spirits, and bohea, and candles, and soap, and them trifles, +as long as they never came near them, throth they couldn't have them there +fornint their noses, without wishing for a taste; and so one comes in for +a pound of sugar, and another wants a ha' porth of nails, or a piece of +naygar-head, or an ounce of starch—and divil a word they have, but +'put it in the book, Andy.' By my conscience, it's a quare book would +hould it all.” + </p> +<p> +“But they'll pay in time—they'll pay when they sell the crops.” + </p> +<p> +“Bother! I ax yer honour's pardon—I was manin' they'd see me far +enough first. Sure, when they go to market, they'll have the rint, and the +tithe, and the taxes; and when that's done, and they get a sack of seed +potatoes for next year, I'd like to know where's the money that's to come +to me?” + </p> +<p> +“Is this true, Wylie?—are they as poor as this?” asked Sir +Marmaduke. +</p> +<p> +Wylie's answer was still a whispered one. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said Andy, with a sigh, “there's the key any way. I'd rather be +tachin' the gaffers again, than be keeping the same shop.” + </p> +<p> +These complaints were followed by others, differing in kind and +complexion, but all, agreeing in the violence with which they were urged, +and all, inveighing against “the improvements” Sir Marmaduke was so +interested in carrying forward. To hear them, you would suppose that the +grievances suggested by poverty and want, were more in unison with comfort +and enjoyment, than all the appliances wealth can bestow: and that the +privations to which habit has inured us, are sources of greater happiness, +than we often feel in the use of unrestricted liberty. +</p> +<p> +Far from finding any contented, Sir Marmaduke only saw a few among the +number, willing to endure his bounties, as the means of obtaining other +concessions they desired more ardently. They would keep their cabins +clean, if any thing was to be made by it: they'd weed their potatoes, if +Sir Marmaduke would only offer a price for the weeds. In fact, they were +ready to engage in any arduous pursuit of cleanliness, decency, and +propriety, but it must be for a consideration. Otherwise, they saw no +reason for encountering labour, which brought no requital; and the <i>real</i> +benefits offered to them, came so often associated with newfangled and +absurd innovations, that, both became involved in the same disgrace, and +both sunk in the same ridicule together. These were the refuse of the +tenantry; for we have seen that the independent feeling of the better +class held them aloof from all the schemes of “improvement,” which the +others, by participating in, contaminated. +</p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke might, then, be pardoned, if he felt some sinking of the +heart at his failure; and, although encouraged by his daughter to +persevere in his plan to the end, more than once he was on the brink of +abandoning the field in discomfiture, and confessing that the game was +above his skill. Had he but taken one-half the pains to learn something of +national character, that he bestowed on his absurd efforts to fashion it +to his liking, his success might have been different. He would, at least, +have known how to distinguish between the really deserving, and the +unworthy recipients of his bounty—between the honest and independent +peasant, earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, and the miserable +dependant, only seeking a life of indolence, at any sacrifice of truth or +character; and even this knowledge, small as it may seem, will go far in +appreciating the difficulties which attend all attempts at Irish social +improvement, and explain much of the success or failure observable in +different parts of the country. But Sir Marmaduke fell into the invariable +error of his countrymen—he first suffered himself to be led captive, +by “blarney,” and when heartily sick of the deceitfulness and trickery of +those who employed it, coolly sat down with the conviction, that there was +no truth in the land. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVI. THE FOREIGN LETTER +</h2> +<p> +The arrival of a post-letter at the O'Donoghue house was an occurrence of +sufficient rarity to create some excitement in the household; and many a +surmise, as to what new misfortune hung over the family, was hazarded +between Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O'Leary, as the latter poised and balanced +the epistle in his hand, as though its weight and form might assist him in +his divination. +</p> +<p> +After having conned over all the different legal processes which he deemed +might be conveyed in such a shape, and conjured up in his imagination a +whole army of sheriffs, sub-sheriffs, bailiffs, and drivers, of which the +ominous letter should prove the forerunner, he heaved a heavy sigh at the +gloomy future his forebodings had created, and slowly ascended towards his +master's bed-room. +</p> +<p> +“How is Herbert?” said the O'Donoghue, as he heard the footsteps beside +his bed, for he had been dreaming of the boy a few minutes previous. “Who +is that? Ah! Kerry. Well, how is he to-day?” + </p> +<p> +“Troth there's no great change to spake of,” said Kerry, who, not having +made any inquiry himself, and never expecting to have been questioned on +the subject, preferred this safe line of reply, as he deemed it, to a +confession of his ignorance. +</p> +<p> +“Did he sleep well, Kerry?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! for the matter of the sleep we won't boast of it. But here's a letter +for your honour, come by the post.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave it on the bed, and tell me about the boy.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix there's nothing particular, then, to tell yer honour—sometimes +he'd be one way, sometimes another—and more times the same way +again. That's the way he'd be all the night through.” + </p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue pondered for a second or two, endeavouring to frame some +distinct notion from these scanty materials, and then said— +</p> +<p> +“Send Master Mark to me.” At the same instant he drew aside the curtain, +and broke the seal of the letter. The first few lines, however, seemed to +satisfy his curiosity, although the epistle was written in a close hand, +and extended over three sides of the paper; and he threw it carelessly on +the bed, and lay down again once more. During all this time, however, +Kerry managed to remain in the room, and, while affecting to arrange +clothes and furniture, keenly scrutinized the features of his master. It +was of no use, however. The old man's looks were as apathetic as usual, +and he seemed already to have forgotten the missive Kerry had endowed with +so many terrors and misfortunes. +</p> +<p> +“Herbert has passed a favourable night,” said Mark, entering a few moments +after. “The fever seems to have left him, and, except for debility, I +suppose there is little to ail him. What!—a letter! Who is this +from?” + </p> +<p> +“From Kate,” said the old man listlessly. “I got as far as 'My dear +uncle;' the remainder must await a better light, and, mayhap, sharper +eyesight too—for the girl has picked up this new mode of scribbling, +which is almost unintelligible to me.” + </p> +<p> +As the O'Donoghue was speaking, the young man had approached the window, +and was busily perusing the letter. As he read, his face changed colour +more than once. Breaking off, he said— +</p> +<p> +“You don't know, then, what news we have here? More embarrassment—ay, +by Jove, and a heavier one than even it seems at first sight. The French +armies, it appears, are successful all over the Low Countries, and city +after city falling into their possession; and so, the convents are +breaking up, and the Sacré Cour, where Kate: is, has set free its inmates, +who are returning to their friends. She comes here.” + </p> +<p> +“What!—here?” said the O'Donoghue, with some evidence of doubt at +intelligence so strange and unexpected. “Why, Mark, my boy, that's +impossible—the house is a ruin; we haven't a room; we have no +servants, and have nothing like accommodation for the girl.” + </p> +<p> +“Listen to this, then,” said Mark, as he read from the letter:—“You +may then conceive, my dear old papa—for I must call you the old name +again, now that we are to meet—how happy I am to visit +Carrig-na-curra once more. I persuade myself I remember the old beech wood +in the glen, and the steep path beside the waterfall, and the wooden +railings to guard against the precipice. Am I not right? And there's an +ash tree over the pool, lower down. Cousin Mark climbed it to pluck the +berries for me, and fell in, too. There's memory for you!” + </p> +<p> +“She'll be puzzled to find the wood now,” said the O'Donoghue, with a sad +attempt at a smile. “Go on, Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“It's all the same kind of thing: she speaks of Molly Cooney's cabin, and +the red boat-house, and fifty things that are gone many a day ago. Strange +enough, she remembers what I myself have long since forgotten. 'How I long +for my own little blue bed-room, that looked out on Keim-an-eigh P——” + </p> +<p> +“There, Mark—don't read any more, my lad. Poor dear Kate!—what +would she think of the place now?” + </p> +<p> +“The thing is impossible,” said Mark, sternly; “the girl has got a hundred +fancies and tastes, unsuited to our rude life; her French habits would ill +agree with our barbarism. You must write to your cousin—that old +Mrs. Bedingfield—if that's her name. She must take her for the +present, at least; she offered it once before.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said the old man, with an energy he had not used till now, “she +did, and I refused. My poor brother detested that woman, and would never, +had he lived, have entrusted his daughter to her care. If she likes it, +the girl shall make this her home. My poor Harry's child shall not ask +twice for a shelter, while I have one to offer her.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you thought, sir, how long you may be able to extend the hospitality +you speak of? Is this house now your own, that you can make a proffer of +it to any one?—and if it were, is it here, within these damp, +discoloured walls, with ruin without and within, that you'd desire a guest—and +such a guest?” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean, boy?” + </p> +<p> +“I mean what I say. The girl educated in the midst of luxury, pampered and +flattered—we heard that from the Abbé—what a favourite she was +there, and how naturally she assumed airs of command and superiority over +the girls of her own age—truly, if penance were the object, the +notion is not a bad one.” + </p> +<p> +“I say it again—this is her home. I grieve it should be so rude a +one—but, I'll never refuse to let her share it.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor would I,” muttered Mark, gloomily, “if it suited either her habits, +or her tastes. Let her come, however; a week's experience will do more to +undeceive her than if we wrote letters for a twelvemonth.” + </p> +<p> +“You must write to her, Mark; you must tell her, that matters have not +gone so well with us latterly—that she'll see many changes here; but +mind, you say how happy we are to receive her.” + </p> +<p> +“She can have her choice of blue bed-rooms, too—shall I say that?” + said Mark, almost savagely. “The damp has given them the proper tinge for +her fancy; and as to the view she speaks of, assuredly there is nothing to +baulk it: the window has fallen out many a day ago, that looked on +Keim-an-eigh.” + </p> +<p> +“How can you torture me this way, boy?” said the old man, with a look of +imploring, to which his white hairs and aged features gave a most painful +expression. But Mark turned away, and made no answer. +</p> +<p> +“My uncle,” said he, after a pause, “must answer this epistle. +Letter-writing is no burthen to him. In fact, I believe, he rather likes +it; so here goes to do him a favour. It is seldom the occasion presents +itself.” + </p> +<p> +It was not often that Mark O'Donoghue paid a visit to Sir Archibald in his +chamber; and the old man received him as he entered with all the show of +courtesy he would have extended to a stranger—a piece of attention +which was very far, indeed, from relieving Mark of any portion of his +former embarrassment. +</p> +<p> +“I have brought you a letter, sir,” said he, almost ere he took his seat—“a +letter which my father would thank you to reply to. It is from my cousin +Kate, who is about to return to Ireland, and take up her abode here.” + </p> +<p> +“Ye dinna mean she's coming here, to Carrig-na-curra?” + </p> +<p> +“It is even so! though I don't wonder at your finding it hard of belief.” + </p> +<p> +“It's mair than that—it's far mair—it's downright incredible.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought so, too; but my father cannot agree with me. He will not +believe that this old barrack is not a baronial castle; and persists in +falling back on what is past, rather than look on the present, not to +speak of the future.” + </p> +<p> +“But she canna live here, Mark,” said Sir Archy, his mind ever dwelling on +the great question at issue. “There's no'a spot in the whole house she +could inhabit. I ken something of these French damsels, and their ways; +and the strangers that go there for education are a' worse than the +natives. I mind the time I was in Paris with his Royal———” + Sir Archy coughed, and reddened up, and let fall his snuff-box, spilling +all the contents on the floor. +</p> +<p> +“Gude save us, here's a calamity! It was real macabaw, and cost twa +shillings an ounce. I maun even see if I canna scrape it up wi' a piece of +paper;” and so, he set himself diligently to glean up the scattered dust, +muttering, all the time, maledictions on his bad luck. +</p> +<p> +Mark never moved nor spoke the entire time; but sat with the open letter +in his hand, patiently awaiting the resumption of the discussion. +</p> +<p> +“Weel, weel,” exclaimed Sir Archy, as he resumed his seat once more; “let +us see the epistle, and perhaps we may find some clue to put her off.” + </p> +<p> +“My father insists on her coming,” said Mark, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“So he may, lad,” replied Sir Archy; “but she may ha'e her ain reasons for +declining—dinna ye see that? This place is a ruin. Wha's to say it +is no' undergoing a repair—that the roof is off, and will not be on +for sax months to come. The country, too, is in a vara disturbed state. +Folks are talking in a suspicious way.” + </p> +<p> +Mark thought of the midnight march he had witnessed; but said nothing. +</p> +<p> +“There's a fever, besides, in the house, and wha can tell the next to tak' +it. The Lord be mercifu' to us!” added he gravely, as if the latter +thought approached somewhat too close on a temptation of Providence. +</p> +<p> +“If she's like what I remember her as a child,” replied Mark, “your plan +would be a bad one for its object. Tell her the place is a ruin, and she'd +give the world to see it for bare curiosity; say, there was a likelihood +of a rebellion, and she would risk her life to be near it; and as for a +fever, we never were able to keep her out of the cabins when there was +sickness going. Faith, I believe it was the danger, and not the +benevolence, of the act charmed her.” + </p> +<p> +“You are no' far wrang. I mind her weel—she was a saucy cutty; and I +canna forget the morning she gave me a bunch o' thistles on my birth day, +and ca'ed it a 'Scotch bouquey.'” + </p> +<p> +“You had better read the letter in any case,” said Mark, as he presented +the epistle. Sir Archy took it, and perused it from end to end without a +word; then laying it open on his knee, he said— +</p> +<p> +“The lassie's heart is no' far wrang, Mark, depend upon it. Few call up +the simple memories o' childish days, if they have no' retained some of +the guileless spirit that animated them. I wad like to see her mysel',” + said he, after a pause. “But what have we here in the postscript?”—and +he read aloud the following lines:— +</p> +<p> +“I have too good a recollection of a Carrig-na-curra household, to make +any apology for adding one to the number below stairs, in the person of my +maid, Mademoiselle Hortense, from whose surprise and astonishment at our +Irish mountains I anticipate a rich treat. She is a true Parisian, who +cannot believe in any thing outside the Boulevards. What will she think of +Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O'Leary?—and what will they think of her?” + </p> +<p> +“Lord save us, Mark, this is an awfu' business; a French waiting woman +here! Why, she might as weel bring a Bengal tiger! I protest I'd rather +see the one than the other.” + </p> +<p> +“She'll not stay long; make your mind easy about her; nor will Kate +either, if she need such an attendant.” + </p> +<p> +“True enough, Mark, we maun let the malady cure itsel'; and so, I suppose, +the lassie must even see the nakedness o' the land wi' her ain eyes, +though I'd just as soon we could 'put the cover on the parritch,' as the +laird said, 'and make the fules think it brose.' It's no ower pleasant to +expose one's poverty.” + </p> +<p> +“Then you'll write the letter,” said Mark, rising, “and we must do what we +can, in the way of preparation. The time is short enough too, for that +letter was written almost a month ago—she might arrive this very +week.” + </p> +<p> +As he spoke, the shuffling sounds of feet were heard in the corridor +outside; the young man sprung to the door, and looked out, and just caught +sight of Kerry O'Leary, with a pair of boots under his arm, descending the +stairs. +</p> +<p> +“That fellow, Kerry—listening as usual,” said Mark. “I heard him at +my door about a fortnight since, when I was talking to Herbert, and I sent +a bullet through the pannel—I thought it might cure him.” + </p> +<p> +“I wonder it did na kill him!” exclaimed M'Nab in horror. +</p> +<p> +“No, no, my hand is too steady for that. I aimed at least two inches above +his head—it might have grazed his hair.” + </p> +<p> +“By my word, I'll no' play the eaves-dropper wi' you, Mark; or, at least, +I'd like to draw the charge o' your pistols first.” + </p> +<p> +“She can have my room,” said Mark, not heeding the speech. “I'll take that +old tower they call the guard-room; I fancy I shall not be dispossessed +for a considerable time,”—and the youth left the chamber to look +after the arrangements he spoke of. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis what I tould you,” said Kerry, as he drew his stool beside the +kitchen fire; “I was right enough, she's coming back again to live here—I +was listening at the door, and heerd it all.” + </p> +<p> +“And she's laving the blessed nunnery!” exclaimed Mrs. Branagan, with a +holy horror in her countenance—“desarting the elegant place, with +the priests, and monks, and friars, to come here again, in the middle of +every wickedness and divilment—ochone! ochone!” + </p> +<p> +“What wickedness and what divilment are you spaking about?” said Kerry, +indignantly, at the aspersion thus cast on the habits of the house. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Branagan actually started at the bare idea of a contradiction, and +turned on him a look of fiery wrath, as she said:— +</p> +<p> +“Be my conscience you're bould to talk that way to me!—What +wickedness! Isn't horse-racing, card-playing, raffling, wickedness? Isn't +drinking and swearin' wickedness? Isn't it wickedness to kill three sheep +a week, and a cow a fortnight, to feed a set of dirty spalpeens of grooms +and stable chaps? Isn't it wickedness—botheration to you—but I +wouldn't be losing my time talking to you! When was one of ye at his +duties? Answer me that. How much did one of ye pay at Ayster or Christmas, +these ten years? Signs on it, Father Luke hasn't a word for ye when he +comes here—he trates ye with contimpt.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry was abashed and terrified. He little knew when he pulled up the +sluice-gate, the torrent that would flow down; and now, would have made +any “amende,” to establish a truce again; but Mrs. Branagan was a woman, +and, having seen the subjugation of her adversary, her last thought was +mercy. +</p> +<p> +“Wickedness, indeed! It's fifty years out of purgatory, sorra less, to +live ten years here, and see what goes on.” + </p> +<p> +“Divil a lie in it,” chimed in Kerry, meekly; “there's no denying a word +you say.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd like to see who'd dare deny it—and, sign's on it, there's a +curse on the place—nothing thrives in it.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, then, ye mustn't say that, any how,” said Kerry, insinuatingly: “<i>you</i> +have no rayson to spake again it. 'Twas Tuesday week last I heerd Father +Luke say—it was to myself he said it—'How is Mrs. Branagan, +Kerry?' says he. 'She's well and hearty, your reverence,' says I. 'I'll +tell you what she is, Kerry,' says he, 'she's looking just as I knew her +five-and-thirty years ago; and a comelier, dacenter woman wasn't in the +three baronies. I remember well,' says he, 'I seen her at the fair of +Killarney, and she had a cap with red ribbons.' Hadn't ye a cap with red +ribbons in it?” A nod was the response. +</p> +<p> +“True for him, ye see he didn't forget it; and says he, 'She took the +shine out of the fair; she could give seven pounds, and half a distance, +to ere a girl there, and beat her after by a neck.'” + </p> +<p> +“What's that ye're saying?” said Mrs. Branagan, who didn't comprehend the +figurative language of the turf, particularly when coming from Father +Luke's lips. +</p> +<p> +“I'm saying ye were the purtiest woman that walked the fair-green,” said +Kerry, correcting his phraseology. +</p> +<p> +“Father Luke was a smart little man then himself, and had a nate leg and +foot.” + </p> +<p> +“Killarney was a fine place I'm tould,” said Kerry, with a dexterous shift +to change the topic. “I wasn't often there myself, but I heerd it was the +iligant fair entirely.” + </p> +<p> +“So it was,” said Mrs. Branagan; “there never was the kind of sport and +divarsion wasn't there. It begun on a Monday and went through the week; +and short enough the time was. There was dancing, and fighting, and +singing, and 'stations,' up to Aghadoe and down again on the bare knees, +and a pilgrimage to the holy well—three times round that, maybe +after a jig two hours long; and there was a dwarf that tould fortunes, and +a friar that sould gospels agin fever, and fallin' sickness, and +ballad-singers, and play-actors. Musha, there never was the like of it;” + and in this strain did, she pour forth a flood of impassioned eloquence on +the recollection of those carnal pleasures and enjoyments which, but a few +minutes before, she had condemned so rigidly in others, nor was it till at +the very close of her speech that she suddenly perceived how she had +wandered from her text; then with a heavy groan she muttered—“Ayeh! +we're sinful craytures, the best of us.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry responded to the sentiment with a fac-simile sigh, and the peace was +ratified. +</p> +<p> +“You wouldn't believe now what Miss Kate is bringing over with her—faix, +you wouldn't believe it.” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe a monkey,” said Mrs. Branagan, who had a vague notion that France +lay somewhere within the tropics. +</p> +<p> +“Worse nor that.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it a bear?” asked she again. +</p> +<p> +“No, but a French maid, to dress her hair, and powder her, and put patches +on her face.” + </p> +<p> +“Whisht, I tell you,” cried Mrs. Branagan, “and don't be talking that way. +Miss Kate was never the one to turn to the likes of them things.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis truth I'm telling ye then; I heerd it all between the master and +Master Mark, and afterwards with ould Sir Archy, and the three of them is +in a raal fright about the maid; they say she'll be the divil for +impidence.” + </p> +<p> +“Will she then!” said Mrs. Branagan, with an eye glistening in +anticipation of battle. +</p> +<p> +“The never a day's peace or ease we're to have again, when she's here—'tis +what the master says. 'I pity poor Mrs. Branagan,' says he; 'she's a quiet +crayture that wont take her own part, and——'” + </p> +<p> +“Won't I? Be my conscience, we'll soon see that.” + </p> +<p> +“Them's his words—'and if Kerry and she don't lay their heads +together to make the place too hot for her, she'll bully the pair of +them.'” + </p> +<p> +“Lave it to myself—lave it to me alone, Kerry O'Leary.” + </p> +<p> +“I was thinking that same, ma'am,” said Kerry, with a droll leer as he +spoke; “I'd take the odds on you any day, and never ask the name of the +other horse.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll lay the mark of my fingers on her av she says 'pays,'” said Mrs. +Branagan, with an energy that looked like truth. +</p> +<p> +Meanwhile, Kerry, perceiving that her temper was up, spared nothing to +aggravate her passion, retailing every possible and impossible affront the +new visitor might pass off on her, and expressing the master's sorrows at +the calamities awaiting her. +</p> +<p> +“If she isn't frightened out of the country at once, there's no help for +it,” said he at last. “I have a notion myself, but sure maybe it's a bad +one.” + </p> +<p> +“What is it then?—spake it out free.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis just to wait for the chaise—she'll come in a chaise, it's +likely.” + </p> +<p> +But what was Kerry's plan, neither Mrs. Branagan nor the reader are +destined to hear, for at that moment a loud summons at the hall door—a +very unusual sound—announced the arrival of a stranger; Kerry, +therefore, had barely time for a hasty toilet with a pocket-comb, before a +small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, as he hastened +to receive the visitor. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVII. KATE O'DONOGHUE +</h2> +<p> +Before Kerry O'Leary had reached the hall, the object around whose coming +all his schemes revolved, was already in her uncle's arms. +</p> +<p> +“My dear, dear Kate!” said the old man, as he embraced her again and +again, while she, overcome by a world of conflicting emotions, concealed +her face upon his shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“This is Mark, my dearest girl—cousin Mark.” + </p> +<p> +The girl looked up, and fixed her large full eyes upon the countenance of +the young man, as, in an attitude of bashful hesitation, he stood, +uncertain how far the friendship of former days warranted his advances. +She, too, seemed equally confused; and when she held out her hand, and he +took it half coldly, the meeting augured but poorly for warmth of heart on +either side. +</p> +<p> +“And Herbert—where is he?” cried she eagerly, hoping to cover the +chilling reception by the inquiry—“and my uncle Archy——” + </p> +<p> +“Is here to answer for himsel',” said M'Nab, quietly, as he came rapidly +forward and kissed her on either cheek; and, with an arm leaning on each +of the old men, she walked forward to the drawing-room. +</p> +<p> +“And are you alone, my dear child—have you come alone?” said the +O'Donoghue. +</p> +<p> +“Even so, papa;—my attached and faithful Hortense left me at +Bristol. Sea sickness became stronger than affection. She had a dream, +besides, that she was lost, devoured, or carried off by a merman—I +forget what. And the end was, she refused to go further, and did her best +to persuade me to the same opinion. She didn't remember that I had sent on +my effects, and that my heart was here already.” + </p> +<p> +“My own dearest child!” said O'Donoghue, as he pressed her hand fervently +between his own. +</p> +<p> +“But how have ye journeyed by yoursel'?” said Sir Archy, as he gazed on +the slight and delicate figure before him. +</p> +<p> +“Wonderfully well, uncle. During the voyage every one was most polite and +attentive to me. There was a handsome young Guardsman who would have been +more, had he not been gentleman enough to know that I was a lady. And, +once at Cork, I met, the very moment of landing, with a kind old friend, +Father Luke, who took care of me hither. He only parted with me at the +gate, not wishing to interfere, as he said, with our first greetings. But +I don't see Herbert—where is he?” + </p> +<p> +“Poor Herbert has been dangerously ill, my dear,” said the father, “I +scarcely think it safe for him to see you.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no,” interposed Sir Archy, feelingly. “If the sight of her can stir +the seared heart of an auld carle like mysel', it wad na be the surest way +to calm the frenzied blood of a youth.” + </p> +<p> +Perhaps Sir Archy was not far wrong. Kate O'Donoghue was, indeed, a girl +of no common attraction. Her figure, rather below than above the middle +size, was yet so perfectly moulded, that for very symmetry and grace it +seemed as if such should have been the standard of womanly beauty, while +her countenance had a character of loveliness, even more striking than +beautiful; her eyes were large, full, and of a liquid blue that resembled +black; her hair, a rich brown, through which a golden tinge was seen to +run, almost the colour of an autumn sun-set, giving a brilliancy to her +complexion which, in its transparent beauty, needed no such aid; but her +mouth was the feature whose expression, more than any other, possessed a +peculiar charm. In speaking, the rounded lips moved with a graceful +undulation, more expressive than mere sound, while, as she listened, the +slightest tremble of the lip harmonizing with the brilliant glance of her +eyes, gave a character of rapid intelligence to her face, well befitting +the vivid temper of her nature. She looked her very self—a +noble-hearted, high-spirited girl, without a thought save for what was +honourable and lofty; one who accepted no compromise with a doubtful line +of policy, but eagerly grasped at the right, and stood firmly by the +consequence. Although educated within the walls of a convent, she had +mixed, her extreme youth considered, much in the world of the city she +lived in, and was thus as accomplished in all the “usage,” and +conventional habits of society, as she was cultivated in those gifts and +graces which give it all its ornament. To a mere passing observer there +might seem somewhat of coquetry in her manner; but very little observation +would show, that such unerring gracefulness cannot be the result of mere +practice, and that, innate character had assumed that garb which best +suited it, and not one to be merely worn for a season. Her accent, too, +when she spoke English, had enough of foreign intonation about it to lay +the ground for a charge of affectation; but he should have been a sturdy +critic who could have persisted in the accusation. The fear was rather, +that one leaned to the very fault of pronunciation as an excellence, so +much of piquancy did it occasionally lend to expressions, which, from +other lips, had seemed tame and common-place. To any one who has seen the +graceful coquetry of French manner engrafted on the more meaning eloquence +of Irish beauty, my effort at a portrait will appear a very meagre and +barren outline; and I feel how poorly I have endeavoured to convey any +idea of one, whose Spanish origin had left a legacy of gracefulness and +elegance, to be warmed into life by the fervid character of the Celt, and +tempered again by the consummate attraction of French manner. +</p> +<p> +The ease and kindliness of spirit with which she sat between the two old +men, listening in turn to each, or answering with graceful alacrity the +questions they proffered—the playful delicacy with which she evaded +the allusions they made from time to time to the disappointment the ruined +house must have occasioned her—and the laughing gaiety with which +she spoke of the new life about to open before her, were actually +contagious. They already forgot the fears her anticipated coming had +inspired; and gazed on her with the warm affection that should wait on a +welcome. Oh! what a gift is beauty, and how powerful its influence, when +strengthened by the rich eloquence of a spotless nature, beaming from +beneath long-lashed lids, when two men like these, seared and hardened by +the world's ills—broken on the wheel of fortune—should feel a +glow of long-forgotten gladness in their chilled hearts as they looked +upon her? None could have guessed, however, what an effort that seeming +light-heartedness cost her. Poor girl! Scarcely was she alone, and had +closed the door of her room behind her, when she fell upon the bed in a +torrent of tears, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. All that Father +Luke had said as they came along—and the kind old man had done his +utmost to break the shock of the altered state of her uncle's fortunes—was +far from preparing her for the cold reality she witnessed. It was not the +ruined walls, the treeless mountain, the desolate and dreary look of all +around, that smote upon her heart; sad as these signs were, her grief had +a higher source: it was the sight of that old man she called father, +tottering feebly to the grave, surrounded by images of poverty and +misfortune. It was the aspect of Mark, the cousin, she had pictured to her +mind as an accomplished gentleman in look and demeanour; the descendant of +a house more than noble—the heir of a vast property; and now she saw +him, scarce in gesture and manner above the peasant—in dress, as +slovenly and uncared for. She was prepared for a life of monotonous +retirement and isolation. She was ready to face the long winter of dreary +solitude—but not in such company as this. That she never calculated +on. Her worst anticipations had never conjured up more than an unchequered +existence, with little to vary or relieve it; and now, she foresaw a life +to be passed amid the miserable straits and shifts of poverty, with all +its petty incidents and lowering accidents, to lessen her esteem for those +she wished to look up to and love. And this was Carrig-na-curra, the proud +castle she had so often boasted of to her school companions, the baronial +seat she had loved to exalt above the antique chateaux of France and +Flanders; and these the haughty relatives, whose pride she mentioned as +disdaining the alliance of the Saxon, and spurning all admixture of blood +with a race less noble than their own. The very chamber she sat in, how +did it contradict her own animated descriptions of its once comforts and +luxuries! Alas! it seemed to be like duplicity and falsehood, that she had +so spoken of these things. More than once she asked herself—“Were +they always thus?” Poor child! she knew not that poverty can bring +sickness, and sorrow and premature old age. It can devastate the fields, +and desolate the affections, and make cold both heart and home together! +</p> +<p> +If want stopped short at privation, men need not to tremble at its +approach. It is in the debasing and degrading influence of poverty its +real terror lies. It is in the plastic facility with which the poor man +shifts to meet the coming evil, that the high principle of rectitude is +sacrificed, and the unflinching course of honour deviated from. When the +proud three decker, in all the majesty of her might, may sail along her +course unaltered, the humble craft, in the same sea, must tack, and beat, +and watch for every casualty of the gale to gain her port in safety. These +are the trials of the poor, but proud man. It is not the want of liveried +lacqueys, of plate, of equipage, and all the glittering emblems of wealth, +that smite his heart, and break his spirit. It is the petty subterfuge he +is reduced to, that galls him—it is the sense of struggle between +his circumstances and his conscience—between what he does, and what +he feels. +</p> +<p> +It is true, Kate knew not these things, but yet she had before her the +results of them too palpably to be mistaken. Sir Archibald was the only +one on whom reverse of fortune had not brought carelessness and coarseness +of manner. He seemed, both in dress and demeanour, little changed from +what she remembered him years before; nor had time, apparently, fallen on +him with heavier impress in other respects. What was Herbert like? was the +question ever rising to her mind, but with little hope that the answer +would prove satisfactory. +</p> +<p> +While Kate O'Donoghue was thus pondering over the characters of those with +whom she was now to live, they, on the other hand, were exerting +themselves to the utmost to restore some semblance of its ancient comfort +to the long-neglected dwelling. A blazing fire of bog deal was lighted in +the old hall, whose mellow glare glanced along the dark oak wainscot, and +threw a rich glow along the corridor itself, to the very door of the +tower. In the great chamber, where they sat, many articles of furniture, +long disused and half forgotten, were now collected, giving, even by their +number, a look of increased comfort to the roomy apartment. Nor were such +articles of ornament as they possessed forgotten. The few pictures which +had escaped the wreck of damp and time were placed upon the walls, and a +small miniature of Kate, as a child—a poor performance enough—was +hung up over the chimney, as it were to honour her, whose presence these +humble preparations were made to celebrate. Sir Archy, too, as eager in +these arrangements as Mark himself, had brought several books and +illustrated volumes from his chamber to scatter upon the tables; while, as +if for a shrine for the deity of the place, a little table of most +elaborate marquetrie, and a richly-carved chair beside the fire, +designated the place Kate was to occupy as her own, and to mark which, he +had culled the very gems of his collection. +</p> +<p> +It is scarcely possible to conceive, how completely even a few trifling +objects like these can change the “morale” of a chamber—how that, +which before seemed cumbrous, sad, and dispiriting, becomes at once +lightsome and pleasant-looking. But so it is: the things which speak of +human thought and feeling appeal to a very different sense from those +which merely minister to material comfort; and we accept the presence of a +single book, a print, or drawing, as an evidence that mental aliment has +not been forgotten. +</p> +<p> +If the changes here spoken of gave a very different air and seeming to the +old tower, Kate's own presence there completed the magic of the +transformation. Dressed in black silk, and wearing a profusion of lace of +the same colour—for her costume had been adapted to a very different +sphere—she took her place in the family circle, diffusing around her +a look of refinement and elegance, and making of that sombre chamber a +spacious “salon.” Her guitar, her embroidery, her old-fashioned +writing-desk, inlaid with silver, caught the eye as it wandered about the +room, and told of womanly graces and accomplishments, so foreign to the +rude emblems of the chase and the field, henceforth to be banished to the +old entrance hall. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue himself felt the influence of the young girl's presence, +and evidenced, in his altered dress and demeanour, the respect he desired +to show; while Mark took from his scanty wardrobe the only garment he +possessed above the rank of a shooting jacket, and entered the room with a +half-bashful, half-sullen air, as though angry and ashamed with himself +for even so much compliance with the world's usages. +</p> +<p> +Although Kate was quick-sighted enough to see that these changes were +caused on her account, her native tact prevented her from showing that +knowledge, and made her receive their attentions with that happy blending +of courtesy and familiarity, so fascinating from a young and pretty woman. +The dinner—and it was a “chef-d'oeuvre” on the part of Mrs. Branagan—passed +off most pleasantly. The fear her coming had excited now gave way to the +delight her presence conferred. They felt as if they had done her an +injustice in their judgment, and hastened to make every “amende” for their +unfair opinion. Never, for years long, had the O'Donoghue been so happy. +The cold and cheerless chamber was once more warmed into a home. The fire +beside which he had so often brooded in sadness, was now the pleasant +hearth, surrounded by cheery faces. Memories of the past, soothing through +all their sorrow, flowed in upon his mind, as he sat and gazed at her in +tranquil ecstacy. Sir Archibald, too, felt a return to his former self, in +the tone of good breeding her presence diffused, and evinced, by the +attentive politeness of his manner, how happy he was to recur once more to +the observances which he remembered with so much affection, associated, as +they were, with the brightest period of his life. +</p> +<p> +As for Mark, although less an actor than the others in the scene, the +effect upon him was not less striking. All his assumed apathy gave way as +he listened to her descriptions of foreign society, and the habits of +those she had lived amongst. The ringing melody of her voice, the +brilliant sparkle of her dark eyes, the graceful elegance of gesture—the +French woman's prerogative—threw over him their charm, a fascination +never experienced before; and although a dark dread would now and then +steal across his mind, How was a creature, beautiful and gifted like this, +to lead the life of dreariness and gloom their days were passed in?—the +tender feeling of affection she shewed his father, the fondness with which +she dwelt on every little incident of her childhood—every little +detail of the mountain scenery—showed a spirit which well might +harmonise with a home, even humble as theirs, and pleasures as uncostly +and as simple. “Oh! if she grow not weary of us!” was the heart-uttered +sentence each moment as he listened; and, in the very anxiety of the +doubt, the ecstacy of enjoyment was heightened. To purchase this boon, +there was nothing he would not dare. To think that as he trod the glens, +or followed the wild deer along some cragged and broken mountain gorge, a +home like this ever awaited him, was a picture of happiness too bright and +dazzling to look upon. +</p> +<p> +“Now, then, 'ma belle.'” said Sir Archibald, as he rose from his seat, +and, with an air of gallantry that might have done credit to Versailles of +old, threw the ribbon of her guitar over her neck—“now for your +promise—that little romance ye spoke of.” + </p> +<p> +“Willingly, dear uncle,” replied she, striking the chords as a kind of +prelude. “Shall I sing you one of our convent hymns?—or will you +have the romance?” + </p> +<p> +“It is no' fair to tempt-one in a choice,” said M'Nab, slyly; “but sin' ye +say so, I must hear baith before I decide.” + </p> +<p> +“Your own favourite, the first,” said she, smiling, and began the little +chanson of the “Garde Ecossaise,” the song of the exiled nobles in the +service of France, so dear to every Scotchman's heart. +</p> +<p> +While the melody described the gathering of the clans in the mountains, to +take leave of their departing kinsmen, the measured tramp of the music, +and the wild ringing of the pibroch, the old chieftain's face lit up, and +his eye glared with the fierce fire of native pride; but when the moment +of leave-taking arrived, and the heart-rending cry of “Farewell!” broke +from his deserted, the eye became glazed and filmy, and with a hand +tremulous from emotion, he stopped the singer. +</p> +<p> +“Na, na, Kate; I canna bear that, the noo. Ye ha'e smote the rock too +suddenly, lassie;” and the tears rolled heavily down his seared cheeks. +</p> +<p> +“You must let me finish uncle,” said she, disengaging her hand; and at the +instant, sweeping the chord with a bold and vigorous finger, she broke +into a splendid and chivalrous description of the Scottish valour in the +service of France, every line swelling with their proud achievements, as +foremost they marched to battle. To this succeeded the crash and turmoil +of the fray, the ringing cheers of the plaided warriors mingling with the +war-cries of the Gaul, till, in a burst of triumph and victory, the song +concluded. Then, the old man sprang from his chair, and threw his arms +around her in a transport, as he cried— +</p> +<p> +“It's a mercifu' thing, lassie, ye did na' live fifty years ago: by my +saul, there's nae saying how many a brave fellow the like o' that had laid +low!” + </p> +<p> +“If that be one of the hymns you spoke of, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue, +smiling, “I fancy Mark would have no objection to be a nun; but where is +he?—he has left the room.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope there was nothing in my song he disliked?” asked she, timidly; but +before there was time for an answer the door opened, and Mark appeared +with Herbert in his arms. +</p> +<p> +“There!” said he, laying him gently on the sofa; “if cousin Kate will only +sing that once more, I'll answer for it, it will save you a fortnight in +your recovery.” + </p> +<p> +Kate knelt down beside the sick boy, and kissed him tenderly; while he, +poor fellow, scarce daring to believe in the reality of all before him, +played with the long tangles of her silky hair, and gazed on her in +silence. +</p> +<p> +“We maun be cautious, Mark,” whispered M'Nab, carefully; but Mark had no +ears nor eyes save for her who now sat beside his brother, and in a low +soft voice breathed her affectionate greetings to him. +</p> +<p> +In this way passed the first evening of her coming—a night whose +fascination dwelt deep in every heart, and made each dreamer blest. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVIII. A HASTY PLEDGE +</h2> +<p> +While these things were happening within the ruined castle of the +O'Donoghue, a guest, equally unexpected as theirs, had arrived at “the +Lodge.” Frederick Travers, delayed in Bristol by contrary winds, had come +over in the same packet with Kate; but without being able either to learn +her name, or whither she was going. His unlooked for appearance at “the +Lodge,” was a most welcome surprise both to Sir Marmaduke and Sybella; and +as he did not desire to avow the real object of his coming, it was +regarded by them as the most signal proof of affection. They well knew how +much London life engrossed him—how completely its peculiar habits +and haunts possessed attractions for him—and with what a +depreciating estimate he looked down on every part of the globe, save that +consecrated to the fashionable follies and amusements of his own set. +</p> +<p> +He was not, in reality, insensible to other and better influences; his +affection for his father and sister was unbounded; he had a bold, manly +spirit, unalloyed with any thing mean or sordid; a generous, candid +nature, and straightforward earnestness of purpose, that often carried him +farther by impulse, than he was followed by his convictions. Still a +conventional cant, a tone of disparaging, half-contemptuous indifference +to every thing which characterized his associates, had already infected +him; and he felt ashamed to confess to those sentiments and opinions, to +possess and to act upon which should have been his dearest pride. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Fred,” said Sybella, as they drew around the fire after dinner, in +that happy home circle so suggestive of enjoyment, “let us hear what you +thought of the scenery. Is not Glenflesk fine?” + </p> +<p> +“Matlock on a larger scale,” said he coolly. “Less timber and more +rocks..” + </p> +<p> +“Matlock! dear friend. You might as well compare Keim-an-eigh with Holborn—you +are only jesting.” + </p> +<p> +“Compare what? Repeat that droll name, I beg of you.” + </p> +<p> +“Keim-an-eigh. It is a mountain pass quite close to us here.” + </p> +<p> +“Admirably done! Why, Sybella dear, I shall not be surprised to see you +take to the red petticoat and bare-feet soon. You have indoctrinated +yourself wonderfully since your arrival.” + </p> +<p> +“I like the people with all my heart, Fred,” said she artlessly; “and if I +could imitate many of their traits of forbearance and long-suffering +patience by following their costume, I promise you I'd don the scarlet.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, Fred,” said Sir Marmaduke, with a sententious gravity, “they don't +know these Irish at all at our side of the water. They mistake them +totally. They only want teaching, a little example—a little +encouragement—that's all: and they are as docile and tractable as +possible. I'll show you to-morrow what improvements a few months have +effected. I'll bring you over a part of the estate, where there was not a +hovel fit for a dog, and you shall see what comfortable dwellings they +have. We hear nothing in England but the old songs about popery, and +superstition, and all that. Why, my dear Fred, these people don't care a +straw for the priest—they'd be any thing I asked them.” + </p> +<p> +“Devilish high principled that, any way,” said Fred, drily. +</p> +<p> +“I didn't exactly mean that; at least in the sense you take it. I was +about to say, that such is their confidence, such their gratitude to the +landlord, that—tha——” + </p> +<p> +“That in short they'd become Turks, for an abatement in the rent. Well, +Sybella dear, is this one of the traits you are so anxious to imitate?” + </p> +<p> +“Why will you misunderstand, Fred?” said Sybella imploringly. “Cannot you +see that gratitude may lead an uninstructed people far beyond the limits +of reason—my father is so good to them.” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart—I have not the slightest objection in life; +indeed I'm not sure, if all the estate be like what I passed through this +afternoon, if <i>my</i> generosity wouldn't go farther, and, instead of +reducing the rent, make them an honest present of the fee simple.” + </p> +<p> +“Foolish boy!” said Sir Marmaduke, half angrily. “There are forty thousand +acres of reclaimable land——” + </p> +<p> +“Which might bear crops, Anno Domini 3095.” + </p> +<p> +“There are mines of inexhaustible wealth.” + </p> +<p> +“And would cost such to work them, sir, no doubt. Come, come, father—Hemsworth +has passed a life among these people. He knows more than we do, or ever +shall. +</p> +<p> +“I tell you, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, nettled by such a sarcasm on his +powers of observation, “I know them perfectly—I can read them like a +book. They are a guileless, simple-minded, confiding people—you may +see every thought they have in their countenances. They only need the +commonest offices of kindness to attach them; and, as for political or +religious leanings, I have questioned them pretty closely, and, without a +single exception, have heard nothing but sentiments of loyalty and +attachment to the church.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I only hope you don't mean to prolong your stay here. I'm sure you +have done enough for any ordinary call of conscience, and, if you have +not, set about it in right earnest—convert the tens into hundreds—make +them all as comfortable as possible—and then, in heaven's name, get +back again to England. There is no earthly reason why you should pass your +time here; and as for Sybella——” + </p> +<p> +“Don't include me, Fred, in your reasons for departure. I never was so +happy in my life.” + </p> +<p> +“There, boy—there's an example for you; and if you need another, +here am I, ready to confess the same thing. I don't mean that there are +not little dampers and difficulties. There's that fool about the +mill-wheel, and that fellow that persists in dragging the river with a +net;” and so he muttered on for some minutes beneath his teeth, to the +evident enjoyment of Fred, whose quivering lip and laughing eye told how +he appreciated the conflicting evidence memory was eliciting. +</p> +<p> +Thus, for some time, the conversation continued, until Miss Travers +retired for the night. Then, Sir Marmaduke drew his chair closer to his +son's, and, in an earnest manner, related the whole circumstance of +Sybella's escape from the mountain torrent—dwelling with grateful +eloquence on the young O'Donoghue's heroism in coming to her rescue. “The +youth has narrowly escaped with his life. The doctor, who left this but a +few hours ago, said 'he never witnessed a more dangerous case than the +symptoms at one time presented.' He is well, however, now—the risk +is past—and I want your aid, Fred, to devise some suitable mode of +evincing our gratitude.' +</p> +<p> +“These O'Donoghues are your tenants—are they not?” asked the young +man. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, they are tenants; but on that score we must not say much in their +favour. Wylie tells me that they have been at feud with Hems-worth for +years past—they neither pay rent, nor will they surrender +possession. The whole thing is a difficult matter to understand; first of +all, there is a mortgage——” + </p> +<p> +“There, there, my dear father, don't puzzle my brain and your own with a +statement we'll never get to the end of. The point I want to learn is, +they are your tenants——” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, at least for part of the land they occupy. There is a dispute about +another portion; but I believe Hemsworth has got the Attorney-General's +opinion, that their case cannot stand.” + </p> +<p> +“Tush—never mind the Attorney-General. Give up the question at +issue; send him, or his father, or whoever it is, the receipt for the rent +due, and take care Hemsworth does not molest him in future.” + </p> +<p> +“But you don't see, boy, what we are doing. We hope to obtain the whole of +the Ballyvourney property—that is part of our plan; the tenants +there are in a state of absolute misery and starvation.” + </p> +<p> +“Then, in God's name, give them plenty to eat; it doesn't signify much, I +suppose, whose tenantry they are, when they're hungry.” + </p> +<p> +The old gentleman was scarcely prepared for such an extended basis for his +philanthropy, and, for a moment or two, seemed quite dumbfounded by his +son's proposition, while Fred continued—“If I understand the matter, +it lies thus: you owe a debt of gratitude which you are desirous to acquit—you +don't care to pay highly.” + </p> +<p> +“On the contrary, I am quite willing,” interposed Sir Marmaduke; “but let +the price be one, which shall realize a benefit equivalent to its amount. +If I assure these people in the possession of their land, what security +have I, that they will not continue, as of old, the same useless, +wasteful, spendthrift set they ever were—presenting the worst +possible example to the other tenants, and marring the whole force of the +lesson I am endeavouring to inculcate?” + </p> +<p> +“That, I take it, is more <i>their</i> affair than <i>yours</i>, after +all,” said Fred; “you are not to confer the boon, and allocate its +advantages afterwards—but come, what kind of people are they?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! a species of half-gentry, half-farmer set, I believe—proud as +they are poor—deeming themselves, as O'Donoghues, at least our +equals; but living, as I believe, in every kind of privation.” + </p> +<p> +“Very well; sit down there, and let me have a check on your banker for +five hundred pounds, and leave the affair to me.” + </p> +<p> +“But you mistake, Fred, they are as haughty as Lucifer.” + </p> +<p> +“Just leave it to me, sir: I fancy I know something of the world by this +time. It may require more money, but the result I will answer for.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke's confidence in his son's tact and worldly skill was one of +the articles of his faith, and he sat down at the table and wrote the +order on the bank at once. “Here Fred,” said he; “I only beg of you to +remember, that the way to express the grateful sense I entertain of this +boy's conduct is not by wounding the susceptibilities of his feelings; and +if they be above the class of farmers, which I really cannot ascertain, +your steps must demand all your caution.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope, sir,” said Fred with some vanity in the tone, “that I have never +made you blush for my awkwardness, and I don't intend to do so now. I +promise for the success of my negociation; but I must not say a word more +of how I mean to obtain it.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke was very far from feeling satisfied with himself for having +even so far encouraged a plan, that his own blind confidence in his son's +cleverness had for a moment entrapped him into; he would gladly have +withdrawn his consent, but old experience taught him that Fred was never +completely convinced he was right, until he met opposition to his opinion. +So he parted with him for the night, hoping that sleep might suggest a +wiser counsel and a clearer head; and that being left free to act, he +might possibly feel a doubt as to the correctness of his own judgment. +</p> +<p> +As for Fred, no sooner was he alone than he began to regret the pledge his +precipitancy had carried him into. What were the nature of the advances he +was to make—how to open the negociation, in a quarter the habits and +prejudices of which he was utterly ignorant of, he had not the most vague +conception; and, as he sought his chamber, he had half persuaded himself +to the conviction, that the safest, and the most honest course, after all, +would be to avow in the morning that he had overstated his diplomatic +abilities, and fairly abandon a task, to which he saw himself inadequate. +These were his last sleeping thoughts; for his waking resolves, we must +enter upon another chapter. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIX. A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED +</h2> +<p> +If Frederick Travers went to sleep at night with very considerable doubts, +as to the practicability of his plans regarding the O'Donoghues, his +waking thoughts were very far from re-assuring him, and he heartily wished +he had never engaged in the enterprize. Now, however, his honour was in a +manner pledged; he had spoken so confidently of success, there was nothing +for it but to go forward, and endeavour, as as well he might, to redeem +his promise. +</p> +<p> +At the time we speak of, military men never for a moment divested +themselves of the emblems of their career; the uniform and the sword, the +plumed hat and the high boot, formed a costume not to be worn at certain +periods and laid aside at others, but was their daily dress, varying +merely in the degree of full or half dress, as the occasion warranted. +There was no affectation of the happy freedom of “Mufti”—no +pretended enjoyment of the incognito of a black coat and round hat; on the +contrary, the king's livery was borne with a pride which, erring on the +opposite side, suggested a degree of assumption and conscious importance +in the wearer, which more or less separated the soldier from the civilian +in bearing, and gradually originated a feeling of soreness on the part of +the more humbly clad citizen towards the more favoured order. +</p> +<p> +A certain haughty, overbearing tone of manner, was then popular in the +army, and particularly in those regiments which boasted of an unalloyed +nobility among the officers. If they assumed an air of superiority to the +rest of the service, so much the more did they look down upon the mere +civilian, whom they considered as belonging to a very subordinate class +and order of mankind. To mark the sense of this difference of condition in +a hundred little ways, and by a hundred petty observances, was part of a +military education, and became a more unerring test of the soldier in +society, than even the cockade and the cross-belt. To suppose that such a +line of conduct should not have inspired those against whom it was +directed with a feeling of counter hatred, would be to disbelieve in human +nature. The civilian, indeed, reciprocated with dislike the soldier's +insolence, and, in their estrangement from each other, the breach grew +gradually wider—the dominant tyranny of the one, and the base-born +vulgarity of the other, being themes each loved to dilate upon without +ceasing. +</p> +<p> +Now, this consciousness of superiority, so far from relieving Frederick +Travers of any portion of the difficulty of his task, increased it +tenfold. He knew and felt he was stooping to a most unwarrantable piece of +condescension in seeking these people at all; and although he trusted +firmly that his aristocratic friends were very unlikely to hear of +proceedings in a quarter so remote and unvisited, yet how he should answer +to his own heart for such a course, was another and a far more puzzling +matter. He resolved, then, in the true spirit of his order, to give his +conduct all the parade of a most condescending act, to let them see +plainly, how immeasurably low he had voluntarily descended to meet them; +and to this end he attired himself in his full field uniform, and with as +scrupulous a care as though the occasion were a review before his Majesty. +His costume of scarlet coat, with blue velvet facings, separating at the +breast, so as to show a vest of white kerseymere, trimmed with a gold +border—his breeches of the same colour and material, met at the knee +by the high and polished boot, needed but the addition of his cocked hat, +fringed with an edging of ostrich feathers, to set off a figure of +singular elegance and symmetry. The young men of the day were just +beginning to dispense with hair powder, and Fred wore his rich brown +locks, long and floating, in the new mode—a fashion which well +became him, and served to soften down the somewhat haughty carriage of his +head. There was an air of freedom, an absence of restraint, in the +military costume of the period, which certainly contributed to increase +the advantages of a naturally good-looking man, in the same way as the +present stiff, Prussian mode of dress, will, assuredly, conceal many +defects in mould and form among less-favoured individuals. The +loosely-falling flaps of the waistcoat—the deep hanging cuffs of the +coat—the easy folds of the long skirt—gave a character of +courtliness to uniform which, to our eye, it at present is very far from +possessing. In fact, the graceful carriage and courteous demeanour of the +drawing-room, suffered no impediment from the pillory of a modern stock, +or the rigid inflexibility of a coat strained almost to bursting. +</p> +<p> +“Are you on duty, Fred?” said Sir Marmaduke, laughing, as his son entered +the breakfast-room, thus carefully attired. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; I am preparing for my mission; and it would ill become an +ambassador to deliver his credentials in undress.” + </p> +<p> +“To what court are you then accredited?” said Sybella, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“His Majesty, The O'Donoghue,” interposed his father; “King of Glenflesk, +Baron of Inchigeela, Lord Protector of—of half the blackguards in +the county, I verily believe,” added he, in a more natural key. +</p> +<p> +“Are you really going to Carrig-na-curra, Fred?” asked Miss Travers, +hurriedly; “are you going to visit our neighbours?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll not venture to say that such is the place, much less pretend to +pronounce it after you, my dear sister, but I am about to wait on these +worthy people, and, if they will permit me, have a peep at the interior of +their stockade or wigwam, whichever it be.” + </p> +<p> +“It must have been a very grand thing in its day: that old castle has some +fine features about it yet,” replied she calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Like Windsor, I suppose,” said Fred as he replied to her, and then +complacently glanced at the well-fitting boot which ornamented his leg. +“They'll not be over-ceremonious, I hope, about according me an audience.” + </p> +<p> +“Not in the forenoon, I believe,” said Sir Marmaduke drily; for he was +recalling the description old Roach had given him of his own reception by +Kerry O'Leary, and which circumstance, by-the-by, figured somewhat +ostentatiously in his charge to the old baronet. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, then, they receive early,” resumed Fred; “the old French style—the +'petit levée du roi'—before ten o'clock. Another cup of tea, +Sybella, and then I must look after a horse. +</p> +<p> +“I have given orders already on that score. I flatter myself you'll rather +approve of my stud; for, amongst the incongruities of Ireland, I have +fallen upon an honest horse-dealer.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said the young man, with more interest than he had yet shown in +the conversation; “I must cultivate that fellow, one might exhibit him +with great success in London.” + </p> +<p> +“Unquestionably, Fred, he is a curiosity; for while he is a perfect +simpleton about the value of an animal; an easy-tempered, good-natured, +soft fellow—with respect to knowledge of a horse, his points, his +performance, and his soundness, I never saw his equal.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll give him a commission to get me two chargers,” said Fred, delighted +at the prospect of deriving so much benefit from his Irish journey. “What +makes you look so serious, Sybella?” + </p> +<p> +“Was I so, Fred? I scarcely know—perhaps I was regretting,” added +she archly, “that there were no ladies at Carrig-na-curra to admire so +very smart a cavalier.” + </p> +<p> +Frederick coloured slightly and endeavoured to laugh, but the +consciousness that his “bravery” of costume was somewhat out of place, +worried him and he made no reply. +</p> +<p> +“You'll not be long, Fred,” said his father, “I shall want you to take a +walk with me to the lake.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Fred—don't stay long away; it is not above two miles from tills +at farthest.” + </p> +<p> +“Had I not better send a guide with you?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; if the place be larger than a mud hovel, I cannot mistake it. So +here comes our steed. Well, I own, he is the best thing I've yet seen in +these parts;” and the youth opened the window, and stepped out to approach +the animal. He was, indeed, a very creditable specimen of Lanty's taste in +horse-flesh—the model of a compact and powerfully-built cob horse. +</p> +<p> +“A hundred guineas, eh?” said Fred, in a tone of question. +</p> +<p> +“Sixty—not a pound more,” said the old man in conscious pride. “The +fellow said but fifty; I added ten on my own account.” + </p> +<p> +Frederick mounted the cob, and rode him across the grass, with that quiet +hand and steady seat which bespeaks the judgment of one called upon to be +critical. “A little, a very little over-done in the mouthing, but his +action perfect,” said he, as he returned to the window, and held the +animal in an attitude to exhibit his fine symmetry to advantage. “The +prince has a passion for a horse of this class; I hope you have not become +attached to him?” + </p> +<p> +“His Royal Highness shall have him at once, Fred, if he will honour you by +accepting him.” And as he spoke, he laid a stress on the <i>you</i>, to +evince the pleasure he anticipated in the present being made by Frederick, +and not himself. +</p> +<p> +“Now, then, with God and St. George!” cried Fred, laughingly, as he waved +an adieu with his plumed hat, and cantered easily towards the high road. +</p> +<p> +It was a clear and frosty day in December, with a blue sky above, and all +below bright and glittering in a thin atmosphere. The lake, clear as +crystal, reflected every cliff and crag upon the mountain—while each +island on its surface was defined with a crisp sharpness of outline, +scarce less beautiful than in the waving foliage of summer. The +many-coloured heaths, too, shone in hues more bright and varied, than +usual in our humid climate; and the voices which broke the silence, heard +from long distances away, came mellowed and softened in their tones, and +harmonized well with the solitary grandeur of the scene. Nor was Frederick +Travers insensible to its influence; the height of those bold mountains—their +wild and fanciful outlines—the sweeping glens that wound along their +bases—the wayward stream that flowed through the deep valleys, and, +as if in sportiveness, serpentined their course, were features of scenery +he had not witnessed before; while the perfect solitude awed and appalled +him. +</p> +<p> +He had not ridden long, when the tall towers of the old castle of +Carrig-na-curra caught his eye, standing proudly on the bold mass of rock +above the road. The unseemly adjunct of farm-house and stables were lost +to view at such a distance, or blended with the general mass of building, +so that the whole gave the impression of extent and pretension to a degree +he was by no means prepared for. These features, however, gradually +diminished as he drew nearer; the highly-pitched roof, pierced with narrow +windows, patched and broken—the crumbling battlements of the towers +themselves—the ruinous dilapidation of the outer buildings, +disenchanted the spectator of his first more favourable opinion; until at +length, as he surveyed the incongruous and misshapen pile, with its dreary +mountain back-ground, he wondered how, at any point of view, he should +have deemed it other than the gloomy abode it seemed at that moment. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00193.jpg" width="100%" alt="193 " /> +</div> +<p> +The only figure Frederick Travers had seen, as he rode along, was that of +a man carrying a gun in his hand, in a dress somewhat like a gamekeeper's, +who, at some short distance from the road, moved actively across the +fields, springing lightly from hillock to hillock with the step of a +practised mountain walker, and seemingly regardless of the weight of a +burden which he carried on one shoulder: so rapidly did he move, that +Frederick found it difficult to keep pace with him, as the road was deeply +cut up, and far from safe for horse travel. Curious to make out what he +carried, Travers spurred eagerly forward; and, at last, but not without an +effort, came within hail of him at the iron-barred gate which formed the +outer entrance to the castle from the high road. The burden was now easily +seen, and at once suggested to Frederick's mind the reason of the bearer's +haste. It was a young buck, just killed; the blood still trickled from the +wound in its skull. +</p> +<p> +“Leave that gate open, my good fellow,” cried Frederick, in a voice of +command, as the other pushed the frail portal wide, and let it fall back +heavily to its place again—“Do you hear me?—leave it open.” + </p> +<p> +“We always leap it when mounted,” was the cool reply, as the speaker +turned his head round, and then, without deigning either another word or +look, continued his way up the steep ascent. +</p> +<p> +Travers felt the rude taunt sorely, and would have given much to be near +him who uttered it; but, whether disdaining to follow a counsel thus +insolently conveyed, or, it might be, not over-confident of his horse, he +dismounted, and, flinging wide the gate, rode quickly up the causeway—not, +however, in time to overtake the other; for, although the way was enclosed +by walls on both sides, he had disappeared already, but in what manner, +and how, it seemed impossible to say. +</p> +<p> +“My father has omitted poaching, it would seem, in his catalogue of Irish +virtues,” muttered the young man, as he rode through the arched keep, and +halted at the chief entrance to the house. The door lay open, displaying +the cheerful blaze of a pine-wood fire, that burned briskly within the +ample chimney, in the keen air of a frosty morning. “I see I shall have my +ride for my pains,” was Fred's reflection as he passed into the wide hall, +and beheld the old weapons and hunting spoils arranged around the walls. +“These people affect chieftainship, and go hungry to bed, to dream of +fourteen quarterings. Be it so. I shall see the old rookery at all +events;” and, so saying, he gave a vigorous pull at the old bell, which +answered loudly in its own person, and, also, by a deep howl from the aged +fox-hound, then lying at the fire in the drawing-room. These sounds soon +died away, and a silence deep and unbroken as before succeeded. A second +time, and a third, Travers repeated his summons, but without any +difference of result, save that the dog no longer gave tongue;—it +seemed as if he were becoming reconciled to the disturbance, as one that +needed no farther attention from him. +</p> +<p> +“I must explore for myself,” thought Fred, and so, attaching his horse to +the massive ring by which a chain used once to be suspended across the +portal, he entered the house. Walking leisurely forward, he gained the +long corridor; for a second or two he was uncertain how to proceed, when a +gleam of light from the half-open door in the tower led him onward. As he +drew near he heard the deep tones of a man's voice recounting, as it +seemed, some story of the chase; the last words, at least, were—“I +fired but one shot—the herd is wild enough already.” Travers pushed +wide the door, and entered; as he did so, he involuntarily halted; the +evidences of habits and tastes he was not prepared for, suddenly rebuked +his unannounced approach, and he would gladly have retreated, were it now +practicable. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir,” said the same voice he heard before, and from a young man, +who leaned with one arm on the chimney-piece, and with the other hand held +his gun, while he appeared as if he had been conversing with a pale and +sickly youth, popped and pillowed in a deep arm-chair. They were the only +occupants of the room. +</p> +<p> +“Well, sir, it would seem you have made a mistake; the inn is lower down +the glen—you'll see a sign over the door-way.” + </p> +<p> +The look which accompanied this insolent speech recalled at once to +Frederick's mind the same figure he had seen in the glen; and, stung by +impertinence from such a quarter, he replied— +</p> +<p> +“Have no fear, young fellow; you may poach every acre for twenty miles +round—I have not tracked you on that score.” + </p> +<p> +“Poach!—tracked me!” reiterated Mark O'Donoghue, for it is needless +to say it was he; and then, as if the ludicrous were even stronger in his +mind than mere passion, he burst into a rude laugh; while the sick boy's +pale face grew a deep crimson, as, with faltering accents, he said— +</p> +<p> +“You must be a stranger here, sir, I fancy.” + </p> +<p> +“I am so,” said Travers mildly and yielding at once to the respect ever +due to suffering; “my name is Travers. I have come over here to enquire +after a young gentleman who saved my sister's life.” + </p> +<p> +“Then you've <i>tracked</i> him well,” interposed Mark, with an emphasis +on the word. “Here he is.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you not sit down,” said Herbert, motioning with his wasted hand to a +seat. +</p> +<p> +Frederick took his place beside the boy at once and said—“We owe +you, sir, the deepest debt of gratitude it has ever been our fortune to +incur; and if anything could enhance the obligation, it has been the +heroism, the personal daring——” + </p> +<p> +“Hold there,” said Mark, sternly. “It's not our custom here to listen to +compliments on our courage—we are O'Donoghues.” + </p> +<p> +“This young gentleman's daring was no common one,” answered Travers, as if +stung by the taunt. +</p> +<p> +“My brother will scarce feel flattered by your telling him so,” was Mark's +haughty answer; and for some seconds Frederick knew not how to resume the +conversation; at last, turning to Herbert, he said— +</p> +<p> +“May I hope that, without offending you, we may be permitted in some shape +to express the sentiment I speak of; it is a debt which cannot be +requited; let us at least have some evidence that we acknowledge it.” + </p> +<p> +“It is the more like some of our own,” broke in Mark with a fierce laugh; +“we have parchments enough, but we never pay. Your father's agent could +tell you that.” + </p> +<p> +Frederick gave no seeming attention to this speech, but went on—“When +I say there is nothing in our power we would deem enough, I but express +the feelings of my father and myself.” + </p> +<p> +“There, there,” cried Mark, preventing Herbert who was about to reply, +“you've said far more than was needed for a wet jacket and a few weeks' +low diet. Let us have a word about the poaching you spoke of.” + </p> +<p> +His fixed and steady stare—the rigid brow, by which these words were +accompanied, at once proclaimed the intention of one who sought reparation +for an insult, and so instantly did they convey the sentiment, that +Travers, in a second, forgot all about his mission, and, starting to his +feet, replied in a whisper, audible but to Mark— +</p> +<p> +“True, it was a very hazardous guess; but when, in England, we meet with a +fustian jacket and a broken beaver, in company with a gun and a game-bag, +we have little risk in pronouncing the owner a game-keeper or a poacher.” + </p> +<p> +Mark struck his gun against the ground with such violence as shivered the +stock from the barrel, while he grasped the corner of the chimney-piece +convulsively with the other hand. It seemed as if passion had actually +paralysed him: as he stood thus, the door opened, and Kate O'Donoghue +entered. She was dressed in the becoming half-toilette of the morning, and +wore on her head one of those caps of blue velvet, embroidered in silver, +which are so popular among the peasantry of Rhenish Germany. The light +airiness of her step as she came forward, unconscious of a stranger's +presence, displayed her figure in its most graceful character. Suddenly +her eyes fell upon Frederick Travers, she stopped and courtesied low to +him, while he, thunderstruck with amazement at recognizing his fellow +traveller so unexpectedly, could scarcely return her salute with becoming +courtesy. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Travers,” said Herbert, after waiting in vain for Mark to speak; “Mr. +Travers has been kind enough to come and enquire after me. Miss +O'Donoghue, sir;” and the boy, with much bashfulness, essayed in some sort +the ceremony of introduction. +</p> +<p> +“My cousin, Mr. Mark O'Donoghue,” said Kate, with a graceful movement of +her hand towards Mark, whose attitude led her to suppose he was not known +to Travers. +</p> +<p> +“I have had the honour of presenting myself already,” said Frederick, +bowing; but Mark responded not to the inclination, but stood still with +bent brow and clenched lip, seemingly unconscious of all around him, while +Kate seated herself, and motioned to Travers to resume his place. She felt +how necessary it was she should atone, by her manner, for the strange +rudeness of her cousin's; and her mind being now relieved of the fear +which first struck her, that Frederick's visit might be intended for +herself, she launched freely and pleasantly into conversation, recurring +to the incidents of the late journey, and the fellow-travellers they had +met with. +</p> +<p> +If Kate was not sorry to learn that “the Lodge” was tenanted by persons of +such condition and class, as might make them agreeable neighbours, +Travers, on the other hand, was overjoyed at discovering one of such +attractions within an easy visiting distance, while Herbert sat by, +wondering how persons, so little known to each other, could have so many +things to say, and so many topics which seemed mutually interesting. For +so it is; they who are ignorant of the world and its habits, can scarcely +credit the great extent of those generalities which form food for daily +intercourse—nor with what apparent interest people can play the game +of life, with but counterfeit coinage. He listened at first with +astonishment, and afterwards with delight, to the pleasant flippancy of +each, as in turn they discussed scenes, and pleasures, and people, of whom +he never so much as heard. The “gentillesse” of French manner—would +that we had a name for the thing in English—imparted to Kate's +conversation a graceful ease our more reserved habits rarely permit; and +while in her costume and her carriage there was a certain coquetry +discernible, not a particle of affectation pervaded either her opinions or +expressions. Travers, long accustomed to the best society of London, had +yet seen scarcely anything of the fascination of foreign agreeability, and +yielded himself so insensibly to its charm, that an hour slipped away +unconsciously, and he totally forgot the great object of his visit, and +lost all recollection of the luckless animal he had attached to the door +ring—luckless, indeed, for already a heavy snow-drift was falling, +and the day had assumed all the appearance of severe winter. +</p> +<p> +“You cannot go now, sir,” said Herbert, as Frederick rose to take his +leave;—“there's a heavy snow-storm without;” for the boy was so +interested in all he heard, he could not endure the thought of his +departure. +</p> +<p> +“Oh! it's nothing,” said Travers, lightly. “There's an old adage—'Snow +should not scare a soldier.'” + </p> +<p> +“There's another proverb in the French service,” said Kate, laughing, as +she pointed to the blazing hearth—“'Le soldat ne tourne pas son dos +au feu.'” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00199.jpg" width="100%" alt="199 " /> +</div> +<p> +“I accept the augury,” cried Frederick, laughing heartily at the witty +misapplication of the phrase, and resumed his seat once more. +</p> +<p> +“Cousin Kate plays chess,” said Herbert, in his anxiety to suggest a +plausible pretext for delaying Frederick's departure. +</p> +<p> +“And I am passionately fond of the game; would you favour me so far?” + </p> +<p> +“With pleasure,” said she smiling; “I only ask one condition, 'point se +grace'—no giving back—the O'Donoghues never take or give +quarter—isn't that so, Mark? Oh! he's gone,” and now for the first +time it was remarked that he had left the apartment. +</p> +<p> +In a few moments after, they had drawn the little marquetrie table close +to the fire, and were deeply interested in the game. +</p> +<p> +At first, each party played with a seeming attention, which certainly +imposed on Herbert, who sat eagerly watching the progress of the game. +Frederick Travers was, however, far more occupied in observing his +antagonist than in the disposition of his rooks and pawns. While she, soon +perceiving his inattention, half suspected that he did not deem her an +enemy worth exerting his skill upon, and thus, partly in pique, she +bestowed more watchfulness than at first. +</p> +<p> +“So, Mademoiselle,” cried Travers at length, recurring to his game, “I +perceive you have only permitted me to advance thus far, to cut off my +retreat for ever. How am I to save myself now?” + </p> +<p> +“It's hard to say, Sir Captain. It's the old tactique of Celts and Saxons +on both sides; you would advance into the heart of the enemy's country, +and as, unhappily, the men in ivory are truer than the natives were here, +and won't take bribes to fight against their fellows, you must e'en stand +or fall by your own deservings.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, then, the bold policy for ever. Check.” + </p> +<p> +“And you lose your castle.” + </p> +<p> +“And you your bishop!” + </p> +<p> +“We must avenge the church, sir. Take care of your queen.” + </p> +<p> +“'Parbleu,' Mademoiselle, you are a fierce foe. What say you, if we draw +the battle?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, cousin Kate; continue, and you win it.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so. And now for my turn,” said Travers, who was really a first-rate +player, and at length began to feel interested in the result. +</p> +<p> +The move he made exhibited so much of skill, that Kate foresaw that the +fortune of the day was about to change. She leaned her brow upon her hand, +and deliberated long on the move; and at length, lifting her head, she +said— +</p> +<p> +“I should like much to beat you—but in fair fight, remember—no +courtesy nor favour.” + </p> +<p> +“I can spare neither,” said Travers, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Then, defeat is no dishonour. There's my move.” + </p> +<p> +“And mine,” cried Fred, as rapidly. +</p> +<p> +“What prevents my taking you? I see nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor I either,” said he, half chagrined, for his move was an oversight. +</p> +<p> +“You are too proud to ask quarter—of course, you are—or I +should say, take it back.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Kate, no,” whispered Herbert, whose excitement was at the highest. +</p> +<p> +“I must abide my fortune,” said Frederick, bowing; “and the more calmly, +as I have won the game.” + </p> +<p> +“Won the game! How?—where?” + </p> +<p> +“Check!” + </p> +<p> +“How tauntingly he says it now,” said Kate, while her eyes sparkled +brilliantly. “There is too much of the conqueror in all that.” + </p> +<p> +Frederick's glance met hers at the instant, and her cheek coloured deeply. +</p> +<p> +Who knows the source of such emotions, or of how much pleasure and pain +they are made up! “And yet, I have not won,” said he, in a low voice. +</p> +<p> +“Then, be it a drawn battle,” said Kate. “You can afford to be generous, +and I can't bear being beaten—that's the truth of it.” + </p> +<p> +“If I could but win!” muttered Travers, as he rose from the table; and +whether she overheard the words, and that they conveyed more than a mere +allusion to the game, she turned hastily away, and approached the window. +</p> +<p> +“Is that snow-ball your horse, Captain Travers?” said she, with a wicked +smile. +</p> +<p> +“My father's favourite cob, by Jove!” exclaimed Frederick; and, as if +suddenly aroused to the memory of his lengthy visit, made his 'adieus' +with more confusion than was exactly suitable to a fashionable Guardsman—and +departed. +</p> +<p> +“I like him,” said Herbert, as he looked out of the window after him. +“Don't you, cousin Kate?” + </p> +<p> +But cousin Kate did not reply. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XX. TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR +</h2> +<p> +When Mark O'Donoghue left the room, his passion had become almost +ungovernable—the entrance of his cousin Kate had but dammed up the +current of his anger—and, during the few moments he still remained +afterwards, his temper was fiercely tried by witnessing the courtesy of +her manner to the stranger, and the apparent intimacy which subsisted +between them. “I ought to have known it,” was the expression he muttered +over and over to himself—“I ought to have known it! That fellow's +gay jacket and plumed hat are dearer to her woman's heart, than the rude +devotion of such as I am. Curses be on them, they carry persecution +through every thing—house, home, country, rank, wealth, station—ay, +the very affection of our kindred they grudge us! Was slavery ever like +this?” And with these bitter words, the offspring of bitterer thoughts, he +strode down the causeway, and reached the high road. The snow was falling +fast—a chilling north wind drove the thin flakes along—but he +heeded it not. The fire of anger that burned within his bosom defied all +sense of winter's cold; and with a throbbing brow, and fevered hand, he +went, turning from time to time to look up at the old castle, whence he +expected each moment to see Travers take his departure. Now he hurried +eagerly onward, as if to reach some destined spot—now he would stop, +and retrace his steps, irresolutely, as though half determined to return +home. +</p> +<p> +“Degraded, insulted, outraged on the very hearth of my father's house!” + cried he, aloud, as he wrung his hands in agony, and gave his passion +vent. Again he pressed forward, and at last arrived at that part of the +glen, where the road seems escarped between the two mountains, which rise +several hundred feet, like walls, on either side. Here he paused, and +after examining the spot for some seconds, he muttered to himself, “He has +no choice here, but stand or turn!” and so saying, he drew from the breast +of his coat two pistols, examined the priming of each, and then replaced +them. The prospect of speedy revenge seemed to have calmed his vindictive +spirit, for now he continued to walk backwards and forwards, at a slow +pace, like a sentinel on his post, pausing occasionally to listen if a +horse's hoofs could be heard upon the road, and then resuming his walk +once more. A rustling sound in the brushwood above his head once startled +him, but the granite cliffs that overhung the road prevented his seeing +from what it proceeded, and his heart was now bent on a very different +object than the pursuit of the deer. At that moment, the proudest of the +herd might have grazed in safety, within pistol-shot of him, and he had +not deigned to notice it. Thus passed an hour—a second—and a +third succeeded—and, already, the dull shadows of approaching night +were falling—yet, no one came. Tortured with strange conjectures, +Mark saw the day waning, and yet no sight nor sound of him he looked for. +Let not poets speak of the ardent longing of a lover's heart, as in +throbbing eagerness he waits for her, whose smile is life and hope, and +heaven. Compared with the mad impatience of him who thirsts for vengeance, +his passion is but sluggish apathy. It is the bad, that ever calls forth +the sternest energies of human nature. It is in crime, that men transcend +the common attributes of mankind. Here was one, now, who would have given +his right hand beneath the axe, for but one brief moment of vengeance, and +have deemed years of suffering cheaply bought, for the mere presence of +his enemy before him. +</p> +<p> +“He must have guessed my meaning when I left the room;” was the taunting +expression he now uttered, as his unsated anger took the shape of an +insolent depreciation of his adversary. “An Irishman would not need a +broader hint!” + </p> +<p> +It grew darker—the mountains frowned heavily beneath the canopy of +clouds, and night was rapidly approaching, when, from the gloom of his +almost extinguished hope, Mark was suddenly aroused. He heard the tramp of +a horse's feet; the dull reverberation on the deep snow filled the air, +and sometimes they seemed to come from the opposite part of the glen, when +the pace slackened, and, at last, the sounds became almost inaudible. +</p> +<p> +“There is yet enough of daylight, if we move into the broad road,” was +Mark's soliloquy, as he stooped his ear to listen—and at the +instant, he beheld a man leading his horse by the bridle, while he himself +seemed seeking along the road-side, where the snowdrift had not yet +fallen, as if for some lost object. A glance, even by the imperfect light, +and at some thirty paces off showed Mark it was not him he sought, and +were it not that the attitude attracted his curiosity, he had not wasted a +second look on him; but the horseman by this time had halted, and was +scraping with his whip-handle amid the pebbles of the mountain rivulet. +</p> +<p> +“I'll never see it again—it's no use!” was the exclamation of the +seeker, as he gathered up his reins, and prepared to mount. +</p> +<p> +“Is that Lanty Lawler?” cried Mark, as he recognised the voice; “I say, +did you meet with a young officer riding down the glen, in the direction +of Carrig-na-curra?” + </p> +<p> +“No, indeed, Mr. Mark—I never saw living thing since I left Bantry.” + </p> +<p> +The young man paused for a few seconds—and then, as if anxious to +turn all thought from his question, said, “What have you lost +thereabouts?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, more than I am worth in the world!” was the answer, in a deep, +heart-drawn sigh—“but, blessed heaven! what's the pistols for? Oh, +Master Mark, dear—sure—sure——” + </p> +<p> +“Sure what?” cried the youth, with a hoarse laugh—“Sure, I'm not +turned highway robber! Is that what you want to say? Make your mind easy, +Lanty—I have not reached that point yet; though, if indifference to +life might tempt a man, I'd not say it is so far off.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis a duel, then,” cried Lanty quickly; “but, I hope you wouldn't fight +without seconds. Oh, that's downright murder—what did he do to you?—was +it one of the fellows you met in Cork?” + </p> +<p> +“You are all wrong,” said Mark, sullenly. “It is enough, however, that +neither of us seem to have found what he was seeking. You have your +secret; I have mine. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, faix, mine is soon told—'twas my pocket-book, with as good as +seventy pounds in goold, I lost here, a three weeks ago, and never set +eyes on it since; and there was papers in it—ay, faix, papers of +great value—and I darn't face Father Luke without them. I may leave +the country, when he hears what happened.” + </p> +<p> +“Where are you going now?” said Mark, gloomily. +</p> +<p> +“I'm going as far as Mary's, for the night. Maybe you'd step down there, +and take a bit of supper? When the moon rises, the night will take up +fine.” + </p> +<p> +The young man turned without speaking, and bent his steps in the direction +Lanty was travelling. +</p> +<p> +The horse-dealer was too well versed in human nature to press for a +confidence, which he foresaw would be, at last, willingly extended to him; +he therefore walked along at Mark's side, without uttering a word, and +seeming to be absorbed in his own deep musings. His calculation was a +correct one. They had not gone many paces forward, when young O'Donoghue +unburthened his whole heart to him—told him, with all the eloquent +energy of a wounded spirit, of the insult he had received in his own home, +before his younger brother's face. He omitted nothing in his description +of the overbearing impertinence of Frederic Travers's manner—with +what cool assurance he had entered the house, and with what flippant +carelessness he treated his cousin Kate. +</p> +<p> +“I left home, with an oath, not to return thither unavenged,” said be, +“nor will I, though this time luck seems against me. Had he but come, I +should have given him his choice of pistols, and his own distance. My hand +is true from five paces to thirty; but he has not escaped me yet.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty never interrupted the narrative, except to ask from time to time +some question, the answer to which was certain to develope the deeper +indignation of the youth. A low muttering commentary, intended to mean a +heartfelt sympathy with his wrongs, was all he suffered to escape his +lips; and, thus encouraged in his passionate vehemence, Mark's wrath +became like a phrenzy. +</p> +<p> +“Come in now,” said Lanty, as he halted at the door of Mary's cabin, “but +don't say a word about this business. I have a thought in my head that may +do you good service, but keep a fair face before people—do you mind +me?” + </p> +<p> +There was a tone of secrecy and mystery in these words Mark could not +penetrate; but, however dark their meaning, they seemed to promise some +hope of that revenge his heart yearned after, and with this trust he +entered the house. +</p> +<p> +Mary received them with her wonted hospitality—Lanty was an expected +guest—and showed how gratified she felt to have young O'Donoghue +beneath her roof. +</p> +<p> +“I was afeard you were forgetting me entirely, Mr. Mark,” said she—“you +passed the door twice, and never as much as said, God save you, Mary.” + </p> +<p> +“I did not forget you, for all that, Mary,” said he, feelingly. “I have +too few friends in the world to spare any of them; but I've had many +things on my mind lately.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and to be sure you had, and why wouldn't you? 'Tis no shame of you +to be sad and down-hearted—an O'Donoghue of the ould stock—the +best blood in Kerry, wandering about by himself, instead of being followed +by a troop of servants, with a goold coat-of-arms worked on their coats, +like your grandfather's men—the heavens be his bed. Thirty-eight +mounted men, armed, ay and well armed, were in the saddle after him, the +day the English general came down here to see the troops that was +quartered at Bantry.” + </p> +<p> +“No wonder we should go afoot now,” said Mark, bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well—it's the will of God,” ejaculated Mary, piously, “and +who knows what's in store for you yet?” + </p> +<p> +“That's the very thing I do be telling him,” said Lanty, who only waited +for the right moment to chime in with the conversation. “There's fine +times coming.” + </p> +<p> +Mary stared at the speaker with the eager look of one who wished to derive +a meaning deeper than the mere words seemed to convey, and then, checking +her curiosity at a gesture from Lanty, she set about arranging the supper, +which only awaited his arrival. +</p> +<p> +Mark ate but little of the fare before him, though Mary's cookery was not +without its temptations; but of the wine—and it was strong Burgundy—he +drank freely. Goblet after goblet he drained with that craving desire to +allay a thirst, which is rather the symptom of a mind fevered by passion +than by malady. Still, as he drank, no sign of intoxication appeared; on +the contrary, his words evinced a tone of but deeper resolution, and a +more settled purpose than at first, when he told how he had promised never +to leave his father, although all his hopes pointed to the glorious career +a foreign service would open before him. +</p> +<p> +“It was a good vow you made, and may the saints enable you to keep it,” + said Mary. +</p> +<p> +“And for the matter of glory, maybe there's some to be got nearer home, +and without travelling to look for it,” interposed Lanty. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” said Mark, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Fill your glass. Take the big one, for it's a toast I'm going to give you—are +you ready? Here now, then—drink— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +A stout heart and mind, +And an easterly wind, +And the Devil behind The Saxon.” + </pre> +<p> +Mark repeated the doggerel as well as he was able, and pledged the only +sentiment he could divine, that of the latter part, with all his +enthusiasm. +</p> +<p> +“You may tell him what you plaze, now,” whispered Mary in Lanty's ear; for +her ready wit perceived that his blood was warmed by the wine, and his +heart open for any communication. +</p> +<p> +Lanty hesitated but a second, then drawing his chair close to Mark's, he +said— +</p> +<p> +“I'm going now to put <i>my</i> life in your hands, but I can't help it. +When Ireland is about to strike for liberty, it is not an O'Donoghue +should be last in the ranks. Swear to me you'll never mention again what +I'll tell you—swear it on the book.” Mary, at the same moment, +placed in his hand a breviary, with a gilt cross on the binding, which +Mark took reverently, and kissed twice. “That's enough—your word +would do me, but I must obey them that's over me;” and so saying, Lanty at +once proceeded to lay before the astonished mind of young O'Donoghue, the +plan of France for an invasion of Ireland—not vaguely nor +imperfectly, not in the mere language of rumour or chance allusion, but +with such aids to circumstance and time, as gave him the appearance of one +conversant with what he spoke on. The restoration of Irish independence—the +resumption of forfeited estates—the return of the real nobility of +the land to their long-lost-position of eminence and influence, were +themes he descanted upon with consummate skill, bringing home each fact to +the actual effect such changes would work in the youth's own condition, +who, no longer degraded to the rank of a mere peasant, would once again +assert his own rightful station, and stand forth at the head of his vast +property—the heir of an honoured name and house. Lanty knew well, +and more too, implicitly believed in all the plausible pretension of +French sympathy for Irish suffering, which formed the cant of the day. He +had often heard the arguments in favour of the success of such an +expedition—in fact, the reasons for which its failure was deemed +impossible. These he repeated fluently, giving to his narrative the +semblance of an incontestible statement, and then he told him that from +Brest to Dublin was “fifty hours' sail, with a fair wind”—that same +“easterly breeze,” the toast alluded to, that the French could throw +thirty, nay, fifty thousand troops into Ireland, yet never weaken their +own army to any extent worth speaking of—that England was distracted +by party spirit, impoverished by debt, and totally unable to repel +invasion, and, in fact, that if Ireland would be but “true to herself,” + her success was assured. +</p> +<p> +He told, too, how Irishmen were banded together in a sworn union to assert +the independence of their country, and that such as held back. or were +reluctant in the cause, would meet the fate of enemies. On the extent and +completeness of the organization, he dwelt with a proud satisfaction, but +when he spoke of large masses of men trained to move and act together, +Mark suddenly interrupted him, saying— +</p> +<p> +“Yes, I have seen them. It's not a week since some hundreds marched +through this glen at midnight.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, that was Holt's party,” said Mary, composedly; “and fine men they +are.” + </p> +<p> +“They were unarmed,” said Mark. +</p> +<p> +“If they were, it is because the general didn't want their weapons.” + </p> +<p> +“There's arms enough to be had when the time comes for using them,” broke +in Mary. +</p> +<p> +“Wouldn't you show him—” and Lanty hesitated to conclude a speech, +the imprudence of which he was already aware of. +</p> +<p> +“Ay will I,” said Mary. “I never mistrusted one of his name;” and with +that, she rose from the fire-side, and took a candle in her hand, “Come +here a minute, Master Mark.” Unlocking a small door in the back wall of +the cabin, she entered a narrow passage which led to the stable, but off +which, a narrow door, scarcely distinguishable from the wall, conducted +into a spacious vault, excavated in the solid rock. Here were a vast +number of packing-oases, and boxes, piled on each other, from floor to +roof, together, with hogsheads and casks of every shape and size. Some of +the boxes had been opened, and the lids laid loosely over them. Removing +one of these, Mary pointed to the contents, as she said— +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0011" id="linkimage-0011"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00209.jpg" width="100%" alt="209 " /> +</div> +<p> +“There they are—French muskets and carabines. There's pistols in +that case; and all them, over there, is swords and cutlasses. 'Tis +pike-heads that's in the other corner; and the casks has saddles and +holsters and them kind of things.” + </p> +<p> +Mark stooped down and took up one of the muskets. It was a light and handy +weapon, and bore on its stock the words—“Armée de la Sambre et +Meuse”—for none of the weapons were new. +</p> +<p> +“These are all French,” said he, after a brief pause. +</p> +<p> +“Every one of them,” replied Mary, proudly; “and there's more coming from +the same place.” + </p> +<p> +“And why can we not fight our own battles, without aid from France?” said +Mark, boldly. “If we really are worthy of independence, are we not able to +win it?” + </p> +<p> +“Because there's traitors among us,” said Mary—replying before Lanty +could interpose—“because there's traitors that would turn again us +if we were not sure of victory; but when they see we have the strong hand, +as well as the good cause, they'll be sure to stand on the safe side.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't care for that,” said Mark. “I want no such allies as these. I +say, if we deserve our liberty, we ought to be strong enough to take it.” + </p> +<p> +“There's many think the same way as yourself,” said Lanty, quietly. “I +heard the very words you said from one of the delegates last week. But I +don't see any harm in getting help from a friend when the odds is against +you.” + </p> +<p> +“But I do; and great harm too. What's the price of the assistance?—tell +me that.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, make your mind easy on that score. The French hate the English, +whether they love us or no.” + </p> +<p> +“And why wouldn't they love us,” said Mary, half angry at such a +supposition, “and we all Catholics? Don't we both belong to the ould +ancient church? and didn't we swear to destroy the heretics wherever we'd +find them? Ay, and we will, too!” + </p> +<p> +“I'm with you, whatever come of it,” said Mark, after a few seconds of +thought. “I'm with you; and if the rest have as little to live for, trust +me, they'll not be pleasant adversaries.” + </p> +<p> +Overjoyed at this bold avowal, which consummated the success they desired, +they led Mark back into the cabin, and pledged, in a bumper, the “raal +O'Donoghue.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXI. THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY. +</h2> +<p> +Sir Marmaduke Travers and his daughter had passed a morning of great +uneasiness at the delay in Frederic's return. Noon came, and yet no +appearance of him. They wandered along the road, hoping to meet him, and +at last turned homeward with the intention of despatching a servant +towards Carrig-na-curra, fearing lest he should have missed his way. This +determination, however, they abandoned, on being told by a countryman, +that he had seen the horse young Travers rode still standing at the gate +of the “castle.” + </p> +<p> +A feeling of curiosity to hear his son's account of the O'Donoghues, +mingled with the old man's excitement at his absence; and, as the day +declined, and still no sign of his return, he walked every now and then to +the door, and looked anxiously along the road by which he expected his +approach. Sybella, too, was not without her fears, and though vague and +undefined, she dreaded a possible collision between the hot-blood of Mark +and her brother. The evening of her first arrival was ever present to her +mind; and she often thought of what might have then occurred, had Frederic +been present. +</p> +<p> +They had wearied themselves with every mode of accounting for his delay, +guessed at every possible cause of detention, and were at length on the +point of sending a messenger in search of him, when they heard the tramp +of a horse coming, not along the high road, but, as it seemed, over the +fields in front of them. A few minutes more of anxious expectancy, and +Frederic, with his horse splashed and panting, alighted beside them. +</p> +<p> +“Well, you certainly have a very pretty eye for a country, father,” said +he, gaily. “That same line you advised, has got three as rasping fences as +I should like to meet with.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean, boy?” said Sir Marmaduke, as much puzzled at the speech +as the reader himself may feel. +</p> +<p> +“Simply, sir, that though the cob is a capital horse, and has a great jump +in him, that I'd rather have day-light for that kind of thing; and I +really believe the ragged fellow you sent for me, chose the stiffest +places. I saw the rascal grinning when I was coming up to the +mill-stream.” + </p> +<p> +“Messenger!—ragged fellow! The boy is dreaming.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Frederic, we sent no messenger. We were, indeed, very anxious at +your delay, but we did not despatch any one to meet you.” + </p> +<p> +Frederic stared at both the speakers, and then repeated, in astonishment, +the last words—“Sent no messenger!” but when they once more assured +him of the fact, he gave the following account of his return:—- +</p> +<p> +“It was very late when I left the castle. I delayed there the whole day; +but scarcely had I reached the high-road, when a wild-looking fellow, with +a great pole in his hand, came up to me, and cried out, +</p> +<p> +“'Are you for the Lodge?' 'Yes,' said he, answering himself, 'you are her +brother. I'm sent over to tell you, not to go back by the road, for the +bridge is down; but you're to come over the fields, and I'll show you the +way.'” + </p> +<p> +“Supposing the fellow was what he assumed to be—your messenger, I +followed him; and, by George, it was no joking matter; for he leaped like +a deer, and seemed to take uncommon pleasure in pitting himself against +the cob. I should have given up the contest, I confess, but that the knave +had me in his power. For, when it grew dark, I knew not which way to head, +until, at length, he shouted out— +</p> +<p> +“'There's the Lodge now, where you see the light.' And after that, what +became of himself I cannot tell you.” + </p> +<p> +“It was Terry, poor Terry,” cried Sybella. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, it must have been Terry,” echoed her father. “And is this Terry +retained to play Will-o'-the-Wisp?” asked Fred; “or is it a piece of +amateurship?” + </p> +<p> +But both Sir Marmaduke and Sybella were too deeply engaged in canvassing +the motive for this strange act, to pay due attention to his question. +</p> +<p> +As Frederic was but little interested in his guide, nor mindful of what +became of him, they were not able to obtain any clue from him as to what +road he took; nor what chance there was of overtaking him. +</p> +<p> +“So then this was a piece of 'politesse,' for which I am indebted to your +friend Terry's own devising,” said Fred, half angrily. “The fellow had +better keep out of my way in future.” + </p> +<p> +“You will not harm him, Fred, you never could, when I tell you of his +gallant conduct here.” + </p> +<p> +“My sweet sister, I am really wearied of this eternal theme—I have +heard of nothing but heroism since my arrival. Once for all, I concede the +matter, and am willing to believe of the Irish, as of the family of +Bayard, that all the men are brave—and all the women virtuous. And +now, let us to dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“You have told us nothing of your visit to the enchanted castle, Fred,” + said his sister, when the servants had withdrawn, and they were once more +alone; “and I am all impatience to hear of your adventures there.” + </p> +<p> +“I confess, too,” said Sir Marmaduke, “I am not devoid of curiosity on the +subject—let us hear it all.” + </p> +<p> +“I have little to recount,” said Frederic, with some hesitation in his +manner; “I neither saw the O'Donoghue, as they call him, nor his +brother-in-law—the one was in bed, the other had gone to visit some +sick person on the mountain. But I made acquaintance with your +prieux-chevalier, Sybella: a fine-looking young fellow, even now wasted +with sickness; he was there with an elder brother, an insolent kind of +personage—half peasant, all bully.” + </p> +<p> +“He was not wanting in proper respect to <i>you</i>” said Sir Marmaduke. +“I trust, Mark, he was aware of who you were?” + </p> +<p> +“Faith, sir, I fancy he cared very little on the subject; and had I been a +much more important individual, he would have treated me in the same way—a +way, to say the least of it, not over-burthened with courtesy.” + </p> +<p> +“Had you any words together, boy?” said Sir Marmaduke, with an evident +anxiety in his look and voice. +</p> +<p> +“A mere interchange of greeting,” replied Fred, laughing, “in which each +party showed his teeth, but did not bite withal. I unhappily mistook him +for a game-keeper—and worse still, told him so, and he felt +proportionably angry at the imputation—preferring, probably, to be +thought a poacher. He is a rude coarse fellow,” said he with a changed +voice, “with pride to be a gentleman—but not breeding nor manner to +enact the character.” + </p> +<p> +“The visit was, after all, not an agreeable one,” said Miss Travers, “and +I am only surprised how you came to prolong it. You spent the whole day +there.” + </p> +<p> +Although there was not the slightest degree of suspicion insinuated by +this remark, Fred stole a quick glance at his sister, to see if she really +intended more than the mere words implied. Then, satisfied that she had +not, he said in a careless way— +</p> +<p> +“Oh, the weather broke; it came on a heavy snow-storm; and as the younger +brother pressed me to remain, and I had no fancy to face the hurricane, I +sat down to a game of chess.” + </p> +<p> +“Chess! Indeed, Fred, that sounds very humanizing. And how did he play?” + </p> +<p> +“It was not with him I played,” answered he, hesitatingly. +</p> +<p> +“What—-with the elder?” + </p> +<p> +“No, nor him either; my antagonist was a cousin—I think they called +her cousin.” + </p> +<p> +“Called <i>her</i>,” said Sybella, slyly. “So then, Master Fred, there was +a lady in the case. Well, we certainly have been a long while coming to +her.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, she has lately arrived—a day or two ago—from some +convent in the Low Countries, where she has lived since she was a child.” + </p> +<p> +“A strange home for her,” interposed Sir Marmaduke. “If I do not +misconceive them greatly, they must be very unsuitable associates for a +young lady educated in a French convent.” + </p> +<p> +“So you would say, if you saw her,” said Fred, seizing with avidity at the +opening, then offered, to coincide with an opinion he was half afraid to +broach. “She is perfectly foreign in look, dress, and demeanour—with +all the mannerism of Paris life, graceful and pleasing in her address; and +they, at least one of them, a downright boor—the other, giving him +credit for good looks and good nature, yet immeasurably <i>her</i> +inferior in every respect.” + </p> +<p> +“Is she pretty, Frederic?” said Sybella, not lifting her eyes from her +work as she spoke. +</p> +<p> +“I should say pretty,” replied he, with hesitation, as if qualifying his +praise by a word which did not imply too much. “I prefer a quieter style +of beauty, for my own part; less dazzle, less sparkling effect; something +to see every day, and to like the better the more one sees it”—and +he placed his arm around his sister's waist, and gazed at her as if to +give the interpretation to his speech. +</p> +<p> +“You have made me quite curious to see her, Fred,” said Sybella. “The very +fact of finding one like her in such a place has its interest.” + </p> +<p> +“What if you were to visit her, my dear?” said Sir Marmaduke; “the +attention would only be a proper one; you have books and music, here, +besides, which she might be glad to have in a region so remote as this.” + </p> +<p> +Frederic never spoke a word, but anxiously awaited his sister's answer. +</p> +<p> +“I should like it greatly; what says Fred to the notion?” + </p> +<p> +“I see nothing against it,” replied he, with a well-affected indifference. +“She is a most lady-like person; and, if it be your intention to pass a +few weeks longer in this solitude, would be of infinite value for +companionship.” + </p> +<p> +“A few weeks longer!—I shall remain till Christmas, boy,” said his +father, with determination. “I have taken a fancy to Ireland; and my +intention is to go up to Dublin for a few months in winter, and return +here in the spring.” + </p> +<p> +This was at once approaching the very subject which Frederic had journeyed +to determine; but, whether it was that the time seemed unfavourable, or +that his own ideas in the matter had undergone some modification since his +arrival, he contented himself with simply a doubtful shake of the head, as +if distrusting Sir Marmaduke's firmness, and did not endeavour to oppose +his determination by a single argument of any kind. On the contrary, he +listened with patience, and even seeming interest to his father's detailed +account of his project—how he had already given orders to secure a +house in Stephen's-green for the winter, intending to make acquaintances +with the gentry of the capital, and present himself and his daughter at +the viceregal court. +</p> +<p> +“Sybella may as well make her debut in society here as in London,” said +Sir Marmaduke. “Indeed I am not sure but the provincial boards are the +best for a first appearance. In any case, such is the line I have laid +down for myself; and if it only secured me against a sea voyage to England +in such a season, I shall be amply repaid for my resolve.” + </p> +<p> +Against the season of his return, too, Sir Marmaduke hoped to make such +additions to the Lodge as should render it more comfortable as a +residence; various plans for which were heaped upon the library table, and +littered the chairs about the room. +</p> +<p> +Miss Travers had already given her hearty concurrence to all her father's +schemes, and seconded, most ably, every one of his views by such arguments +as she was possessed of; so that Frederic, even if disposed to record his +opposition, saw that the present was not an opportune moment; and +prudently reserved for another time, what, if unsuccessful now, could +never be recurred to with advantage. +</p> +<p> +The conversation on these topics lasted long. They discussed with interest +every detail of their plans; for so it is—the pleasures of castle +building are inexhaustible, and the very happiest realities of life are +poor and vague, compared with the resources provided by our hopes and +fancies. The slightest grounds of probability are enough to form a +foundation—but there is no limit to the superstructure we raise +above. +</p> +<p> +In the indulgence of this view, they continued to chat till a late hour, +and parted for the night in high good humour with each other—a visit +to the O'Donoghue being the plan for the succeeding day's accomplishment. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXII. A MORNING VISIT. +</h2> +<p> +On the afternoon of the following day, Sir Marmaduke, accompanied by his +son and daughter, bent their steps towards the castle of the O'Donoghue. +The day was a fine and bright one, with a blue sky above, and a hard +frosty surface on the earth beneath, and made walking as pleasant as open +air and exercise can render it. The carriage was ordered to meet them on +their return; less, indeed, on account of the distance, than that the +shortness of the day made the precaution reasonable. +</p> +<p> +Chatting agreeably, on they went. The time slipped rapidly away. Now, +adverting to the bold and majestic scenery around them—now, speaking +of the people, their habits, their prejudices, and their leanings, or anon +discussing the O'Donoghue family, which, of all the puzzling themes the +land presented, was certainly not the least embarrassing to them. +</p> +<p> +“We must think of some means of evincing our gratitude to this boy, Fred,” + said Sir Marmaduke, in a whisper. “You appear to have found the matter +more difficult than you anticipated.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true, sir. In the early part of my visit, it was rendered +impossible, by the interruption of the elder brother; and, in the latter +part, somehow, I believe, I—I actually begin to fear, I forgot it +altogether. However, I have thought of one thing; and it should be done +without a moment's loss of time. You must write to Carden, the law agent, +and stop any proceedings Hemsworth may have begun against these people. It +would be most disgraceful to think that, while professing sentiments of +good feeling and friendliness, we were using the arm of the law to harass +and distress them.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll do it at once, Fred—by this night's post. In truth, I never +understood the point at issue between us; nor can I clearly see +Hemsworth's reason for the summary course he has taken with them. There +must be more in it than I know of.” + </p> +<p> +“The castle stands proudly, as seen from this point,” said Sybella, who +felt somewhat wearied of a conversation maintained in a voice too low for +her to hear; and the remark had the effect of recalling them <i>to</i> +other thoughts, in discussing which, they arrived at the old keep of +Carrig-na-curra. +</p> +<p> +Whether recent events had sharpened Kerry O'Leary to a more acute sense of +his duties as butler, or that Kate O'Donoghue had exerted some influence +in bringing about so desirable an object, we know not; but at the very +first summons of the hall-door bell, he made his appearance, his ordinary +costume being augmented, if not improved, by a pair of very un-weldy +top-boots of his master's, which reached somewhere to the middle of the +thigh, and were there met by a green velvet waistcoat, from the same +wardrobe, equally too large and voluminous for its present owner. +</p> +<p> +Visitors at the O'Donoghue house were generally of a character which Kerry +felt necessary to close the door against. They unhappily came, not with +the ceremonial of a visiting card, but with some formidable missive of the +law, in the shape of a distress warrant—a latitat—or that +meeker and less-dreaded engine, a protested bill. It was, then, with a +considerable relief to his anxieties, that his eye caught the flutter of a +lady's dress, as he peeped from the small casement beside the door, and +his heart expanded in a little thanksgiving of its own, as he unbarred the +portal to admit her. +</p> +<p> +Having informed his visitors that the family were at home, he preceded +them to the drawing-room, with a step, the noise of which happily drowned +the tittering it was impossible to subdue, at beholding him. To prevent +the awkwardness which Sir Marmaduke foresaw might arise, from the +blundering announcement Kerry would inevitably make of their names, he +having repeated over and over as he went along, by way of refreshing his +memory, “Sir Marmaduke, Sir Marmaduke Travers,” the old gentleman stepped +forward as the door opened, and presented himself by name, introducing his +daughter at the same time. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue, seated in his chair, half rose, for it was one of his +gouty days, and he could not stir without great difficulty, and with an +air and voice which bespoke the gentleman, welcomed his guests. +</p> +<p> +Herbert's eyes gleamed with delight as he gazed on the party; and Sir +Archibald, bowing with an ancient grace that would have suited a courtier +of a century previous, presented chairs to each, going through the +ceremonial of a new obeisance to every one of the group. Kate O'Donoghue +was not in the room, nor Mark—the latter, indeed, had not returned +to the castle since the day previous. +</p> +<p> +The ordinary greetings over, and Sir Marmaduke having expressed, in +well-chosen phrase, the gratitude he had so long laboured to acquit, the +conversation became easy and agreeable. Sir Marmaduke, seating himself +next O'Donoghue, had entered into a discussion of the state of the country +and the people—Frederic, beside Herbert's chair, was conversing with +the boy by lively sallies and pleasant stories, that flowed the more +rapidly as the listener was an eager one; while Sir Archibald, standing in +an attitude of respectful attention, had engaged Miss Travers in a +conversation about the glen and its scenery, to which his own correct +taste and thorough appreciation of the picturesque, gave a charm and +piquancy that already interested her deeply. So naturally easy and +unaffected was the tone of their reception, that all astonishment at +finding their host so superior to their anticipation, was merged in the +pleasure that Travers felt in the interview. The good-tempered heartiness +of the O'Donoghue himself—his frank speech, his ready humour, won +each moment more and more on Sir Marmaduke. Frederic, too, never grew +wearied of the fresh and joyous spirit which gleamed out at every look and +word from Herbert, whose ardent temperament and high-hearted nature caught +up the enthusiasm of a spirit like his own; and, as for Sybella, the charm +of Sir Archy's manner, whose perfection was its adaptation to the society +of ladies, delighted her greatly, and she soon forgot any slight +inclination to smile at the precision of language, where deep sound sense +and high feeling were conveyed, with only the fault of pedantry. While +thus agreeably engaged on all sides, the door opened, and Kate entered, +but so noiselessly withal, that she was in the midst of the party, before +they knew of her approach. Recognising Frederic Travers with a gracious +smile, she received Sir Marmaduke's salutation with a deep courtesy, and +then, as if similarity of years required a less ceremonious introduction, +took her seat beside Miss Travers, with an air of mingled kindness and +cordiality she so well knew how to assume. As in an orchestra, amid the +swell of many instruments, where deep-toned thunders mingle with sounds of +softer influence, some one strain will rise, from time to time, suggestive +of feelings apart from the rest, with higher and nobler sympathies around +it, so did her voice, heard among the others, sound thus sweetly. Her +words came winged with a fine expression, which look and gesture could +alone give them—and in the changing colour of her cheek, her +brilliant brow, her lips, even in silence eloquent, there was a character +of loveliness as much above mere beauty, as life transcends the marble. +The more perfect regularity of Sybella's features—their classic +outline—their chaste correctness in every line and lineament—seemed +cold and inanimate when contrasted with the more expressive loveliness of +Kate O'Donoghue. The fearless character of her mind, too, was blended with +so much of womanly delicacy and refinement—the wish to please, so +associated with a seeming forgetfulness of self, that every act and every +gesture teemed with a charm of interest, for which there is no word, save +“fascination;” even that slightly foreign accent, of which we have already +spoken, served to individualize all she said, and left it graven on the +heart long after the words were spoken. +</p> +<p> +Frederic Travers watched with eager delight the effect these gifts were +producing upon his sister. He saw the pleasure with which Sybella +listened; he recognised, even already, the symptoms of that conquest by +which mind subdues mind, and was overjoyed as he looked. +</p> +<p> +To Sir Marmaduke's gracefully-expressed hope, that this visit should form +the prelude to their nearer intimacy, the O'Donoghue, with a touch of +sadness in his voice, replied—that he himself was an invalid, whose +steps never wandered beyond the precincts of his home; but his +brother-in-law, and his niece, and the boys—they would all, he was +certain, avail themselves of such a neighbourhood. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archibald bowed low, and somewhat stiffly perhaps, in accordance with +a pledge thus given without his concurrence; but Herbert's bright eyes +grew brighter, and his cheek flushed with delight at the bare anticipation +of the thought. +</p> +<p> +“And you, Miss O'Donoghue,” said Sir Marmaduke, turning towards Kate. “Our +humble library at the lodge, is perfectly at your service, the only +condition we ask is, that you come and choose from it in person.” + </p> +<p> +“That promise is already most kindly made, father,” interrupted Sybella, +whose pleased look showed how she had been captivated by her new friend. +</p> +<p> +While their smiles and gracious words went round, the door was suddenly +opened by Kerry O'Leary, who, forgetful of the visitors, in <i>his</i> +eager anxiety as the bearer of news, cried out— +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0012" id="linkimage-0012"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00221.jpg" width="100%" alt="221 " /> +</div> +<p> +“There's a shindy, master dear! Such a row! May I never die in sin, if +ever I seen the equal of it!” + </p> +<p> +“What does he mean?—is the fellow mad?” cried the O'Donoghue, +angrily, while Sir Archy, bending on him a most ominous frown, muttered— +</p> +<p> +“Have ye lost a' decency tegether. Ye daft loon, what ails ye?” + </p> +<p> +“I ax your pardon, and the qualities pardon,” said Kerry, with an +expression of abject misery for his unceremonious 'entrée.' “But, if you +seen it, sorra bit but you'd forgive me.” + </p> +<p> +“There has been good fun somewhere, I'm certain,” cried out Frederick +Travers, whose curiosity to learn Kerry's intelligence could no longer be +repressed. +</p> +<p> +“What is it, then, Kerry?” said the O'Donoghue. “Let us hear it all.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis Master Mark, good luck to him,” cried Kerry, overjoyed at the +permission to speak out freely. “He was over at Ballyvourney with the +greyhounds, when he seen that dirty spalpeen, Sam Wylie, wid a +process-sarver along wid him, noticin' the tenants. The server was a +stranger, and he didn't touch him; but he made the boys put Sam on Nick +Malone's mule, and give him a fair start, and they run him down the +mountain, with a fine view, and ran into him there at the horse-pond, +where the mule flung him head over heels; and begorra, you wouldn't know +'twas a Christian, if you seen him this minit dripping wet, and the +duck-weed all hanging round him—and he's running still—for he +thinks Master Mark will take the life of him before he stops.” + </p> +<p> +A roar of laughter from Frederic, joined in by Herbert, and at last by the +O'Donoghue himself, for some moments prevented a word of commentary on +this outrageous proceeding, when Sir Marmaduke, rising slowly, said— +</p> +<p> +“I am a stranger here, very ignorant of the country and its habits; but I +have yet to learn that any man, in the just discharge of his duty, should +be thus treated. I call upon you, sir, to investigate this affair, and if +it be, as we have heard it, to make reparation——” + </p> +<p> +“Ye hae muckle reason for what ye say, sir,” interposed Sir Archy; “but +the freaks and follies o' young men hae a license here, I doubt ye are na +used to.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll lay my life on it, Mark was right,” called out the O'Donoghue. “The +boy never makes any mistake in these matters.” + </p> +<p> +“If the fellow were insolent,” said Frederic, “your son has served him +properly.” + </p> +<p> +Kate smiled at the speaker a look of gratitude, which amply repaid him for +coming thus promptly to the rescue. +</p> +<p> +“It may be so,” said Sir Marmaduke, happy at such a means of escaping from +a further prosecution of a most unpleasant topic. +</p> +<p> +“The captain's guessed it well,” cried Kerry. “The spalpeen tould Master +Mark that he'd be up here to-morrow wid a notice from the master himself, +and it would go hard but he'd see us out of the place before Easter.” + </p> +<p> +“Is this possible!” said Sir Marmaduke, blushing deeply. “I beg, my dear +sir, that you will forgive any hasty expression I may have used.” + </p> +<p> +“I can forgive the lad myself,” said Sir Archy, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“Not I, then, uncle,” interposed Kate. “Not I. Mark should have +horsewhipped the fellow within an inch of his life.” + </p> +<p> +Sybella Travers started at the energy of voice and manner which +accompanied these words; while the ODonoghue, rising from his chair, came +“slowly across the hearth, and imprinted a kiss upon Kate's forehead.” + </p> +<p> +“You're one of the raal stock—there's no denying it,” muttered +Kerry, as he gazed on her with an expression of almost worship. “'Tis +blood that never gives in—devil a lie in it!” + </p> +<p> +Herbert, who alone had witnessed the unfriendly meeting between his +brother and young Travers, turned a pleasant smile at the latter, as he +half whispered— +</p> +<p> +“This was very kind of <i>you</i>.” + </p> +<p> +It would have been a difficult—nay, an almost impossible task, to +recall the tone and temper of the party, previous to this unhappy +interruption. All Sir Marmaduke's efforts to resume the conversation had +lost their former ease—the O'Donoghue himself was disconcerted; for +he was not quite certain what were Sir Marmaduke's words on the occasion, +and how far he should feel called upon to demand a retractation, and Sir +Archibald, fretful and annoyed at the impression Mark's conduct would +convey of the habits and temper of the house, felt his task a severe one, +to assume an air of serenity and quietude. +</p> +<p> +Frederic Travers alone seemed happy and delighted. The sudden expression +of Kate O'Donoghue's opinion, so utterly unlike anything he had ever heard +before from a young lady's lips, took him as much by surprise as the +spirit pleased him; and he would willingly have engaged to horsewhip a +dozen process-servers, for another glance of her flashing eyes, as she +delivered the words; while Sybella could not help a sentiment bordering on +fear, for one who, young as herself, gifted with every womanly attitude of +grace and loveliness, had yet evinced a degree of impetuosity and passion +she could not reconcile with such attractions. As for Kate, the sentiment +had evoked no stir within her bosom. It was a wish, as naturally expressed +as it was felt; and all the surprise the others experienced at her words +would have been nothing to her own, to have known of their astonishment. +</p> +<p> +The visit soon came to a termination, and Sir Marmaduke, having succeeded +in a great degree, in restoring the favourable impression he had at first +obtained, took his leave of the O'Donoghue, and then, addressing Sir +Archy, said— +</p> +<p> +“You, sir, I rejoice to learn, are not an invalid. May I expect the +happiness of seeing you sometimes?” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy bowed deeply, and, with a motion of his hand towards Miss +Travers, replied— +</p> +<p> +“I have already made an engagement here, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Sybella, to whom this speech seemed half addressed, “Sir +Archibald has been kind enough to offer me his guidance up the glen, where +there are several points of view finer than any I have seen.” + </p> +<p> +Emboldened by the success of these advances, Sir Marmaduke, with a +courtesy he was perfect master of, requested the party would not delay +their kind intentions, but favour him with their company on the following +day. +</p> +<p> +It is doubtful whether Sir Archy might not have declined a more formal +invitation; but there seemed something so frank in the abruptness of the +present, that he acceded at once; and Kate having also pledged herself to +accompany him, their greetings were interchanged, and they parted. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIII. SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER +</h2> +<p> +It may seem strange and almost paradoxical—but so it was—Kate +O'Donoghue's presence appeared to have wrought a most magical change in +the whole household of the O'Donoghue. The efforts they themselves made to +ward off the semblance of their fallen estate, induced a happier frame of +mind than that which resulted from daily brooding over their misfortunes; +the very struggle elicited a courage they had left long in disuse; and the +cheerfulness which at first was but assumed, grew gradually more and more +natural. To the O'Donoghue, who, for many a day, desired no more than to +fend off the evil in his own brief time; who, with the selfishness of an +old age passed in continual conflict with poverty, only sought a life +interest in their bettered fortunes, she was a boon above all price. Her +light step, her lighter laugh, her mirthful tone of conversation, with its +many anecdotes and stories of places and people he had not heard of +before, were resources against gloom that never failed. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archy, too, felt a return to the old associations of his youth, in the +presence ef a young, beautiful, and accomplished girl, whose gracefulness +and elegance threw a halo around her as she went, and made of that old and +crumbling tower, dark with neglect, and sad with time, a salon, teeming +with its many appliances against depression, where she herself, armed with +so many fascinations, dispensed cheerfulness and bliss on all about her. +Nor was he selfish in all this. He marked with delight the impression made +upon his favourite Herbert, by his cousin's attractive manners. How +insensibly, as it were, the boy was won from ruder pursuits, and coarser +pleasures, to sit beside her as she sung, or near her as she read; with +what interest he pursued his lessons in French, beneath her tuition, and +the ardour with which he followed every plan of study suggested by her. +Sir Archibald saw all these things, and calculated on their result with +accuracy. He foresaw how Kate's attractive gifts would throw into the +shade the ruder tastes the boy's condition in life might expose him to +adopt, and thus aid him in the great object of his whole existence—to +save him, at least, from the wreck of his house. +</p> +<p> +Mark alone seemed untouched by her presence; save that the wild excesses +of high spirit, to which from time to time he ever gave way, were now +gone, and in their place, a deep gloom, a moroseness of character +succeeded, rendering him usually silent before her, or sunk in his own +saddening reflections. Kate would sometimes adventure to disperse the dark +clouds from his mind, but ever without success; he either felt annoyed at +being the subject of remark, or left the room; so that at last, she +abandoned the effort, hoping that time and its changes would effect what +the present denied. Perhaps, too, she had reasons for this hope. More than +once, with womanly quickness, had she marked how he had stood with his eye +fixed upon her, unconscious of being seen; how, when about to leave the +room, he would loiter about, as if in search of something, but, in +reality, to listen to the song she was singing. Still, she showed no sign +of having seen these things; but always, in her air towards him, affected +a careless ease of manner, as like his own as possible. For days, +sometimes for an entire week, he would absent himself from home; and, as +he was never submissive to much questioning, his appearance called forth +no other remark than some passing observation of what had occurred in his +absence, but which drew from him no interchange of confidence. +</p> +<p> +These symptoms of Mark's altered character made a deeper impression on his +father than events of greater moment could have done. He watched every +movement and expression of his favourite son, to catch some clue to the +change; but all in vain. The young man never, by any accident, alluded to +himself: nor did he often now advert to the circumstance of the family +difficulties; on the contrary, a lethargic carelessness seemed to brood +over him, and he went about like one who had lost all zest for life, and +all care for its enjoyments. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue was too well versed in the character of his son to hope for +any elucidation of the mystery by a mere inquiry; so that he was left to +speculate on the many causes which might have operated the change, and +divine, as well as he was able, the secret grief that affected him. In +this pursuit, like all who have long suffered the pressure of a particular +calamity, he ever felt disposed to ascribe Mark's suffering to the same +cause which produced his own, namely, the fallen fortunes of the house, +and the ruin that hung over them. Yet, somehow, of late, matters had taken +a turn more favourable. His attorney at Cork had informed him, that from +some informality in the proceedings, the ejectment was stopped, at least +for the present term. The notices to the tenants not to pay were +withdrawn, and the rents came in as before; and the only very pressing +evil were the bills, the renewal of which, demanded a considerable sum of +ready money. That this one misfortune should occasion a gloom, the +accumulated griefs of former days had not done, he could not understand; +but, by long musing on the matter, and deep reflection, he at last came to +the conviction, that such was the case, and that Mark's sorrow was the +greater, from seeing how near they were to a more favourable issue to +their affairs, and yet how fatally debarred from such a consummation by +this one disastrous circumstance. +</p> +<p> +The drowning hand grasps not the straw with more avidity than does the +harassed and wearied mind, agitated by doubts, and worn out with +conjectures, seize upon some one apparent solution to a difficulty that +has long oppressed it, and, for the very moment, convert every passing +circumstance into an argument for its truthfulness. The O'Donoghue now +saw, or believed he saw, why Mark would never accompany the others in +their visits to the “Lodge”—nor be present when any of the Travers +family came to the castle; he immediately accounted for his son's +rejection of the proffered civilities, by that wounded pride which made +him feel his present position so painfully, and, as the future head of the +house, grieve over a state so unbecoming to its former fortunes. +</p> +<p> +“The poor fellow,” said he, “is too high-spirited to be a guest to those +he cannot be a host. Noble boy! the old blood flows strongly in <i>your</i> +veins, at least.” + </p> +<p> +How to combat this evil, now became his sole thought. He mused over it by +day—he dreamed of it by night. Hour by hour he endured the harassing +tortures of a poverty, whose struggles were all abortive, and whose +repulses came without ceasing. Each plan he thought of, was met by +obstacles innumerable; and when, worn out with unprofitable schemes, he +had resolved on abandoning the subject for ever, the sight of Mark's +wasted cheek and sunken eye rallied him again to an effort, which, each +time, he vowed should be the last. +</p> +<p> +The old, and often successful remedies to rally him from his low spirits, +his father possessed no longer—the indulgence of some caprice, some +momentary fancy for a horse or a hound—a boat or a fishing-rod. +</p> +<p> +He felt, besides, that his grief, whatever it was, lay too deep for such +surface measures as these, and he pondered long and anxiously over the +matter. Nor had he one to share his sorrow, or assist him with advice. Sir +Archibald he ever regarded as being prejudiced against Mark, and +invariably more disposed to exaggerate, than extenuate his faults. To have +opened his heart to him, would be to expose himself to some very +plausible, but, as he would deem them, very impracticable remarks, on +frugality and order—the necessity of submitting to altered fortunes—and, +if need be, of undertaking some humble but honest occupation as a +livelihood. These, and such like, had more than once been obtruded upon +him; but to seek and court them, to invite their presence, was not to be +thought of. +</p> +<p> +Kerry O'Leary was, then, the only one who remained; and they who know the +intimacy to which old servants, long conversant with the fortunes of the +family, and deemed faithful, because, from utter inutility, they are +attached to the house that shelters them, are admitted in Irish +households, will not be surprised at the choice of the confidant. He, I +say, was the O'Donoghue's last resource; and from him he still hoped to +gain some clue, at least, to the secret of this mystery. Scarcely had the +O'Donoghue retired to his room at night, when Kerry was summoned to his +presence, and after a few preliminaries, was asked if he knew where, how, +or with whom his young master latterly spent his time. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, and 'tis that same does be puzzling myself,” said Kerry, to whom +the matter had already been one of considerable curiosity. “Sometimes I +think one thing, and then I think another—but it beats me entirely.” + </p> +<p> +“What were your thoughts, then, Kerry?” + </p> +<p> +“'Twas Tuesday last I suspected Joe Lenahan's daughter—the +fair-haired girl, above at the three meadows; then, I took into my head, +it might be a badger he was after—for he was for ever going along by +the bank of the river; but, twice in the week, I was sure I had him—and +faix, I think, maybe I have.” + </p> +<p> +“How is that, Kerry? Tell me at once, man!” + </p> +<p> +“It's a fine brown beast Lanty Lawler has—a strapping four-year-old, +as likely a weight-carrier as ever I seen—that's what he's after—sorra +he in it. I obsarved him, on Friday, taking him over the big fences beyant +the whin-field—and I measured his tracks—and, may I never die +in sin, if he didn't stride nineteen feet over the yallow ditch.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know what he's asking for him, Kerry?” cried the old man, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“His weight in goold, I heerd say; for the captain, up at 'the Lodge,' +will give him his own price for any beast will make a charger—and +three hundred guineas Lanty expects for the same horse. Ayeh! he's a +play-actor, is Lanty—and knows how to rub the gentlemen down with a +damp wisp.” + </p> +<p> +“And you think that's it, Kerry?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll take the vestment it's not far off it. I never heerd Master Mark +give a cheer out of him going over a fence, that he hadn't a conceit out +of the beast under him. 'Whoop!' says he, throwing up his whip hand, 'this +way.' 'Your heart's in him,' says I, 'and 'tis a murther he isn't your +own.'” + </p> +<p> +“You may leave me, Kerry,” said the old man, sighing heavily, “'tis +getting near twelve o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +“Good night, sir, and a safe rest to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Wait a moment—stay a few minutes. Are they in the drawing-room +still?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; I heerd Miss Kate singing as I came up the stairs.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, Kerry, I want you to wait till she is leaving the room, and just +whisper to her—mind now, for your life, that nobody sees nor hears +you—just say that I wish to see her up here for a few seconds +to-night. Do you understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“Never fear, sir, I'll do it, and sorra one the wiser.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry left the apartment as he spoke, nor was his master long doomed to +suspense, for immediately after a gentle tap at the door announced Kate's +presence there. +</p> +<p> +“Sit down there, my darling Kate,” cried the O'Donoghue, placing a chair +beside his own, “and let me have five minutes' talk with you.” + </p> +<p> +The young girl obeyed with a smile, and returned the pressure of her +uncle's hand with warmth. +</p> +<p> +“Kate, my child,” said he—speaking with evident difficulty and +embarrassment, and fixing his eyes, not on her, but towards the fire, as +he spoke—“Kate you have come to a sad and cheerless home, with few +comforts, with no pleasure for one so young and so lovely as you are.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear uncle, how can you speak thus to me? Can you separate me in your +heart from your other children? Mark and Herbert make no complaint—do +you think that I could do so?” + </p> +<p> +“They are very different from you, my sweet child. The moss rose will not +bear the storms of winter, that the wild thorn can brave without danger. +To you this dreary house must be a prison. I know it—I feel it.” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, uncle. If you think thus, it must be my fault—some piece +of wilfulness of mine could alone have made you suppose me discontented; +but I am not so—far from it. I love dear old Sir Archy and my +cousins dearly; yes, and my uncle Miles too, though he seems anxious to +get rid of me.” + </p> +<p> +The old man pressed her fingers to his lips, and turned away his head. +</p> +<p> +“Come, Kate,” said he, after a brief pause, “it was with no intention of +that kind I spoke. We could none of us live without you now. My thoughts +had a very different object.” + </p> +<p> +“And that was——” + </p> +<p> +“Simply this”—and here he made a great effort, and spoke rapidly, as +if fearing to dwell on the words. “Law-suits and knavish attorneys have +wasted three-fourths of my estate: the remainder I scarcely know if I be +its master or not; on that portion, however, the old house stands, and the +few acres that survive the wreck. At this moment heavy proceedings are +pending in the courts, if successful in which, I shall be left in +possession of the home of my father, and not turned adrift upon the world, +a beggar. There—don't look so pale, child—the story is an old +one now, and has few terrors for us as long as it remains merely +anticipated evil. This is a sad tale for your ears. I know it,” said he, +wiping away a tear that would come in spite of him. +</p> +<p> +Both were now silent. The old man paused, uncertain how he should proceed +further. Kate spoke not; for as yet she could neither see the drift of the +communication, or, if it were in any way addressed to her, what part she +was expected to take in the matter. +</p> +<p> +“Are you aware, my dear,” resumed he, after a considerable delay, “that +your father was married to your mother when she was but sixteen?” + </p> +<p> +“I have often heard she was scarcely more than a child,” said Kate, +timidly—for she had no recollection of having seen either of her +parents. +</p> +<p> +“A child in years, love, she was; but a woman in grace, good sense, and +accomplishments—in fact, so fortunate was my poor brother in his +choice, he ever regarded the youthfulness of his wife as one of the +reasons of that amiability of temper she possessed. Often have we talked +of this together, and nothing could convince him to the contrary, as if, +had the soil been unfruitful, the tares and the thistles had not been as +abundant a crop as the good fruit really was. He acted on his conviction, +however, Kate; for he determined, if ever he had a daughter, she should be +of age at sixteen—the period of life her mother was married at. I +endeavoured to dissuade him. I did my best to expose the dangers and +difficulties of such a plan. Perhaps, dearest, I should have been less +obstinate in argument, had I been prophetic enough to know what my niece +would be; but it was all in vain. The idea had become a dominant one with +him, and I was obliged to yield; and now, Kate, after the long lapse of +years—for the conversation I allude to took place a great while ago—it +is my lot to say, that my brother was right and I was wrong—that he +foresaw, with a truer spirit, the events of the future than was permitted +to me. You were of age two months since.” + </p> +<p> +The young girl listened with eager curiosity to every word that fell from +her uncle's lips, and seemed disappointed when he ceased to speak. To have +gone thus far and no farther, did not satisfy her mind, and she waited +with impatience for him to continue. +</p> +<p> +“I see my child,” said he gently, “you are not aware of the proceedings of +coming of age; you have not heard, perhaps, that as your guardian, I hold +in my hands the fortune your father bequeathed to you; it was his portion +as a younger son, for, poor fellow, he had the family failing, and never +could live within his income. Your ten thousand—he always called it +yours—he never encroached upon—and that sum, at least, is +secured to you.” + </p> +<p> +Although Kate knew that her uncle was her guardian, and had heard that +some property would revert to her, what its amount was she had not the +most remote idea of, nor that her power over it should commence so soon. +</p> +<p> +“I see uncle—I understand all you say,” said she, hurriedly; “I am +of age, and the owner of ten thousand pounds.” + </p> +<p> +The tone of decision she employed, half terrified the O'Donoghue for the +prudence of his communication, and he almost hesitated to answer her +directly—“Yes, my child, it is a rent-charge—a——” + </p> +<p> +“I care not for the name, sir; does it represent the value?” + </p> +<p> +“Unquestionably it does.” + </p> +<p> +“Take it, then, dearest uncle,” said she, flinging herself upon his neck, +“take it and use it, so that it may bring some comfort to yourself, some +ease of mind at least, and make your home a happier one. What need to +think of the boys—Mark and Herbert are not of the mould that need +fear failure, whatever path they follow; and, as for me, when you grow +weary of me, the Sacré Cour will gladly take me back; indeed, they feel +their work of conversion of me but very imperfectly executed,” added she, +smiling, “and the dear nuns would be well pleased to finish their task.” + </p> +<p> +“Kate, my child, my own darling,” cried the old man, clasping her to his +heart, “this may not, this cannot be.” + </p> +<p> +“It must, and it shall be, uncle,” said she, resolutely. “If my dear +father's will be not a nullity, I have power over my fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“But not to effect your ruin, Kate.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, nor shall I. Will my dear uncle love me less for the +consciousness in my own heart, that I am doing right? Will he have a smile +the less for me, that I can return it with an affection warmer from very +happiness? I cannot believe this; nor can I think that you would render +your brother's daughter unworthy of her father. You would not refuse <i>him</i>.” + Her lip trembled, and her eyes grew full, as she uttered the last few +words in a voice, every word of which went to the old man's heart. +</p> +<p> +“There is but one way, Kate.” + </p> +<p> +“What need of more, uncle; do we want a choice of roads, if we see a +straight path before us?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, dearest—but it will be said I should not have suffered you to +do this—that in accepting a loan.” + </p> +<p> +“A loan!” uttered she, reproachfully. +</p> +<p> +“As that, or nothing, can I ever touch a farthing of it,” replied the +O'Donoghue. “No, no! Distress and hardship have been a weary load this +many a year; but all sense of honour is not yet obliterated in this poor +heart.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it as you please, my dear, dear uncle,” said the affectionate girl; +“only let it not cost you another painful thought, to rob me of so many +happy ones. There now, we must never speak of this any more;” and, so +saying, she kissed him twice, and rose from her chair. “We are going to +the 'Lodge' to-morrow, to spend the day; Herbert is so well that he comes +with us.” + </p> +<p> +“And Mark—what of him, dearest?” + </p> +<p> +“Mark will be none of us, sir. We are either too gay, or too frivolous, or +too silly, or too something or other, for his solemn humour, and he only +frowns and stares at us; but all that will pass away soon; I shall find +out the key to his temper yet, and then, make him pay for all his arrears +of sulkiness.” + </p> +<p> +“It is our changed condition, my love, that has made him thus,” said the +father, anxious to excuse the young man's morose habits. +</p> +<p> +“The poorer courage his, then,” replied the high-spirited girl, “I have no +patience for a man who acts but the looking-glass to fortune—frowns +when she frowns, and smiles when she smiles. No! Give me the temper that +can enjoy the sunshine, and brave the storm—take all the good the +world affords, and show a bold heart to resist the evil.” + </p> +<p> +“My own brother, my poor dear Mark, spoke there,” cried the old man, in an +ecstacy, as, springing up, he flung his arms about her; “and that's your +philosophy, sweet Kate?” + </p> +<p> +“Even so; the stout heart to the stae brae, as Sir Archy would call it, +and as he mutters every evening he has to climb the steep stair towards +his bed-room. And now, good night, dear uncle—good night.” + </p> +<p> +With an affectionate greeting, the old man took his leave of her for the +night, and sat down, in a frame of mingled happiness and shame, to think +over what had passed. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue was very far from feeling satisfied with himself for what +he had done. Had Kate been at all difficult of persuasion—had she +yielded to his arguments, or been convinced by any explanation of his +views, he would soon have reconciled himself to the act, as one in which +both parties concurred. Far from this—he saw that her only motive +was affection; that she would listen to nothing save the promptings of her +own warm heart; she would not let him even exculpate himself from the +charge of his own conscience; and, although acquitted by her, he felt the +guilt still upon him. +</p> +<p> +There was a time when he would not have stooped to such a course; but then +he was rich—rich in the world's wealth, and the honour such +affluence suggests; for, alas! humbling as the avowal may seem, the noble +traits so often admired in prosperity, are but the promptings of a spirit +revelling in its own enjoyment—open-handed and generous, because +these qualities are luxuries; free to give, because the giving involves +gratitude; and gratitude is the incense of weakness to power—of +poverty to wealth. How often are the warm affections, nurtured by happy +circumstances, mistaken for the evidence of right principles! How +frequently are the pleasurable impulses of the heart confounded with the +well-directed judgments of the mind? This man was less changed than he +knew of—the world of his circumstances was, indeed, different, but +he was little altered; the same selfishness that once made him munificent, +now made him mean; but, whether conferring or accepting favours, the +spirit was one. +</p> +<p> +Besides, how ingenious is the mind in suggesting plausible reasons for its +indulgences!—how naturally easy did it seem to borrow and repay! The +very words satisfied his scruples on that score; but if he were indeed so +contented with himself, why did he fear lest any one should ever learn the +circumstance? Why cower with shame before himself, to think of his +brother-in-law, or even Mark hearing of it? Were these the signs of +conscious rectitude, or were they the evidence of a spirit seeking rest in +casuistry and self-deception. In this conflict of alternate approval and +condemnation, he passed the greater part of the night—sometimes, a +struggling sense of honour, urging him to regret a course so fraught with +humiliations of every kind; and again, a thrill of delight would run +through his heart to think of all the pleasure he could confer upon his +favourite boy—the indulgences he could once more shower upon him. He +fancied the happiness of emancipation from pressing difficulties, and how +instinctively Mark's buoyant temper would take the tone of their altered +fortunes; and he, once again, become the gay and reckless youth he loved +to see him. +</p> +<p> +“He must have that brown horse Kerry speaks of,” muttered he to himself. +“Sir Marmaduke shall not outbid us there, and we'll see which of the two +best becomes his saddle. I'll back my own boy against his scarlet-coated +fop, for a thousand. They've got some couples of dogs too, Kerry was +telling me, up the mountains—We must enquire about them; with eight +or ten couple, Mark could have good sport in the glen. Then there's those +bills of Callaghan's—but he'll not press hard when he sees we've +money. Cassidy must get his £800, and so he shall; and that scoundrel, +Swaby, will be sending in his bill of costs; but a couple of hundred +pounds ought to stop his mouth. Archy, too—by Jove, I forget how +much I owe him now; but he doesn't, I'll warrant him. Well, well—if +it won't stop the leak, it will, at least, give us time to work the pumps—ay, +time, time!” He asked for no more; he only sought to reach the haven +himself, and cared nothing what happened the craft, nor the crew, +afterwards. +</p> +<p> +His next thought was how to effect all the legal arrangements in these +complicated matters, without the knowledge of Mark or Sir Archy; and on +this difficult point he spent till nigh morning deliberating. The only +mode he could think of was, by writing to Swaby himself, and making him +aware of the whole proceeding. That of course would be attended by its own +penalties, as Swaby would take care that his own costs were among the +first things to be liquidated; but yet it seemed the sole course open to +him, and with the resolve to do this on the morrow, he turned on his +pillow, and fell asleep. +</p> +<p> +The morning broke, with happiness to the uncle and the niece; but it was a +happiness of a very different order. To him, the relief of mind, for the +long harrassing cares of debt and difficulty, was a boon of inestimable +price—life and liberty at once to the imprisoned spirit of his proud +heart. To her, the higher and nobler sense of gratification, which flows +from having acted well, sent a thrill of ecstasy through her bosom, such +as only gentle and generous youth can ever feel. And thus, while the +O'Donoghue mused over, the enjoyments and pleasures his new accession of +wealth might place at his disposal, she revelled in the delight of having +ministered to the happiness of one she had always regarded as a father, +and even felt grateful to him for the emotions of her own heart. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue's first thought on awaking was to employ this large sum to +liquidate some of his most pressing debts, and to make such arrangements +as might enable them to live economically but comfortably, paying off +those creditors whose exorbitant interest was consuming all the remnant of +his income, and entering into contracts with others for the gradual +repayment of the loans. The more he reflected on these good intentions, +the less pleasure did they yield him. He had, for years past, taught +himself to regard a creditor as an implacable enemy. The very idea of +succumbing smacked of defeat. He had defied the law so long, it looked +like cowardice to surrender now; besides the very complication of his +affairs offered an excuse, which he was not slow to catch at. How could he +pay Cassidy in full, and only give Hickson a part? Would not the mere +rumour of his paying off his debts bring down a host of demands that had +almost shimbered themselves out of existence. He had often heard that his +grandfather “muddled away his fortune paying small debts.” It could not be +supposed he would reject the traditions of his own house—nor did he. +</p> +<p> +He judged wisely, if not well, that new habits of expenditure would do +more to silence the complaints of duns than the most accurately calculated +system of liquidation. That entertainments and equipages, a stable full of +horses, and a house crammed with guests, are a receipt in full for +solvency, which, however some may distrust, none are bold enough to +question openly. +</p> +<p> +If the plan had fewer excellencies, it, at least, suited him better; and +he certainly opened the campaign with vigour. No sooner had he decided on +his line of acting, than he despatched Kerry O'Leary to Cork with a letter +for Swaby, his attorney, requiring his immediate presence at +Carrig-na-curra, and adding, “that if he brought a couple of hundred +pounds over with him at the same time, he might include them with the +costs, and get a check for the whole together.” + </p> +<p> +As the old man sealed his epistle, he chuckled over the thoughts of +Swaby's astonishment, and fancied the many guesses the crafty attorney +would frame to account for such unexpected prosperity. The little +remaining sorrow he felt for his share in the transaction gave way to the +vulgar pleasure of this surprize; for so is it, the conflict with poverty +can debase the mind, and make the very straits and stratagems of want seem +straits of cleverness and ability. +</p> +<p> +It was a day of pleasure almost to all. Sir Archy, dressed in a suit which +had not seen daylight for many a previous year, gave his arm to Kate, and, +accompanied by Herbert, set out to pass the day at “The Lodge.” Mark alone +had no participation in the general joy; he stood, with folded arms, at +the window of the old tower, and gazed on the group that moved along the +road. Although he never thought of accompanying them, there was a sense of +desertion in his position of which he could not divest himself. With the +idea of the pleasure their visit would afford them came the reflection +that he was debarred from his share of such enjoyment, and the galling +feeling of inferiority sent the blood, with a throbbing current, through +his temples, and covered his face with a deep flush. He retorted his own +isolation against those he had so strenuously avoided, and accused them of +the very fault of which he was himself guilty. “My uncle is more distant +to me than ever,” muttered he, “and even Herbert, too; Herbert that used +to look up to and rely on me, even he shuns me.” He did not utter his +cousin's name, but a single tear, that rolled heavily down his cheek, and +seemed to make it tremble as it passed, showed that another and a deeper +spring of sorrow was opened in his heart. With a sudden gesture of +impatience he roused himself from his musing, and hastily descending the +stair, he crossed the old court-yard, and, without any fixed resolve as to +his course, walked down the road; nor was it until after proceeding some +distance, that he perceived he was rapidly gaining on the little party on +their way to the Lodge; then he quitted the high road, and soon lost +himself in one of the mountain glens. +</p> +<p> +As for the others, it was indeed a day of unaccustomed pleasure, and such +as rarely presented itself in that solitary valley. All that kindness and +hospitality could suggest was done by the family at the Lodge, to make +their visit agreeable; and while Sir Marmaduke vied with his son and +daughter in courteous attentions to his guests, they, on their part, +displayed the happy consciousness of these civilities by efforts to please +not less successful. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archy—albeit the faculty had long lain in disuse—was +possessed of conversational powers of a high order, and could blend his +observation of passing events with the wisdom derived from reflection, and +the experience of long intercourse with the world; while, as if to relieve +the sombre colouring of his thoughts, Kate's lively sallies and sparkling +repartees lit up the picture, and gave it both brilliancy and action. The +conversation ranged freely over the topics which form the staple of polite +intercourse in the world of the cultivated and the fashionable; and, +although Sir Archy had long been removed from such companionship, it was +easy to perceive how naturally he could revert to a class of subjects, +with which he had once been familiar. +</p> +<p> +It was thus alternating remarks of the past, with allusions to the present—mingling +grave and gay, with that happy blending which springs from the social +intercourse of different ages—they sat, after dinner, watching, +through the unshuttered window, the bright moonlight that streamed across +the glen and glittered on the lake, the conversation, from some reference +to the scenery, turned to the condition of Ireland, and the then state of +her people. Sir Marmaduke, notwithstanding his late experiences, fully +maintaining the accuracy of his own knowledge in matters, which have not +ceased to puzzle even wiser heads, gained confidence from the cautious +reserve of Sir Archy, who rarely ventured an opinion, and never hazarded a +direct assertion. +</p> +<p> +“They would have me believe, in England,” said Sir Marmaduke, “that +Ireland was on the very brink of a rebellion; that the organization of +revolt was perfect, and only waiting French co-operation to burst forth; +but how absurd such statements are to us who lire amongst them.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy smiled significantly, and shook his head. +</p> +<p> +“You, surely, have no fears on this head, sir? It is not possible to +conceive a state of more profound peace, than we observe around us. Men do +not take up arms against a rightful authority, without the working of +strong passions and headlong impulses. What is there to indicate them +here?” + </p> +<p> +“You'll allow, Sir Marmaduke, they are no overlikely to mak' ye a +confidant, if they intend a rising,” was the dry observation of M'Nab. +</p> +<p> +“True; but could they conceal their intentions from me—that is the +question? Think you that I should not have discovered them long since, and +made them known to the government?” + </p> +<p> +“I trust you'd have done no such thing, sir,” interposed Fred. “I heard +Maitland say, there never was a chance of keeping this country down, if we +had not a brush with them every thirty or forty years; and, if I don't +mistake, the time for a lesson has just come round.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it so certain on which side is to be the teacher?” said Kate, with a +voice whose articulate distinctness actually electrified the party; and, +as it drew their eyes towards her, heightened the flush that mantled on +her cheek. +</p> +<p> +“It never occurred to me to doubt the matter,” said Fred, with an air of +ill-dissembled mortification. +</p> +<p> +“No more than you anticipated it, perhaps,” retorted she, quickly; “and +yet events are happening every day which take the world by surprise. See +there!—look. That mountain-peak was dark but a moment back; and now, +see the blazing fire that has burst forth upon it!” + </p> +<p> +The whole party started to their feet, and drew near the window, from +which, at a distance of about two miles, the red glare of a fire was seen. +It burned brightly for some minutes, and then decaying, became +extinguished, leaving the dark mountain black and gloomy as before. +</p> +<p> +“What can it mean?” said Sir Marmaduke, in amazement. “Can it be some +signal of the smugglers? I understand they still venture on this coast.” + </p> +<p> +“That mountain yonder is not seen from the bay,” said Sir Archy, +thoughtfully. “It can scarcely be that.” + </p> +<p> +“I think we must ask Miss O'Donoghue for the explanation,” said Fred +Travers. “She is the only one here not surprized at its appearance.” + </p> +<p> +“Miss O'Donoghue is one of those who, you assert, are to be taught, and, +therefore, unable to teach others,” said she, in a low whisper, only +audible to Frederick, who stood beside her, and he almost started at the +strange meaning the words seemed to convey. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIV. A WALK BY MOONLIGHT +</h2> +<p> +The visit alluded to in the last chapter formed the first step to an +acquaintance which speedily ripened into intimacy. Seldom a day passed +without some interchange of civilities; and as they progressed in +knowledge of each other, they advanced in esteem, so that, ere long, they +learned to regard themselves as members of a single family. The +conventional usages of society are stronger barriers against friendship +than the world deems them. The life of cities supplies a coinage of social +intercourse which but very imperfectly represents the value of true +feeling; while in remoter and less cultivated regions, men are satisfied +to disencumber themselves of this false currency, and deal frankly and +openly with each other. +</p> +<p> +How little now did Sir Marmaduke remember of all Sir Archy's peculiarities +of manner and expression! how seldom did Sybella think Kate's opinions +wild and eccentric! and how difficult would it have been to convince the +fastidious Guardsman, that the society of St. James's possessed any +superiority in tone or elegance over the evenings at “the Lodge.” + </p> +<p> +The real elements of mutual liking were present here: the discrepancy of +character and taste—the great differences of age, and habit of +thought—yet moulded into one common frame of esteem from the very +appreciation of qualities in others, in which each felt himself deficient. +If Kate admired the simple but high-minded English girl, whose thoughts +were rarely faulty, save when attributing to others higher and purer +motives than the world abounds in, Sybella looked up with enthusiastic +delight to the glittering talents of her Irish friend—the warm and +generous glow of her imagination—the brilliant flashes of her wit—the +ready eloquence of her tongue, and, perhaps, not least of all, the +intrepid fearlessness of her nature, inspired her with sentiments of +almost awe, which seemed to deepen, and not diminish her affection for +Kate O'Donoghue. +</p> +<p> +It might appear an ungenerous theme to dwell on; but how often are our +friendships suggested by self-love?—how frequently are we led to +think highly and speak praisingly of qualities the opposite to our own, +from the self-satisfaction our apparent impartiality yields us. Justice +must, indeed, be a great virtue, when its very shadow can ennoble human +nature. Not such, however, were the motives here. Kate's admiration for +the unerring rectitude of Sybella's character was as free from taint as +was Sybella's heartfelt enthusiasm for the Irish girl. As for Frederick +Travers, the same dissimilarity in character which made him at first +compare Kate with his sister disadvantageously, now induced him to be +struck and fascinated by her qualities. The standard by which he had +measured her, she had long since passed, in his estimation; and any idea +of a comparison between them would now have appeared ridiculous. It was +true many of her opinions savoured of a nationality too strong for his +admiration. She was intensely Irish—or at least what he deemed such. +The traditions which, as a child, she had listened to with eager delight, +had given a bias to her mind that grew more confirmed with years. The +immediate circumstances of her own family added to this feeling, and her +pride was tinctured with sorrow at the fallen condition of her house. All +her affection for her cousins could not blind her to their great defects. +In Mark she saw one whose spirit seemed crushed and stunned, and not +awakened by the pressure of misfortune. Herbert, with all his kindliness +of nature and open-heartedness, appeared more disposed to enjoy the +sunshine of life, than to prepare himself to buffet with its storms. +</p> +<p> +How often she wished she had been a boy; how many a day-dream floated +before her of such a career as she might have struck out! Ireland a nation—her +“own sons her rulers”—had been the theme of many an oft-heard tale, +and there was a poetry in the sentiment of a people recalled to a +long-lost, long-sought-for nationality, that excited and exalted her +imagination. +</p> +<p> +Her convent education had stored her mind with narratives of native +suffering and Saxon tyranny, and she longed for the day of retribution on +the “proud invaders.” Great was her disappointment at finding her cousins +so dead to every feeling of this kind; and she preferred the chivalrous +ardour of the English soldier to the sluggish apathy of Mark, or the happy +indolence of Herbert O'Donoghue. +</p> +<p> +Had Frederick Travers been an Irishman, would he have borne his country's +wrongs so meekly? was a reflection that more than once occurred to her +mind, and never more powerfully than on parting with him, the very evening +we have mentioned. He had accompanied them, on their return to +Carrig-na-curra, which, as the night was fine and the moon nearly at her +full, they did on foot. Kate, who rarely accepted an arm when walking, +had, by some accident, taken his on this occasion, Sir. Archy leaning on +that of Herbert. +</p> +<p> +The young soldier listened with a high-beating heart, as she related an +incident, of which the spot they were traversing had been the scene. It +was a faithless massacre of a chieftain and his followers, seduced, under +pretences of friendship and a pledge of amity. +</p> +<p> +“They told him,” said she, “that his young wife, who had been carried away +by force, and imprisoned for two entire years, should on this spot be +restored to him; that he had but to come, with twelve of his retainers, +unarmed, save with their swords, and that here, where we now stand, she +should once more become his own. The hour was sunset, and he waited, with +anxious impatience, beneath that tall cliff yonder, where you can see the +deep cleft. Strange enough, they have added a legend to the true story, as +if their wrongs could derive any force from fiction! and they tell you +still, that the great rock was never split until that night. Their name +for it, in Irish, is 'the rent,' or 'the ruptured pledge.' Do I weary you +with these old tales?” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; go on, I entreat you. I cannot say how the scene; increases its +fascinations, from connection with your story.” + </p> +<p> +“He stood yonder, where the black shadow now crosses the road, and having +dismounted, he gave his horse to one of his attendants, and walked, with +an anxious heart, up and down, waiting for their approach. +</p> +<p> +“There was less sympathy among his followers for their chieftain's sorrow +than might be expected; for she was not a native born, but the daughter of +an English earl. He, perhaps, loved her the more—her very +friendlessness was another tie between them.” + </p> +<p> +“Says the legend so, or is this a mere suspicion on your part?” whispered +Travers softly. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely know,” continued Kate, with an accent less assured than +before. “I believe I tell you the tale as I have heard it; but why may she +not have been his own in every sentiment and thought—why not have +imbibed the right, from him she learned to love?” The last words were +scarcely uttered, when, with a sudden exclamation, less of fear than +astonishment, Kate grasped Travers' arm, and exclaimed—“Did you see +that!” + </p> +<p> +“I thought some dark object moved by the road side.” + </p> +<p> +“I saw a man pass, as if from behind us, and gain the thicket yonder: he +was alone, however.” + </p> +<p> +“And I am armed,” said Travers, coolly. +</p> +<p> +“And if you were not,” replied she, proudly, “an O'Donoghue has nothing to +fear in the valley of Glenflesk. Let us join my uncle, however, for I see +he has left us some distance behind him;” and while they hastened forward, +she resumed her story with the same unconcern as before the interruption. +</p> +<p> +Travers listened eagerly—less, it is true, in sympathy with the +story, than in delight at the impassioned eloquence of her who related it. +“Such,” said she, as they turned to bid him farewell at the old keep on +the road side, “such are the traditions of our land; they vary in time and +place, and persons; but they have only one moral through all—what a +terrible thing is slavery!” + </p> +<p> +Travers endeavoured to turn the application of her speech, by some +common-place compliment about her own powers of inflicting bondage; but +she stopped him suddenly, with “Nay, nay; these are not jesting themes, +although you may deem them unsuited for one as ignorant and inexperienced +as I am; nor will I speak of them again, if they serve but as matter for +laughter.” + </p> +<p> +Amid his protestations of innocence against this charge, which, in his +ardour, he pushed farther than calmer judgment might warrant, they shook +hands cordially, and parted. +</p> +<p> +“He's a fine-hearted fellow, too,” thought Kate, as she slowly moved along +in silence. “Saxon though he be, there's a chord in his bosom that +responds to the touch of truth and honour.” + </p> +<p> +“Noble girl,” said Frederick, half aloud, “it would be hard to rebuke +treason, when spoken from such lips;” then added, with a smile—“It's +no fair temptation to expose even a Guardsman to.” + </p> +<p> +And thus, each speculated on the character of the other, and fancied how, +by their own influence, it might be fashioned and moulded to a better +form; nor was their interest lessened in each other's fortune from the +fact, that it seemed to involve so much of mutual interposition. +</p> +<p> +“You should not walk this road so late,” said Mark O'Donoghue, almost +rudely, as he opened the door to admit them. “The smugglers are on the +coast now, and frequently come up the glen at nightfall.” + </p> +<p> +“Why not have come to be our escort, then?” said Kate, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“What? With the gay soldier for your guard,” said he, bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“How knew you that, my worthy cousin?” said Kate, rapidly, and then, with +a significant shake of the head, added, in a whisper—“I see there <i>are</i> +marauders about.” + </p> +<p> +Mark blushed till his face became scarlet, and turning abruptly away, +sought his own room in silence. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXV. A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOCIATIONS +</h2> +<p> +The time was now approaching when the Travers's were to remove to the +capital, and, at Sybella's urgent entreaty, Sir Marmaduke was induced to +request that Kate O'Donoghue might accompany them in their visit, and thus +enjoy the pleasures of a winter in Dublin, then, second to no city of +Europe, in all that constituted social excellence. +</p> +<p> +The note of invitation couched in terms the most flattering and cordial, +arrived when the O'Donoghues were seated at breakfast, and, as was usual +on all occasions of correspondence, was opened by Kate herself; scarcely +had she thrown her eyes over its contents, when, with a heightened colour, +and a slight tremor in her voice, she passed the letter across the table +to her uncle, and said—“This is for your consideration, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“Then, you must read it for me, Kate,” replied he; “for my ears have +outlived my eyes.” + </p> +<p> +“Shall I do it,” interposed Sir Archy, who, having remarked some +hesitation in Kate's manner, came thus good-naturedly to the rescue. +</p> +<p> +“With all my heart, Archy,” said the O'Donoghue; “or rather, if you would +do me a favour, just tell me what it is about—polite correspondence +affects me pretty much as the ceremonies of bowing and salutation, when I +have a fit of the gout. I become devilish impatient, and would give the +world it was all over, and that I were back in my easy chair again.” + </p> +<p> +“The politeness in the present case, lies less in the style than in the +substance,” said Sir Archy. “This is a vara civil, though, I must say, to +me a vara unwelcome proposal, to take our darling Kate away from us, for a +season, and show her some of the life and gaieties of the capital.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, that is handsomely done, at least,” said the O'Donoghue, whose +first thought sprung from gratified pride, at the palpable evidence of +social consideration; then suddenly changing his tone, he said in a low +voice; “but what says Kate herself?” + </p> +<p> +Mark turned his eyes full upon her, as his father said these words, and as +a deadly pallor came over his face, he sat steadfastly awaiting her reply, +like one expecting the decree of a judge. +</p> +<p> +“Kate feels too happy here, sir, to risk anything by a change,” replied +she, avoiding, even for a second, to look towards where Mark was sitting. +</p> +<p> +“But you must not lose such an opportunity, dearest Kate;” whispered +Herbert eagerly into her ear. “These are the scenes, and the places you +are used to, and best fitted to enjoy and to adorn, and besides——” + </p> +<p> +A stern frown from Mark, who, if he had not overheard the speech, seemed +to have guessed its import, suddenly arrested the youth, who now looked +overwhelmed with confusion. +</p> +<p> +“We are a divided cabinet; that I see plainly enough, Kate;” said +O'Donoghue; “though, if our hearts were to speak out, I'd warrant they +would be of one mind. Still, this would be a selfish verdict, my dear +girl, and a poor requital for all the happiness you have brought back to +these old walls;” and the words were spoken with a degree of feeling that +made all indisposed to break the silence that followed. +</p> +<p> +“I should like to see the capital, I own,” said Kate, “if my absence were +to be a short one.” + </p> +<p> +“And I wad hae nae objection the capital should see yersel,” said Sir +Archy; “albeit, I may lose a sweetheart by my generosity.” + </p> +<p> +“Have no fears of my fidelity,” said Kate, laughing, as she extended her +hand towards him, while, with antique gallantry, he pressed it to his +lips. “The youth of this land are not, so far as my little experience +goes, likely to supplant so true an admirer; they who have so little +devotion to their country, may well be suspected of having less for its +daughters.” + </p> +<p> +Mark's brow grew dark with the flush that covered his face and forehead in +an instant; he bent his head almost to the table to avoid observation, +and, as if in the distraction of the moment, he took up the note and +seemed to pore over its contents; then suddenly crushing it in his hand, +he arose from the table and left the room. +</p> +<p> +“My sweet Kate,” said Sir Archy, as he led her within the deep recess of a +window, “tak care ye dinna light up a flame of treason, where ye only +hoped to warm a glow of patriotism; such eyes and lips as yours are but +too ready teachers; be cautious, lassie. This country, however others may +think, is on the eve of some mighty struggle; the people have abandoned +many of their old grudges and seem disposed to unite.” + </p> +<p> +“And the gentry—where are they, who should stand at their head and +share their fortune?” cried Kate eagerly; for the warning, so far from +conveying the intended moral, only stimulated her ardour and excited her +curiosity. +</p> +<p> +“The gentry,” replied Sir Archy, in a firm, decided tone, “are better +satisfied to live under a government they dislike, than to be at the mercy +of a rabble they despise, I ha'e lived langer than you in this dreary +world, lassie, and trust me, the poetry of patriotism has little relation +to the revengeful fury of rebellion. You wish freedom for those who cannot +enjoy the portion of it they possess. It is time to outlive the evil +memories of the past, we want here—time, to blunt the acuteness of +former and long-past sufferings—time, to make traditions so far +forgotten as to be inapplicable to the present—time, to read the +homely lesson, that one half the energy a people can expend in revolt, +will raise them in the rank of civilized and cultivated beings.” + </p> +<p> +“Time, to make Irishmen forget that the land of their birth was ever other +than an English province,” added Kate, impetuously. “No, no, it was not +thus your own brave countrymen understood their 'devoirs.'” + </p> +<p> +“They rallied round the standard of a prince they loved, lassie,” said +M'Nab, in a tone whose fervour contrasted with his former accent. +</p> +<p> +“And will you tell me that the principle of freedom is not more sacred +than the person of the sovereign?” said Kate, tauntingly. +</p> +<p> +“There can be nae mistake about the one, but folks may have vara unsettled +notions of the other,” said he, drily; “but we mauna quarrel, Kate dear; +our time is e'en too short already. Sit ye down and sing me a sang.” + </p> +<p> +“It shall be a rebel one, then, I promise you,” replied she, with an air +of defiance which it was impossible to pronounce more real or assumed. +“But here comes a visitor to interrupt us, and so your loyalty is saved +for this time.” + </p> +<p> +The observation was made in reference to a traveller, who, seated in a +very antique looking dennet, was seen slowly labouring his wearied horse +up the steep ascent to the castle. +</p> +<p> +“It's Swaby, father,” cried Herbert, who immediately recognized the +equipage of the Cork attorney, and felt a certain uneasiness come over him +at the unexpected appearance. +</p> +<p> +“What brings him down to these parts?” said the O'Donoghue, affecting an +air of surprise—“on his way to Killarney, perhaps. Well, well, they +may let him in.” + </p> +<p> +The announcement did not, to all appearance, afford much pleasure to the +others, for scarcely had the door bell ceased its jingle, when each +quitted the drawing-room, leaving O'Donoghue alone to receive his man of +law. +</p> +<p> +Although the O'Donoghue waited with some impatience for the entrance of +his legal adviser, that worthy man did not make his appearance at once, +his progress to the drawing-room being arrested by Sir Archy, who, with a +significant gesture, motioned him to follow him to his chamber. +</p> +<p> +“I will no' detain you many minutes, Mr. Swaby,” said he, as he made signs +for him to be seated. “I hae a sma' matter of business in which you can +serve me. I need scarcely observe, I reckon on your secrecy.” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Swaby closed one eye, and placed the tip of his finger on his nose—a +pantomime intended to represent the most perfect fidelity. +</p> +<p> +“I happen,” resumed Sir Archy, apparently satisfied with this pledge; “I +happen at this moment to need a certain sum of money, and would wish to +receive it on these securities. They are title deeds of a property, which, +for reasons I have no leisure at this moment to explain, is at present +held by a distant relative in trust for my heir. You may perceive that the +value is considerable”—and he pointed to a formidable array of +figures which covered one of the margins. “The sum I require is only a +thousand pounds—five hundred at once—immediately—the +remainder in a year hence. Can this be arranged?” + </p> +<p> +“Money was never so scarce,” said Swaby, as he wiped his spectacles and +unfolded one of the cumbrous parchments. “Devil take me, if I know where +it's all gone to. It was only last week I was trying to raise five +thousand for old Hoare on the Ballyrickan property, and I could not get +any one to advance me sixpence. The country is unsettled you see. There's +a notion abroad that we'll have a rising soon, and who knows what's to +become of landed property after.” + </p> +<p> +“This estate is in Perth,” said M'Nab, tapping the deeds with his finger. +</p> +<p> +“So I perceive,” replied Swaby; “and they have no objection to a 'shindy' +there too, sometimes. The Pretender got some of your countrymen into a +pretty scrape with his tricks. There are fools to be had for asking, every +where.” + </p> +<p> +“We will no' discuss this question just noo,” said Sir Archy, snappishly; +“and, to return to the main point, please to inform me, is this loan +impracticable?” + </p> +<p> +“I didn't say it was, all out,” said Swaby. “In about a week or two——” + </p> +<p> +“I must know before three days,” interrupted M'Nab. +</p> +<p> +“His honour's waiting for Mr. Swaby,” said Kerry, who now ap-peared in the +room, without either of the others having noticed his entrance. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archy rose with an angry brow, but spoke not a syllable, while he +motioned Kerry to leave the room. +</p> +<p> +“You must join my brother-in-law, sir,” said he at last; “and if our +conversation is not already become the gossip of the house, I entreat of +you to keep it a secret.” + </p> +<p> +“That, of course,” said Swaby; “but I'm thinking I've hit on a way to meet +your wishes, so we'll talk of the matter again this evening;” and thus +saying, he withdrew, leaving Sir Archy in a frame of mind very far, +indeed, from tranquil or composed. +</p> +<p> +Swaby's surprise at his interview with Sir Archy, whom he never had the +slightest suspicion of possessing any property whatever, was even +surpassed by his astonishment on hearing the favourable turn of +O'Donoghue's affairs; and, while he bestowed the requisite attention to +follow the old man's statement, his shrewd mind was also engaged in +speculating what probable results might accrue from this unexpected piece +of fortune, and how they could best be turned to his own benefit. +O'Donoghue was too deeply interested in his own schemes, to question Swaby +respecting his business with M'Nab, of which Kerry O'Leary had already +given him a hint. The attorney was, therefore, free to deliberate in his +own mind how far he might most advantageously turn the prosperity of the +one, to the aid of the other, for the sole benefit of himself. It is not +necessary, nor would it conduce to the object of this story, to ask the +reader's attention to this interview. It will be enough to say, that Swaby +heard with pleasure O'Donoghue's disclosure, recognizing, with practised +acuteness, how far he could turn such unlooked-for prosperity to his own +purposes, and subsidize one brother-in-law, at the expense of both. +</p> +<p> +While thus each within the limit of this narrow household was following +out the thread of his destiny, eagerly bent on their several objects, Kate +O'Donoghue sat alone, at the window of her chamber, buried in deep +thought. The prospect of her approaching visit to the capital presented +itself in so many aspects, that, while offering pleasures and enjoyments +none relished more highly than herself, she yet saw difficulties which +might render the step unadvisable, If not perilous. Of all considerations, +money was the one which least had occupied any share in her calculations; +yet now she bethought herself, that expense must necessarily be incurred, +which her uncle's finances could but ill afford. No sooner had this +thought occurred to her, than she was amazed it had not struck her before, +and she felt actually startled, lest, in her eagerness for the promised +pleasure, she had only listened to the suggestion of selfishness. In a +moment more she determined to decline the invitation. She was not one to +take half measures when she believed a point of principle to be engaged; +and the only difficulty now lay, how and in what manner to refuse an offer +proffered with so much kindness. The note itself must open the way, +thought she, and at the instant she remembered how Mark had taken it from +the breakfast-table. +</p> +<p> +She heard his heavy step as he paced backwards and forwards in his chamber +overhead, and without losing another moment, hastily ascended the stairs +to his door; her hand was already outstretched to knock, when suddenly she +hesitated; a strange confusion came over her faculties—how would +Mark regard her request?—would he attribute it to over-eagerness on +the subject of the invitation. Such were the questions which occurred to +her; and as quick came the answer—“And let him think so. I shall +certainly not seek to undeceive him. He alone, of all here, has vouchsafed +me neither any show of his affection nor his confidence.” The flush +mounted to her cheek, and her eyes darkened with the momentary excitement; +and at the same instant the door was suddenly thrown open, and Mark stood +before her. +</p> +<p> +Such was his astonishment, however, that for some seconds he could not +speak; when at last he uttered in a low, deep voice— +</p> +<p> +“I thought I heard a hand upon the lock, and I am so suspicious of that +fellow, Kerry, who frequently plays the eaves-dropper here——” + </p> +<p> +“Not when you are alone, Mark?” said Kate, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Ay—even then. I have a foolish habit of thinking aloud, of which I +strive in vain to break myself; and he seems to know it, too.” + </p> +<p> +“There is another absent trick you have acquired also,” said she, +laughing. “Do you remember having carried off the note that came while we +were at breakfast?” + </p> +<p> +“Did I?” said he, reddening. “Did I take it off the table? Yes, yes; I +remember something of it now. You must forgive me, cousin, if these +careless habits take the shape of rudeness.” He seemed overwhelmed with +confusion, as he added, “I know not why I put it into my pocket; here it +is.” + </p> +<p> +And so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat a crushed and crumpled +paper, and gave it into Kate's hand. She wished to say something in reply—something +which would seem kind and good natured; but, somehow, she faltered and +hesitated. She twice got as far as, “I know, Mark—I am certain, +Mark;” then unable to say what, perhaps, her very indecision rendered more +difficult, she merely uttered a brief “thank you,” and withdrew. +</p> +<p> +“Poor fellow!” said she, as she re-entered her own chamber, “his is the +hardest lot of all.” + </p> +<p> +She had often wished to persuade herself that Mark's morose, sullen humour +was the discontent of one who felt the ignominy of an inglorious life—that +habits of recklessness had covered, but not obliterated the traces of that +bold and generous spirit for which his family had been long distinguished; +and now, for the first time, she believed she had fallen on the evidences +of such a temper. She pondered long on this theme, and fancied how, under +circumstances favourable to their development, Mark's good qualities and +courageous temper, had won for him both fame and honour. “And here,” + exclaimed she, half aloud, “here, he may live and die a peasant!” With a +deep sigh, she threw herself into a chair, and as if to turn her thoughts +into some channel less suggestive of gloom, she opened the letter Mark had +given her. Scarcely, however, had she cast her eyes over it, when she +uttered a faint cry, too faint, indeed, to express any mere sense of fear, +but in an accent in which terror and amazement were equally blended. +</p> +<p> +The epistle was a brief one—not more than a few lines—and she +had read it at a glance, before ever there was time to consider how far +her doing so was a breach of confidence; indeed, the intense interest of +the contents left little room for any self-examinings. It ran thus:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Dear Brother—No precipitation—no haste—nothing can be +done without France. T. has now good hopes from that +quarter, and if not 30,000, 20,000, or at least 15,000 will +be given, and arms for double the number. Youghal is talked +of as a suitable spot; and H. has sent charts, &c. over. +Above all, be patient; trust no rumours, and rely on us for +the earliest and the safest intelligence. L. will hand you +this. You must contrive to learn the cipher, as any +correspondence discovered would ruin all. + +“Your's ever, and in the cause, + +“H. R.” + </pre> +<p> +Here, then, was the youth she had been commiserating for his career of +lowly and unambitious hopes—here, the mere peasant! the accomplice +of some deep and desperate plot, in which the arms of France, should be +employed against the government of England. Was this the secret of his +pre-occupation and his gloom? Was it to concentrate his faculties on such +a scheme, that he lived this lonely and secluded life? “Oh, Mark, Mark, +how have I misjudged you!” she exclaimed, and as she uttered the words, +came the thought, quick as a lightning flash, to her mind—what +terrible hazards such a temperament as his must incur in an enterprise +like this—without experience of men or any knowledge of the world +whatever—without habitual prudence, or caution of any kind. The very +fact of his mistaking the letter—a palpable evidence of his +unfitness for trust. Reckless by nature—more desperate still from +the fallen fortunes of his house. What would become of him? Others would +wait the time and calculate their chances. He would listen to nothing but +the call of danger. She knew him well, from boyhood upwards, and had seen +him often more fascinated by peril, than others were by pleasure. +</p> +<p> +As she reasoned thus, her thoughts insensibly turned to all the dangers of +such an enterprise as she believed him engaged in. The fascinating visions +of a speculative patriotism, soon gave way before the terrors she now +conjured up. She knew he was the only tie that bound his father to +existence, and that any misfortune to Mark, would be the old man's +death-blow. Nor were these the most poignant of the reflections, for she +now remembered how often she had alluded tauntingly to those who lived a +life of mean or inglorious ambition; how frequently she had scoffed at the +miserable part of such as, endowed with high names and ancient lineage, +evinced no desire to emerge from an ignoble position, and assume a station +of eminence and power; could she, then, have contributed to this youth's +rash step, had her idle words and random speeches driven him to embrace a +cause, where his passions, and not his judgment were interested? What +misery was in this fear? +</p> +<p> +Each moment increased the agony of this reflection, while her doubts as to +how she ought to act, thickened around her. Sir Archy, alone, was capable +of advising her, his calm and unbiassed reason, would be now invaluable, +but dare she—even to him, make use of a confidence thus accidentally +obtained? Would Mark—could he ever forgive her? and how many others +might such a disclosure compromise! In this dilemma, she knew no course +open to her, but one—to address herself at once to Mark, to explain +how his secret had become known, to learn from him as much as lay in her +power of the dangers and difficulties of the meditated revolt, and if +unable to dissuade him from participation, at least to mingle with his +resolves all she could of prudence, or good counsel. The determination was +scarcely formed, when she was once more at the door of his chamber; she +knocked twice, without any reply following, then gently opened the door. +The room was vacant, he was gone. I will write to him, said she hurriedly, +and with this new resolve, hastened to her chamber, and began a letter. +</p> +<p> +The task she proposed to herself, was not so easy of accomplishment; a +dozen times, she endeavoured while explaining the accident that divulged +his secret, to impress him with the hazard of an undertaking, so palpably +depicted, and to the safe keeping of which, his own carelessness, might +prove fatal; but each effort dissatisfied her. In one place, she seemed +not to have sufficiently apologized for her unauthorized cognizance of his +note; in another, the stress she laid upon this very point, struck her as +too selfish, and too personal in a case, where another's interests were +the real consideration at issue; and even when presenting before him the +vicissitudes of fortune to which his venturous career would expose him, +she felt how every word contradicted the tenor of her own assertions for +many a day and week previous. In utter despair how to act, she ended by +enclosing the letter with merely these few words:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I have read the enclosed, but your secret is safe with me. + +“K. O'D.” + </pre> +<p> +This done, she sealed the packet and had just written the address, when, +with a tap at the door, Sir Archy entered, and approached the table. +</p> +<p> +With a tact and delicacy he well understood, Sir Archy explained the +object of his visit—to press upon Kate's acceptance a sum of money +sufficient for her outlay in the capital. The tone of half authority he +assumed disarmed her at once, and made her doubt how far she could feel +justified in opposing the wishes of her friends concerning her. +</p> +<p> +“Then you really desire I should go to Dublin,” said she. +</p> +<p> +“I do, Kate, for many reasons—reasons which I shall have little +difficulty in explaining to you hereafter.” + </p> +<p> +“I half regret I ever thought of it,” said Kate, speaking her thoughts +unconsciously aloud. +</p> +<p> +“Not the less reason perhaps for going,” said Sir Archy, drily; whileat +the same moment his eye caught the letter bearing Mark O'Donoghue's name. +</p> +<p> +Kate saw on what his glance was fixed, and grew red with shame and +confusion. +</p> +<p> +“Be it so then, uncle,” said she, resolutely. “I do not seek to know the +reasons you speak of, for if you were to ask my own against the project, I +should not be able to frame them; it was mere caprice.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope so, dearest Kate,” said he, with a tone of deep affection— +“I hope so with all my heart;” and thus saying, he pressed her hand +fervently between his own and left the room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVI. A LAST EVENING AT HOME. +</h2> +<p> +With the experience of past events to guide us, it would appear now that a +most unaccountable apathy existed in the English Cabinet of the period, +with regard to the plan of invasion meditated against Ireland by France; +nor is it easy to determine whether this indifference proceeded more from +ignorance of the danger, or that amount of information concerning it, +which disposed the Minister to regard it as little important. +</p> +<p> +From whatever cause proceeding, one thing is sufficiently clear—the +emissaries of France pervaded the country in every part without impediment +or molestation; statistical information the most minute was forwarded to +Paris every week; the state of popular opinion, the condition of parties, +the amount of troops disposable by Government—even the spirit which +animated them, were reported and commented on, and made the subject of +discussion in the “bureau” of the War Minister of France. To such an +extent was this system carried, that more than once the French authorities +became suspicious regarding the veracity of statements, from the very +facility with which their details were communicated, and hinted, that such +regularity in correspondence might be owing to the polite attentions of +the English Cabinet; and to this distrust is in a great measure to be +attributed the vacillating and hesitating policy which marked their own +deliberations. +</p> +<p> +Tone's letters show the wearisome toil of his negociation; the assurances +of aid obtained after months of painful, harrassing solicitation, deferred +or made dependent on some almost impossible conditions; guarantees +demanded from him which he neither could nor would accord; information +sought, which, were they in actual possession of the country, would have +been a matter of difficult acquisition; and after all, when the promised +assistance was granted, it came coupled with hints and acknowledgements +that the independence of Ireland was nothing in their eyes, save as +inflicting a death blow to the power and greatness of England. +</p> +<p> +In fact, neither party was satisfied with the compact long before the time +of putting it in operation arrived. Meanwhile the insurgents spared no +efforts to organize a powerful body among the peasantry, and, at least +numerically, to announce to France, a strong and effective cooperation. +Such reports were necessary to enable Tone to press his demand more +energetically; and although he never could have deceived himself as to the +inutility of such undisciplined and almost unarmed masses, still they +looked plausible on paper, and vouched for the willingness of the people +to throw off the yoke of England. +</p> +<p> +It is now well known, that the French party in Ireland was really very +small. The dreadful wrongs inflicted on the Roman Catholic church during +the Revolution could not be forgotten or forgiven by that priesthood, who +were their brethren; nor could it be supposed that they would lend a +willing aid to further a cause which began its march to freedom over the +ashes of their church. Such as were best capable of pronouncing on the +project—those educated in France—-were naturally fearful of a +repetition at home of the horrible scenes they had witnessed abroad, and +thus the “patriots” lost the aid which, more than any other, could have +stirred the heart of the nation. Abstract principles of liberty are not +the most effective appeals to a people; and although the French agents +were profuse of promises, and the theme of English oppression could be +chaunted with innumerable variations, the right chord of native sentiment +was never touched, and few joined the cause, save those who, in every +country and in every age, are patriots—because they are paupers. +Some, indeed, like the young O'Donoghue, were sincere and determined. +Drawn in at first by impulses more purely personal than patriotic, they +soon learned to take a deep interest in the game, and grew fascinated with +a scheme which exalted themselves into positions of trust and importance. +The necessity of employing this lure, and giving the adherents of the +cause their share of power and influence, was another great source of +weakness. +</p> +<p> +Diversity of opinion arose on every subject; personal altercations of the +bitterest kind; reproaches and insinuations, passed continually between +them, and it needed all the skill and management of the chiefs to +reconcile, even temporarily, these discordant ingredients, and maintain +any semblance of agreement among these “United Irishmen.” + </p> +<p> +Among those who lived away from such scenes of conflict, the great +complaint was the delay. “What are we waiting for? When are we to strike +the blow?”—were the questions ever arising; and their inability to +answer such satisfactorily to the people, only increased their chagrin and +disappointment. If the sanguine betrayed impatience, the despondent—and +there are such in every cause—showed signs of vacillation, and threw +out dark hints of treachery and betrayal; while between both were the +great masses, moved by every passing rumour, and as difficult to restrain +to-day, as impossible to muster to-morrow. +</p> +<p> +Such, briefly, was the condition of the party into which Mark O'Donoghue +threw his fortune in life, as reckless of his fate as he was ignorant of +the precise objects in view, or the means proposed for their +accomplishment. +</p> +<p> +His influence among the people was considerable. Independently of all +claims resulting from his name and family, he was individually a great +favourite with them. Personal courage and daring—skill in every +manly exercise, and undaunted resolution—are gifts which, when +coupled with a rough, good nature, and a really kind heart, are certain of +winning their way among a wild and uncultivated people; and thus, Herbert, +who scarcely ever uttered a harsh word—whose daily visits to the +sick were a duty Sir Archy expected from him—whose readiness to +oblige was the theme of every tongue, was less their favourite than his +brother. +</p> +<p> +This influence, which, through Lanty Lawler, was soon reported to the +delegates in Dublin, was the means of Mark's being taken into special +confidence, and of a command being conferred on him, for the duties and +privileges of which, he was informed, a few days would sufficiently +instruct him. +</p> +<p> +Nearly a week had elapsed from the day on which Kate addressed her note to +Mark, and he had not yet returned home. Such absences were common enough; +but now, she felt an impatience almost amounting to agony, at the thought +of what treasonable and dangerous projects he might be engaged in, and the +doubt became a torture, how far she ought to conceal her own discovery +from others. +</p> +<p> +At length came the evening before her own departure from Carrig-na-curra, +and they were seated around the tea-table, thoughtful and silent by turns, +as are they who meet for the last time before separation. Although she +heard with pleasure the announcement that Herbert would be her companion +to the capital, where he was about to take up his residence as a student +in Trinity College, her thoughts wandered away to the gloomier fortunes of +Mark, darker as they now seemed, in comparison with the prospects opening +before his brother. +</p> +<p> +Of all the party, Herbert alone was in good spirits. The career was about +to begin which had engrossed all his boyish ambition—the great race +of intellect his very dreams had dwelt upon. What visions did he conjure +of emulative ardour to carry off the prize among his companions, and win +fame that might reflect its lustre on all his after life. From his very +childhood, Sir Archy had instilled into him this thirst for distinction, +wisely substituting such an ambition for any other less ennobling. He had +taught him to believe that there would be more true honour in the laurels +there won, than in all the efforts, however successful, to bring back the +lost glories of their once proud house. And now he was on the very +threshold of that career his heart was centred in. No wonder is it, then, +if his spirits were high, and his pulse throbbing. Sir Archy's eyes seldom +wandered from him; he seemed as if reading the accomplishment of all his +long teaching; and as he watched the flashing looks and the excited +gestures of the boy, appeared as though calculating how far such a +temperament might minister to, or mar his future fortune. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue was more thoughtful than usual. The idea of approaching +solitude, so doubly sad to those advanced in life, depressed him. His +evenings, of late, had been passed in a happy enjoyment he had not known +for years before. Separation to the young is but the rupture of the ties +of daily intercourse—to the old, it has all the solemn meaning of a +warning, and tells of the approach of the last dreadful parting, when +adieux are said for ever. He could not help those gloomy forebodings, and +he was silent and depressed. +</p> +<p> +Kate's attention wandered from the theme of Herbert's anticipated +pleasures, to think again of him, for whom none seemed now interested. She +had listened long and anxiously for some sound to mark his coming, but all +was still without, and on the road, for miles, the moonlight showed no +object moving; and, at last, a deep reverie succeeded to this state of +anxiety, and she sat lost to all around her. Meanwhile, Sir Archy, in a +low, impressive voice, was warning Herbert of the dangers of involving +himself in any way in the conflicts of party politics, then so high in +Dublin. +</p> +<p> +He cautioned him to reject those extreme opinions so fascinating to young +minds, and which either give an unwarrantable bias to the judgment through +life, or which, when their fallacy is detected, lead to a reaction as +violent, and notions as false. “Win character and reputation first, +Herbert: gain the position from which your opinions will come with +influence, and then, my boy, with judgment not rashly formed, and a mind +trained to examine great questions—then, you may fearlessly enter +the lists, free to choose your place and party. You cannot be a patriot +this way, in the newspaper sense of the term.—It is possible, too, +our dear Kate may deem your ambition a poor one——” + </p> +<p> +“Kate, did you say?—Kate, uncle,” said she, raising her head, with a +look of abstraction. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, my dear, I was speaking o' some of the dangers that beset the first +steps in political opinion, and telling Herbert that peril does not always +bring honour.” + </p> +<p> +“True, sir—true: but Mark——” She stopped, and the blush +that covered her face suffused her neck and shoulders. It was not till her +lips pronounced the name, that she detected how inadvertently she had +revealed the secret of her own musings. +</p> +<p> +“Mark, my sweet Kate is, I trust, in no need of my warnings; he lives +apart from the struggle, and were it otherwise, he is older, and more able +to form his opinions than Herbert, here.” + </p> +<p> +These words were spoken calmly, and with a studious desire to avoid +increasing Kate's confusion. +</p> +<p> +“What about Mark?” cried the O'Donoghue, suddenly aroused by the mention +of the name. “It's very strange he should not be here to say 'good-bye' to +Kate. Did any one tell him of the time fixed for your departure?” + </p> +<p> +“I told him of it, and he has promised to be here,” said Herbert; “he was +going to Beerhaven for a day or two, for the shooting; but, droll enough, +he has left his gun behind him.” + </p> +<p> +“The boy's not himself at all, latterly,” muttered the old man. “Lanty +brought up two horses here the other day, and he would not even go to the +door to look at them. I don't know what he's thinking of.” + </p> +<p> +Kate never spoke, and tried with a great effort to maintain a look of calm +unconcern; when, with that strange instinct so indescribable and so +inexplicable, she felt Sir Archy's eyes fixed upon her, her cheek became +deadly pale. +</p> +<p> +“There, there he comes, and at a slapping pace, too!” cried Herbert; and, +as he spoke, the clattering sound of a fast gallop was heard ascending the +causeway, and the next moment the bell sent forth a loud summons. +</p> +<p> +“I knew he'd keep his word,” said the boy, proudly, as he walked to meet +him. The door opened, and Frederick Travers appeared. +</p> +<p> +So unexpected was the disappointment, it needed all Sir Archy's practised +politeness to conceal from the young Guardsman the discomfiture of the +rest: nor did he entirely succeed, for Frederick was no common observer, +and failed not to detect in every countenance around, that his was not the +coming looked for. +</p> +<p> +“I owe a thousand apologies for the hour of my visit, not to speak of its +abruptness,” said he, graciously; “but we only learned accidentally to-day +that Herbert was going up to Dublin, and my father sent me to request he +would join our party.” + </p> +<p> +“He is about to enter college,” said Sir Archy, half fearing to direct the +youth's mind from the great object of his journey. +</p> +<p> +“Be it so,” said Fred, gaily; “we'll talk Virgil and Homer on the road.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm afraid such pleasant companionship may put Greece and Rome in the +background,” said Sir Archy, drily. +</p> +<p> +“I'll answer for it he'll be nothing the worse for the brief respite from +study; besides you'd not refuse me his company, when I tell you that +otherwise I must travel alone. My father in his wisdom having decided to +despatch me half a day in advance, to make preparations for his arrival. +Is that quite fair, Miss O'Donoghue?” + </p> +<p> +“I protest I think not, as regards us. As for you,” added she, archly, “I +should say, so accomplished a traveller always finds sufficient to amuse +him on the least interesting journey. I remember a little theory of yours +on that subject; you mentioned it the first time I had the pleasure to +meet you.” + </p> +<p> +The allusion was with reference to the manner in which Travers made her +acquaintance in the Bristol packet, and the cool assurance of which, she, +with most womanly pertinacity, had not yet forgiven. Travers, who had +often felt ashamed of the circumstance, and had hoped it long since +forgotten, looked the very picture of confusion. +</p> +<p> +“I perceive Sir Archibald has not taught you to respect his native +proverb, Miss O'Donoghue, and let 'by-gones be by-gones.'” + </p> +<p> +“I hae taught her nothing Scotch, sir,” replied Sir Archy, smiling; “but +to love a thistle, and that e'en, because it has sting.” + </p> +<p> +“Not from those that know how to take it, uncle,” said she, archly, and +with a fond expression that lit up the old man's face in smiles. +</p> +<p> +The Guardsman was less at his ease than usual; and, having arranged the +matter of his visit satisfactorily, arose to take his leave. +</p> +<p> +“Then you'll be ready for me at eight, Herbert. My father is a martinet in +punctuality, and the phæton will not be a second behind time; remember +that, Miss O'Donoghue, for he makes no exception, even for ladies.” + </p> +<p> +He moved towards the door, then turning suddenly, said— +</p> +<p> +“By-the-bye, have you heard any thing of a movement in the country here +about us? The Government have apparently got some information on the +subject, but I suspect without any foundation whatever.” + </p> +<p> +“To what extent does this information go?” said Sir Archy, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“That I can't tell you; all I know is, that my father has just received a +letter from the Castle, stating that we are living in the very midst of an +organised rebellion, only waiting the signal for open revolt. +</p> +<p> +“That same rebellion has been going on, to my knowledge, something more +than forty years” said the O'Donoghue, laughing; “and I never knew of a +Lord Lieutenant or Chief Secretary who didn't discover the plot, and save +the kingdom: always leaving a nest egg of treason for his successor to +make a character by.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm no' so sure it will not come to a hatching yet,” said Sir Archy, with +a dry shake of the head. +</p> +<p> +“If it is to come, I wish with all my heart it might while I have a chance +of being a spectator,” said Travers; then suddenly remembering that the +levity of the remark might not please the others, he muttered a few words +about a hope of better prospects, and withdrew. +</p> +<p> +During this brief colloquy, Kate listened with breathless interest to +learn some fact, or even some well-grounded suspicion which might serve to +put Mark on his guard; but nothing could be more vague and indecisive than +Travers's information, and it was evident that he had not concealed any +thing he knew. Was he in a position to learn more, was the next question +to herself—might he not be able to ascertain where the suspicion of +Government rested, and on whom? Her decisions were seldom but the work of +a second, and as soon as this thought struck her, she determined to act +upon it. Slipping noiselessly from the room, she hastily threw a shawl +around her, and hurried from the house by a small postern door, which, +leading down to the high road, was considerably shorter than the causeway +by which Travers must pass. +</p> +<p> +It was no time for the indulgence of bashfulness, and indeed her thoughts +were far too highly excited by another's destiny to leave any room to +think of herself; and short as the path was, it sufficed to let her +arrange her plan of procedure, even to the very words she should employ. +</p> +<p> +“I must not tell him it is for Mark,” said she; “he must think it is a +general desire to save any rash or misguided enthusiast from ruin. But, +here he comes;” and at the same instant the figure of a man was seen +approaching, leading his horse by the bridle. The dark shadow of the +castle fell across the road at the spot, and served to make the form dim +and indistinct. Kate waited not for his coming nearer, but advancing +hastily towards him, cried out— +</p> +<p> +“Captain Travers, I have a favour to ask of you—one, which my coming +thus to seek——” + </p> +<p> +“Say no more, Kate, lest I hear what was never intended for my ears,” said +a low, deep voice. +</p> +<p> +“Mark—cousin Mark, is this you,” cried she, with mingled pleasure +and shame. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” replied he, in a tone of still deeper gravity; “I grieve to +disappoint you—it is me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Mark, mistake me not—do not wrong me,” said she, laying her +hand affectionately on his arm. “I have longed so much to see you—to +speak to you, ere we went away.” + </p> +<p> +“To see <i>me</i>—to speak to <i>me</i>,” said he, stepping back, +and letting the moonlight fall full upon his features, now pale as death; +“it was not <i>me</i> you expected to meet here.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Mark, but it was for you I came; I wished to serve—perhaps to +save you. I know your secret, Mark, but it is safe with me.” + </p> +<p> +“And I know yours, young lady,” retorted he, bitterly. “I cannot say how +far my discretion will rival your own.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0013" id="linkimage-0013"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00259.jpg" width="100%" alt="259 " /> +</div> +<p> +As he spoke, a horseman darted rapidly past, and as he emerged from the +shadow, turned round in his saddle, stared fixedly at the figures before +him, and then taking off his hat, said— +</p> +<p> +“Good-night, Miss O'Donoghue.” + </p> +<p> +When Kate-recovered the shock of this surprise, she found herself alone—Mark +had disappeared; and she now returned slowly to the castle, her heart torn +with opposing emotions, among which wounded pride was not the least +poignant. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVII. A SUPPER PARTY +</h2> +<p> +As we are about to withdraw our reader for a brief period from the scenes +wherein he has so kindly lingered with us hitherto, we may be permitted to +throw on them a last look ere we part. +</p> +<p> +On the evening which followed that recorded in our last chapter, the two +old men were seated alone in the tower of Carrig-na-curra, silent and +thoughtful, each following out in his mind the fortunes of him for whom +his interest was deepest, and each sad with the sorrow that never spares +those who are, or who deem themselves, forsaken. +</p> +<p> +Unaided memory can conjure up no such memorials of past pleasure as come +from the objects and scenes associated with days and nights of happiness; +they appeal with a force mere speculation never suggests, and bring back +all the lesser, but more touching incidents of hourly intercourse, so +little at the time—so much when remembered years afterwards. +</p> +<p> +The brightest moments of life are the most difficult to recall; they are +like the brilliant lights upon a landscape, which we may revisit a hundred +times, yet never behold under the same favourable circumstances, nor gaze +on with the same enthusiasm as at first. It was thus that both the +O'Donoghue and Sir Archy now remembered her whose presence lightened so +many hours of solitude, and even grafted hope upon the tree scathed and +withered by evil fortune. Several efforts to start a topic of conversation +were made by each, but all equally fruitless, and both relapsed into a +moody silence, from which they were suddenly aroused by a violent ringing +at the gate, and the voices of many persons talking together, among which +Mark O'Donoghue's could plainly be heard. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but I insist upon it,” cried he; “to refuse will offend me.” + </p> +<p> +Some words were then spoken in a tone of remonstrance, to which he again +replied, but with even greater energy— +</p> +<p> +“What care I for that? This is my father's house, and who shall say that +his eldest son cannot introduce his friends——” + </p> +<p> +A violent jerk of the bell drowned the remainder of the speech. +</p> +<p> +“We are about to hae company, I perceive,” said Sir Archy, looking +cautiously about to secure his book and his spectacles before retreating +to his bed room. +</p> +<p> +“Bedad, you just guessed it,” said Kerry, who, having reconnoitred the +party through a small window beside the door, had now prudently adjourned +to take council whether he should admit them. “There's eight or nine at +laste, and it is'nt fresh and fasting either they are.” + </p> +<p> +“Why don't you open the door?—do you want your bones broken for +you,” said the O'Donoghue, harshly. +</p> +<p> +“I'd let them gang the gate they cam,” said Sir Archy, sagely; “if I may +hazard a guess from their speech, they are no in a fit state to visit any +respectable house. Hear till that?” + </p> +<p> +A fearful shout now was heard outside. +</p> +<p> +“What's the rascal staring at?” cried the O'Donoghue, with clenched teeth. +“Open the door this instant.” + </p> +<p> +But the words were scarcely uttered, when a tremendous crash resounded +through the whole building, and then a heavy noise like the fall of some +weighty object. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis the window he's bruk in—divil a lie,” cried Kerry, in an +accent of unfeigned terror; and, without waiting a second, he rushed from +the room to seek some place of concealment from Mark's anger. +</p> +<p> +The clash of the massive chain was next heard, as it banged heavily +against the oak door; bolt after bolt was quickly shot, and Mark, calling +out—“Follow me—this way,” rudely pushed wide the door and +entered the tower. A mere passing glance was enough to show that his +excitement was not merely the fruit of passion—his eyes wild and +bloodshot, his flushed cheek, his swollen and heavy lips, all betrayed +that he had drank deeply. His cravat was loose and his vest open, while +the fingers of his right hand were one mass of blood, from the violence +with which he had forced his entrance. +</p> +<p> +“Come along, Talbot—Holt, this way—come in boys,” said he, +calling to those behind. “I told them we should find you here, though they +insisted it was too late.” + </p> +<p> +“Never too late to welcome a guest, Mark, but always too early to part +with one,” cried the O'Donoghue, who, although shocked at the condition he +beheld his son in, resolved to betray for the time no apparent +consciousness of it. +</p> +<p> +“This is my friend, Harry Talbot, father—Sir Archy M'Nab, my uncle. +Holt, where are you? I'll be hanged if they're not slipped away; and with +a fearful imprecation on their treachery, he rushed from the room, leaving +Talbot to make his own advances. The rapid tramp of feet, and the loud +laughter of the fugitives without, did not for a second or two permit of +his few words being heard; but his manner and air had so far assured Sir +Archy, that he stopped short as he was about to leave the room, and +saluted him courteously. +</p> +<p> +“It would be very ungracious in me,” said Talbot, smiling, “to disparage +my friend Mark's hospitable intentions, but in truth I feel so much +ashamed for the manner of our entry here this evening, that I cannot +express the pleasure such a visit would have given me under more becoming +circumstances.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archibald's surprise at the tone in which these words were delivered, +did not prevent him making a suitable reply, while relinquishing his +intention of retiring, he extinguished his candle, and took a seat +opposite Talbot. +</p> +<p> +Having in an early chapter of our tale presented this gentleman to our +reader's notice, we have scarcely any thing to add on the present +occasion. His dress indeed was somewhat different; then, he wore a riding +costume—now he was habited in a frock richly braided, and ornamented +with a deep border of black fur; a cap of the same skin, from which hung a +band of deep gold lace, he also carried in his hand—a costume which +at the time would have been called foreign. +</p> +<p> +While Sir Archy was interchanging courtesies with the newly-arrived guest, +the O'Donoghue, by dint of reiterated pulling at the bell, had succeeded +in inducing Kerry O'Leary to quit his sanctuary, and venture to the door +of the apartment, which he did with a caution only to be acquired by long +practice. +</p> +<p> +“Is he here, sir?” whispered he, as his eyes took a rapid but searching +survey of the apartment. “Blessed virgin, but he's in a dreadful temper +to-night.” + </p> +<p> +“Bring some supper here directly,” cried O'Donoghue, striking the ground +angrily with his heavy cane; “if I have to tell you again, I hope he'll +break every bone in your skin.” + </p> +<p> +“I request you will not order any refreshment for me, sir,” said Talbot, +bowing; “we partook of a very excellent supper at a little cabin in the +glen, where, among other advantages, I had the pleasure of making your +son's acquaintance.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, indeed, at Mary's,” said the old man. “There are worse places than +that little 'shebeen;' but you must permit me to offer you a glass of +claret, which never tastes the worse in company with a grouse pie. +</p> +<p> +“You must hae found the travelling somewhat rude in these parts,” said +M'Nab, who thus endeavoured to draw from the stranger some hint either as +to the object or the road of his journey. +</p> +<p> +“We were not over particular on that score,” said Talbot, laughing. “A few +young college men seeking some days' amusement in the wild mountains of +this picturesque district, could well afford to rough it for the enjoyment +of the ramble.” + </p> +<p> +“You should visit us in the autumn,” said O'Donoghue, “when our heaths and +arbutus blossoms are in beauty; then, they who have travelled far, tell me +that there is nothing to be seen in Switzerland finer than this valley. +Draw your chair over here, and let me have the pleasure of a glass of wine +with you.” + </p> +<p> +The party had scarcely taken their places at the table, when Mark +re-entered the room, heated and excited with the chase of the fugitives. +</p> +<p> +“They're off,” muttered he, angrily, “down the glen, and I only hope they +may lose their way in it, and spend the night upon the heather.” + </p> +<p> +As he spoke, he turned his eyes to the corner of the room, where Kerry, in +a state of the most abject fear, was endeavouring to extract a cork from a +bottle by means of a very impracticable screw. +</p> +<p> +“Ah! you there,” cried he, as his eyes flashed fire. “Hold the bottle up—hold +it steady, you old fool,” and with a savage grin he drew a pistol from his +breast pocket and levelled it at the mark. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0014" id="linkimage-0014"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00265.jpg" width="100%" alt="265 " /> +</div> +<p> +Kerry was on his knees, one hand on the floor and in the other the bottle, +which, despite all his efforts, he swayed backwards and forwards. +</p> +<p> +“O master, darlin'—O Sir Archy, dear—O Joseph and Mary!” + </p> +<p> +“I've drank too much wine to hit it flying,” said Mark, with a half +drunken laugh, “and the fool won't be steady. There;” and as he spoke, the +crash of the report resounded through the room, and the neck of the bottle +was snapped off about half an inch below the cork. +</p> +<p> +“Neatly done, Mark—not a doubt of it,” said the O'Donoghue, as he +took the bottle from Kerry's hand, who, with a pace a kangaroo might have +envied, approached the table, actually dreading to stand up straight in +Mark's presence. +</p> +<p> +“At the risk of being thought an epicure,” said M'Nab, “I maun say I'd +like my wine handled more tenderly.” + </p> +<p> +“It was cleverly done though,” said Talbot, helping himself to a bumper +from the broken flask. “I remember a trick we used to have at St. Cyr, +which was, to place a bullet on a cork, and then, at fifteen paces cut +away the cork and drop the bullet into the bottle.” + </p> +<p> +“No man ever did that twice,” cried Mark, rudely. +</p> +<p> +“I'll wager a hundred guineas I do it twice, within five shots,” said +Talbot, with the most perfect coolness. +</p> +<p> +“Done, for a hundred—I say done,” said Mark, slapping him familiarly +on the shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“I'll not win your money on such unfair terms,” said Talbot, laughing, +“and if I can refrain from taking too much of this excellent Bourdeaux, +I'll do the trick to-morrow without a wager.” + </p> +<p> +Mark, like most persons who place great store by feats of skill and +address, felt vexed at the superiority claimed by another, answered +carelessly, “that, after all, perhaps the thing were easier than it +seemed.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true,” chimed in Talbot, mildly; “what we have neither done +ourselves nor seen done by another, has always the appearance of +difficulty. What is called wisdom is little other than the power of +calculating success or failure on grounds of mere probability. +</p> +<p> +“Your definition has the advantage of being sufficient for the occasion,” + said Sir Archy, smiling. “I am happy to find our glen has not disappointed +you; but if you have not seen the Lake and the Bay of Glengariff, I +anticipate even a higher praise from you.” + </p> +<p> +“We spent the day on the water,” replied Talbot; “and if it were not a +heresy, I should affirm, that these bold mountains are grander and more +sublime in the desolation of winter, than even when clothed in the purple +and gold of summer. There was a fine sea, too, rolling into that great +Bay, bounding upon the rocks, and swelling proudly against the tall +cliffs, which, to my eye, is more pleasurable than the glassy surface of +calm water. Motion is the life of inanimate objects, and life has always +its own powers of excitement.” + </p> +<p> +While they conversed thus, M'Nab, endeavouring, by adroit allusions to the +place, to divine the real reason of the visit, and Talbot, by encomiums on +the scenery, or, occasionally, by the expression of some abstract +proposition, seeking to avoid any direct interrogatory—Mark, who had +grown weary of a dialogue which, even in his clearer moments, would not +have interested him, drank deeply from the wine before him, filling and +re-filling a large glass unceasingly, while the O'Donoghue merely paid +that degree of attention which politeness demanded. +</p> +<p> +It was thus that, while Sir Archy believed he was pushing Talbot closely +on the objects of his coming, Talbot was, in reality, obtaining from him +much information about the country generally, the habits of the people, +and their modes of life, which he effected in the easy, unconstrained +manner of one perfectly calm and unconcerned. “The life of a fisherman,” + said he, in reply to a remark of Sir Archy's—“the life of a +fisherman is, however, a poor one; for though his gains are great, at +certain seasons, there are days—ay, whole months, he cannot venture +out to sea. Now it strikes me, that in that very Bay of Bantry the swell +must be terrific, when the wind blows from the west, or the nor'-west.” + </p> +<p> +“You are right—quite right,” answered M'Nab, who at once entered +freely into a discussion of the condition of the Bay, under the various +changing circumstances of wind and tide. “Many of our poor fellows have +been lost within my own memory, and, indeed, save when we have an easterly +wind——” + </p> +<p> +“An easterly wind?” re-echoed Mark, lifting his head suddenly from between +his hands, and staring in half-drunken astonishment around him. “Is that +the toast—did you say that?” + </p> +<p> +“With all my heart,” said Sir Archy, smiling. “There are few sentiments +deserve a bumper better, by any who live in these parts. Won't you join +us, Mr. Talbot?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I will,” said Talbot, laughing, but with all his efforts to +seem at ease, a quick observer might have remarked the look of warning he +threw towards the young O'Donoghue. +</p> +<p> +“Here, then,” cried Mark, rising, while the wine trickled over his hand +from a brimming goblet—“I'll give it—are you ready?” + </p> +<p> +“All ready, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, laughing heartily at the serious +gravity of Mark's countenance. +</p> +<p> +“Confound it,” cried the youth, passionately; “I forget the jingle.” + </p> +<p> +“Never mind—never mind,” interposed Talbot, slily; “we'll pledge it +with as good a mind.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“That's—that's it,” shouted Mark, as the last word clinked upon his +memory. “I have it now,” and his eyes sparkled, and his brows were met, +as he called out— + +“A stout heart and mind, +And an easterly wind, +And the devil behind The Saxon.” + </pre> +<p> +Sir Archy laid down his glass untasted, while Talbot, bursting forth into +a well-acted laugh, cried out, “You must excuse me from repeating your +amiable sentiment, which, for aught I can guess, may be a sarcasm on my +own country.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd like to hear the same toast explained,” said Sir Archy, cautiously, +while his looks wandered alternately from Mark to Talbot. +</p> +<p> +“So you shall, then,” replied Mark, sternly, “and this very moment too.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, that's fair,” chimed in Talbot, while he fixed his eyes on the +youth, with such a steady gaze as seemed actually to have pierced the dull +vapour of his clouded intellect, and flashed light upon his addled brain. +“Let us hear your explanation.” + </p> +<p> +Mark, for a second or two, looked like one suddenly awakened from a deep +sleep, and trying to collect his wandering faculties, while, as if +instinctively seeking the clue to his bewilderment from Talbot, he never +turned his eyes from him. As he sat thus, he looked the very ideal of +half-drunken stupidity. +</p> +<p> +“I'm afraid we have no right to ask the explanation,” whispered Talbot +into M'Nab's ear. “We ought to be satisfied, if he give us the rhyme, even +though he forgot the reason.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm thinking you're right, sir,” replied M'Nab; “but I suspect we hae na +the poet before us, ony mair than the interpreter.” + </p> +<p> +Mark's faculties, in slow pursuit of Talbot's meaning, had just at this +instant overtaken their object, and he burst forth into a boisterous fit +of laughter, which, whatever sentiment it might have excited in the +others, relieved Talbot, at least, from all his former embarrassment: he +saw that Mark had, though late, recognised his warning, and was at once +relieved from any uneasiness on the score of his imprudence. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archy was, however, very far from feeling satisfied. What he had +heard, brief and broken as it was, but served to excite his suspicions, +and make him regard this guest as at least a very doubtful character. Too +shrewd a diplomatist to push his inquiries any further, he adroitly turned +the conversation upon matters of comparative indifference, reserving to +himself the part of acutely watching Talbot's manner, and narrowly +scrutinizing the extent of his acquaintance with Mark O'Donoghue. In +whatever school Talbot had been taught, his skill was more than a match +for Sir Archy's. Not only did he at once detect the meaning of the old +man's policy; but he contrived to make it subservient to his own views, by +the opportunity it afforded him of estimating the influence he was capable +of exerting over his nephew; and how far, if need were, Mark should become +dependent on his will, rather than on that of any member of his own +family. The frankness of his manner, the seeming openness of his nature, +rendered his task a matter of apparent amusement; and none at the table +looked in every respect more at ease than Harry Talbot. +</p> +<p> +While Sir Archy was thus endeavouring, with such skill as he possessed, to +worm out the secret reason—and such, he well knew, there must be—of +Talbot's visit to that unfrequented region, Kerry O'Leary was speculating, +with all his imaginative ability, how best to account for that event. The +occasion was one of more than ordinary difficulty. Talbot looked neither +like a bailiff nor a sheriffs officer; neither had he outward signs of a +lawyer or an attorney. Kerry was conversant with the traits of each of +these. If he were a suitor for Miss Kate, his last guess, he was a day too +late. +</p> +<p> +“But sure he couldn't be that: he'd never come with a throop of noisy +vagabonds, in the dead of the night, av he was after the young lady. Well, +well, he bates me out—sorra lie in it,” said he, drawing a heavy +sigh, and crossing his hands before him in sad resignation. +</p> +<p> +“On <i>my</i> conscience, then, it was a charity to cut your hair for you, +anyhow!” said Mrs. Branagan, who had been calmly meditating on the +pistol-shot, which, in grazing Kerry's hair, had somewhat damaged his +locks. +</p> +<p> +“See, then—by the holy mass! av he went half an inch lower, it's my +life he'd be after taking; and if he was fifty O'Donoghues, I'd have my +vingince. Bad cess to me, but they think the likes of me isn't fit to live +at all.” + </p> +<p> +“They do,” responded Mrs. Branagan, with a mild puff of smoke from the +corner of her mouth—“they do; and if they never did worse than +extarminate such varmin, their sowls would have an easier time of it.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry's brow lowered, and his lips muttered; but no distinct reply was +audible. +</p> +<p> +“Sorra bit of good I see in ye at all,” said she, with inexorable +severity. “I mind the time ye used to tell a body what was doing above +stairs; and, though half what ye said was lies, it was better than +nothing: but now yer as stupid and lazy as the ould beast there fornint +the fire—not a word out of yer head from morning to night. Ayeh, is +it your hearin's failin' ye?” + </p> +<p> +“I wish to the Blessed Mother it was,” muttered he fervently to himself. +</p> +<p> +“There's a man now eatin' and drinkin' in the parlour, and the sorra more +ye know about him, than if he was the Queen of Sheba.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't I, thin—maybe not,” said Kerry, tauntingly, and with a look +of such well-affected secrecy, that Mrs. Branagan was completely deceived +by it. +</p> +<p> +“What is he, then? spake it out free this minit,” said she. “Bad cess to +you, do you want to trate me like an informer.” + </p> +<p> +“No, indeed, Mrs. Branagan; its not that same I'd even to you—sure I +knew your people—father and mother's side—two generations +back. Miles Buoy—yallow Miles, as they called him—was the +finest judge of a horse in Kerry—I wonder now he didn't make a power +of money.” + </p> +<p> +“And so he did, and spint it after. 'Twas blackguards, with ould gaiters, +and one spur on them, that ate up every shilling he saved.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well! think of that, now,” said Kerry, with the sententious-ness of +one revolving some strange and curious social anomaly; “and that's the way +it wint.” + </p> +<p> +“Wasn't it a likely way enough,” said Mrs. Branagan, with flashing eyes, +“feedin' a set of spalpeens that thought of nothing but chating the world. +The sight of a pair of top hoots gives me the heartburn to this day.” + </p> +<p> +“Mine warms to them, too,” said Kerry, timidly, who ventured on his humble +pun with deep humility. +</p> +<p> +A contemptuous scowl was Mrs. Branagan's reply, and Kerry resumed. +</p> +<p> +“Them's the changes of world—rich yesterday—poor to-day! Don't +I know what poverty is well myself. Augh! sure enough they wor the fine +times, when I rode out on a beast worth eighty guineas in goold, wid +clothes on my back a lord might envy; and now, look at me!” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Branagan, to whom the rhetorical figure seemed a direct appeal, did +look; and assuredly the inspection conveyed nothing flattering, for she +turned away abruptly, and smoked her pipe with an air of profound disdain. +</p> +<p> +“Faix ye may say so,” continued Kerry, converting her glance into words. +“'Tis a poor object I am this blessed day. The coat on my back is more +like a transparency, and my small clothes, saving your favour, is as hard +to get into as a fishing-net; and if I was training for the coorse, I +couldn't be on shorter allowance.”. “What's that yer saying about yer +vittals?” said the cook, turning fiercely towards him. “There's not your +equal for an appetite from this to Cork. It's little time a Kerry cow +would keep you in beef; and it's an ill skin it goes into. Yer a disgrace +to a good family.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I am, and there's no denying it!” ejaculated Kerry, with a sigh +that sounded far more like despair than resignation. +</p> +<p> +“Is it to hang yourself you have that piece of a rope there?” said she, +pointing to the end of a stout cord that depended from Kerry's pocket. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe it might come to that same yet,” said he, and then putting his hand +into his pocket, he drew forth a great coil of rope, to the end of which a +leaden weight was fastened. “There, now,” resumed he, “Yer a cute woman—can +ye tell me what's the meanin of that?” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Branagan gave one look at the object in question, and then turned +away, as though the enquiry was one beneath her dignity to investigate. +</p> +<p> +“Some would call it a clothes-line, and more would say it was for fishing; +but sure there's no sign of hooks on it at all; and what's the piece of +lead for?—that's what bothers me out entirely.” These observations +were so many devices to induce Mrs. Branagan to offer her own +speculations; but they failed utterly—that sage personage not +deigning to pay the least attention either to Kerry or the subject of his +remarks. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I'll just leave it where I found it,” said he, in a half soliloquy, +but which had the effect of at least arousing the curiosity of his +companion. +</p> +<p> +“And where was that?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“Outside there, before the hall door,” said he, carelessly, “where I got +this little paper book too,” and he produced a small pocket almanack, with +blank pages interleaved, some of which had short pencil memoranda. “I'll +leave them both there, for, somehow, I don't like the look of either of +them.” + </p> +<p> +“Read us a bit of it first, anyhow,” said Mrs. Branagan, in a more +conciliating tone than she had yet employed. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis what I can't do, then,” said Kerry; “for it's writ in some +outlandish tongue that's past me altogether.” + </p> +<p> +“And you found them at the door, ye say?” + </p> +<p> +“Out there fornint the tower. 'Twas the chaps that run away from Master +Mark that dropped them. Ye'r a dhroll bit of a rope as ever I seen,” added +he, as he poised the lead in his hand, “av a body knew only what to make +of ye:” then turning to the book, he pored for several minutes over a +page, in which there were some lines written with a pencil. “Be my +conscience I have it,” said he, at length; “and faix it wasn't bad of me +to make it out. What do you think, now, the rope is for?” + </p> +<p> +“Sure I tould you afore I didn't know.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, hear it, and no lie in it—'tis for measurin' the say.” + </p> +<p> +“Measurin' the say! What bother you're talking; isn't the say thousands +and thousands of miles long.” + </p> +<p> +“And who says it isn't?—but for measurin' the depth of it, that's +what it is. Listen to this—'Bantry Bay, eleven fathoms at low water +inside of Whiddy Island; but the shore current at half ebb makes landing +difficult with any wind from the westward;' and here's another piece, half +rubbed out, about flat-bottomed boats being best for the surf.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis the smugglers again,” chimed in Mrs. Branagan, as though summing up +her opinion on the evidence. +</p> +<p> +“Troth, then, I don't think so; they never found it hard to land, no +matter how it blew. I'm thinking of a way to find it out at last.” + </p> +<p> +“And what's that?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll just go up to the parlour, wid an innocent face on me, and I'll lay +the rope and the little book down on the table before the strange man +there; and I'll just say, 'There's the things your honour dropped at the +door outside;' and maybe ould Archy won't have the saycrct out of him.” + </p> +<p> +“Do that, Kerry avich,” said Mrs. Branagan, who at length vouchsafed a +hearty approval of his skill in devices. “Do that, and I'll broil a bit o' +meat for ye agin ye come down.” + </p> +<p> +“Wid an onion on it, av it's plazing to ye, ma'am,” said Kerry, +insinuatingly. +</p> +<p> +“Sure I know how ye like it; and if ye have the whole of the say-cret, +maybe you'd get a dhrop to wash it down besides. +</p> +<p> +“And wish you health and happy days, Mrs. Branagan,” added Kerry, with a +courteous gallantry he always reserved for the kitchen; so saying, he +arose from his chair, and proceeded to arrange his dress in a manner +becoming the dignity of his new mission, rehearsing at the same time the +mode of his entry. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis the rope and the little book, your honour, I'll say, that ye dropped +outside there, and sure it would be a pity to lose it, afther all your +trouble measuring the places. That will be enough for ould Archy; let him +get a sniff of the game once, and begorra he'll run him home by himself +afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +With this sensible reflection, Kerry ascended the stairs in high good +humour at his own sagacity, and the excellent reward which awaited it on +his return. As he neared the door, the voices were loud and boisterous; at +least Mark's was such; and it seemed as if Talbot was endeavouring to +moderate the violent tone in which he spoke, and successfully, too; for a +loud burst of laughter followed, in which Talbot appeared to join +heartily. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe I'll spoil your fun,” said Kerry, maliciously, to himself, and he +opened the door, and entered. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. +</h2> +<p> +Dublin, at the time we speak of, possessed social attractions of a high +order. Rank, beauty, intellect, and wealth, contributed their several +influences; and while the tone of society had all the charms of a +politeness now bygone, there was an admixture of native kindliness and +cordiality, as distinctive as it was fascinating. +</p> +<p> +Almost every Irishman of rank travelled in those days. It was regarded as +the last finishing-touch of education, and few nations possess quicker +powers of imitation, or a greater aptitude in adapting foreign habitudes +to home usages, than the Irish; for, while vanity with the Frenchman—coldness +with the Englishman—and stolid indifference with the German, are +insuperable barriers against this acquirement; the natural gaiety of Irish +character, the buoyancy, but still more than all, perhaps, the inherent +desire to please, suggest a quality, which, when cultivated and improved, +becomes that great element of social success—the most precious of +all drawing-room gifts—men call tact. +</p> +<p> +It would be a most unfair criterion of the tastes and pleasures of that +day, were we to pronounce, from our experience of what Dublin now is. +Provincialism had not then settled down upon the city, with all its petty +attendant evils. The character of a metropolis was upheld by a splendid +Court, a resident Parliament, a great and titled aristocracy. The +foreground figures of the time were men whose names stood high, and whose +station was recognized at every Court of Europe. There was wealth more +than proportioned to the cheapness of the country; and while ability and +talent were the most striking features of every circle, the taste for +gorgeous display exhibited within doors and without, threw a glare of +splendour over the scene, that served to illustrate, but not eclipse the +prouder glories of mind. The comparative narrowness of the circle, and the +total absence of English reserve, produced a more intimate admixture of +all the ranks which constitute good society here than in London, and the +advantages were evident; for while the aristocrat gained immeasurably, +from ready intercourse with men whose pursuits were purely intellectual, +so the latter acquired a greater expansiveness, and a wider liberality in +his views, from being divested of all the trammels of mere professional +habit, and threw off his pedantry, as a garment unsuited to his position +in society. But what more than all else was the characteristic of the +time, was the fact, that social eminence—the “succès de salon”—was +an object to every one. From the proud peer, who aspired to rank and +influence in the councils of the state, to the rising barrister, ambitious +of parliamentary distinction—from the mere fashionable idler of the +squares, to the deep plotter of political intrigue—this was alike +indispensable. The mere admission into certain circles was nothing—the +fact of mixing with the hundred others who are announced, and bow, and +smile, and slip away, did not then serve to identify a man as belonging to +a distinct class in society; nor would the easy platitudes of the present +day, in which the fool or the fop can always have the ascendant, suffice +for the absence of conversational ability, ready wit, and sharp +intelligence, which were assembled around every dinner-table of the +capital. +</p> +<p> +It is not our duty, still less our inclination, to inquire why have all +these goodly attractions left us, nor wherefore is it, that, Uke the art +of staining glass, social agreeability should be lost for ever. So it +would seem, however; we have fallen upon tiresome times, and he who is old +enough to remember pleasanter ones, has the sad solace of knowing that he +has seen the last of them. +</p> +<p> +Crowded as the capital was, with rank, wealth, and influence, the arrival +of Sir Marmaduke Travers was not without its “eclat.” His vast fortune was +generally known; besides that, there was a singularity in the fact of an +Englishman, bound to Ireland by the very slender tie of a small estate, +without connexions or friends in the country, coming to reside in Dublin, +which gratified native pride as much as it excited public curiosity; and +the rapidity with which the most splendid mansion in Stephen's-green was +prepared for his reception, vied in interest with the speculation, as to +what possible cause had induced him to come and live there. The rumours of +his intended magnificence, and the splendour of his equipage, furnished +gossip for the town, and paragraphs for the papers. +</p> +<p> +It was, indeed, a wondrous change for those two young girls—from the +stillness and solitude of Glenflesk, to the gaiety of the capital—from +a life of reflection and retirement, to the dazzling scenes and +fascinating pleasures of a new world. Upon Sybella the first effect was to +increase her natural timidity—to render her more cautious, as she +found herself surrounded by influences so novel and so strange; and in +this wise there was mingled with her enjoyment, a sense of hesitation and +fear, that tinged all her thoughts, and even impressed themselves upon her +manner. Not so with Kate: the instinct that made her feel at home in the +world, was but the consciousness of her own powers of pleasing. She loved +society as the scene, where, however glossed over by conventionalities, +human passions and feelings were at work, and where the power of +influencing or directing others gave a stimulus to existence, far higher +and nobler than all the pleasures of retirement. It was life, in fact. +Each day had its own separate interests, dramatizing, as it were, the +real, and making of the ordinary events of the world a romance, of which +she felt herself a character. As much an actor as spectator, she threw +herself into the pleasures of society with a zest which need only have the +accompaniments of youth, beauty, and talents, to make it contagious. Thus +differing in character, as in appearance, these two young girls at once +became the acknowledged beauties of the capital, and each was followed by +a troop of admirers, whose enthusiasm exhibited itself in a hundred +different ways. Their favourite colours at a ball became the fashionable +emblems of the next day on the promenade, and even the ladies caught up +the contagion, and enlisted themselves into parties, whose rivalry amused +none so much as those, in whom it had its origin. +</p> +<p> +While the galling enmity of Celt to Saxon was then stirring in secret the +hearts of thousands in the country, and fashioning itself into the +elements of open insurrection, the city was divided by a more peaceful +animosity, and the English and the Irish party were arrayed against each +other in the cause of beauty. +</p> +<p> +It would be impossible to conceive a rivalry from which every ungenerous +or unworthy feeling was more perfectly excluded. So far from any jealousy +obtruding, every little triumph of one was a source of unalloyed heartfelt +pleasure to the other; and while Sybella sympathized with all the delight +of Kate's followers in an Irish success, so Kate, with characteristic +feeling, enjoyed nothing so much as the chagrin of her own party, when +Sybella was unquestionably in the ascendant. Happily for us, we are not +called upon to explain a phenomenon so novel and so pleasing—enough +if we record it. Certain it is, the absence of all envy enhanced the +fascinations of each, and exalted the objects in the eyes of their +admirers. On this point alone opinion was undivided—none claimed any +superiority for their idol, by ascribing to her a greater share of this +good gift; nor could even malice impute a difference in their mutual +affection. +</p> +<p> +One alone among the circle of their acquaintances stood neutral—unable +to divest himself enough of natural partiality, to be a fair and just +judge. Sir Marmaduke Travers candidly avowed that he felt himself out of +court. The leaders of fashion, the great arbiters of “bon ton,” were +happily divided, and if England could boast of a majority among the Castle +party, Ireland turned the scale with those who, having enjoyed +opportunities of studying foreign manner, pronounced Kate's the very +perfection of French agreeability, united to native loveliness and +attraction. +</p> +<p> +So much for “the sensation,” to use the phrase appropriated by the +newspapers, their entrance into the fashionable life of Dublin excited. +Let us now return to the parties themselves. In a large and splendidly +furnished apartment of Sir Marmaduke's Dublin residence, sat the Baronet, +his daughter, and Kate, at breakfast, alternately reading from the morning +papers, and discussing the news as they ate. +</p> +<p> +“Well, but, my dear Kate”—Sir Marmaduke had emancipated himself from +the more formal “Miss” a week before—“turn to another column, and +let us hear if they have any political news.” + </p> +<p> +“There's not a word, sir, unless an allusion to the rebel colour of my +dress at the Chancellor's ball be such. You see, Sybella, Falkner fights +not under my banner.” + </p> +<p> +“I think you stole the Chancellor himself from me,” replied Sybella, +laughing, “and I must say most unhandsomely too: he had just given me his +arm, to lead me to a chair, when you said something in a half whisper—I +could not catch it if I would—he dropped my arm, burst out a +laughing, and hurried over to Lord Clonmel—I suppose to repeat it.” + </p> +<p> +“It was not worth relating, then,” said Kate, with a toss of her head. “I +merely remarked how odd it was Lady Ridgeway couldn't dance in time, with +such beautiful clocks on her stocking.” + </p> +<p> +“O, Kate dearest!” said Sybella, who, while she could not refrain from a +burst of laughter, became deep scarlet at her friend's hardihood. +</p> +<p> +“Why Meddlicot told that as his own at supper,” said Sir Marmaduke. +</p> +<p> +“So he did, sir; but I cautioned him that a license for wholesale does not +permit the retail even of jokes. Isn't the worthy sheriff a druggist? But +what have we here—all manner of changes on the staff—Lord +Sellbridge to join his regiment at Hounslow, vice, Captain———your +brother, Sybella—Captain Frederick Travers”—and she reddened +slightly at the words. “I did not know he was appointed aid-decamp to the +Viceroy.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor did I, my dear,” said Sir Marmaduke. “I knew, he was most anxious to +make the exchange with Lord Sellbridge; but this is the first I have heard +of the success of his negociation.” + </p> +<p> +“You see, Kate,” said Sybella, while a sly glance shot beneath her +long-lashed lids, “that even Fred has become a partizan of Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps the prospect of the revolt he hinted at,” replied Kate, with an +air of scornful pride, “has made the Guardsman prefer this country for the +moment.” + </p> +<p> +“I incline to a very different reason,” said Sybella, but in a voice so +subdued as to be only audible to Kate herself, who again blushed deeply, +and seemed greatly confused. +</p> +<p> +“Ha! here it is,” said Sir Marmaduke, reading aloud a long paragraph from +a morning paper, which, descanting on the abortiveness of any effort to +destroy the peace of the realm, by enemies without or within its +frontiers, concluded with a glowing panegyric on the blessings of the +British constitution. “'The government, while confiding implicitly on the +loyalty and bravery of his Majesty's people, have yet neglected no +measures of precaution against the insane and rash attempts of our +'natural enemies,' whose temerity is certain of again receiving the same +severe lesson which every attempt upon our shores has taught them.' Yes—yes—very +prompt and active measures, nothing could be better,” muttered he to +himself. +</p> +<p> +“'May I ask what they consist in—these precautionary movements?” + said Kate. +</p> +<p> +“A full organization of the militia and yeomanry,” replied Sir Marmaduke, +proudly, for he commanded a regiment of 'Northamptonshire fencibles.' +“Strengthening the different garrisons in large towns-mounting guns of +heavy calibre on the forts—” + </p> +<p> +A hearty burst of laughter broke from Kate, which she made no effort to +control whatever. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot help laughing, because that same word recalls a conversation I +once heard between two French officers in Bruges; one of them who seemed +to know Ireland well, averred that these forts were so placed as only to +be capable of battering down each other. I know he instanced two on the +southern coast, which in three discharges must inevitably make a drawn +battle of it.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear young lady,” said Sir Marmaduke, with an unusual gravity, “it is +not exactly to our enemies we must look for any warm encomium on our means +of defence, nor has experience yet shown, that British courage can be +justly a subject for a Frenchman's laughter.” + </p> +<p> +“And as to the militia and yeomanry,” continued Kate, for she seemed bent +on tormenting, and totally indifferent to the consequences regarding +herself, “Colonel Delcamp called them 'arsenals ambulantes,' admirably +contrived to provide an invading army with arms and ammunition.” + </p> +<p> +“I heartily wish your friend, Colonel Delcamp, would favour us with a +visit of inspection,” said the Baronet, scarcely able to control his +anger. +</p> +<p> +“I should not think the occurrence unlikely,” was the cool reply, “and if +so, I may be permitted to assure you, that you will be much pleased with +his manners and agreeability.” Sybella's imploring look was all in vain; +Kate, as she herself said, belonged to a race who neither gave nor took +quarter, and such a controversy was the very conflict she gloried in. How +it was to be carried on any further, is not easy to foresee, had not the +difficulty been solved by the entrance of Frederick Travers, come to +communicate the news of his appointment. While Sir Marmaduke and Sybella +expressed their joy at his success, Kate, half chagrined at the +interruption to a game, where she already deemed herself the winner, +walked towards the window and looked out. +</p> +<p> +“Have I nothing like congratulation to expect from Miss O'Donoghue,” said +Frederick, as he placed himself at her side. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely knew if it were a subject where congratulation would be +suitable. To exchange the glories of London life, the fascinations of a +great Court, and the society of the first people in the land, for the +lesser splendours of a second-rate capital; perhaps you might have smiled +at the simplicity of wishing you joy for all this,” and here her voice +assumed a deeper, fuller accent. “I own that I do not feel Ireland in a +position to bear even a smile of scorn without offence to one of her +children.” + </p> +<p> +“I was not aware till now, that you could suspect me of such a feeling.” + </p> +<p> +“You are an Englishman, sir, that's enough,” said Kate hurriedly; “in <i>your</i> +eyes, we are the people you have conquered, and it would be too much to +expect you should entertain great respect for the prejudices you have +laboured to subdue. But after all, there is a distinction worth making, +and you have not made it.” + </p> +<p> +“And that is, if I dare ask—” “That is, there is a wide difference +between conquering the territory, and gaining the affections of a people. +You have succeeded in one; you'll never, at least by your present courses, +accomplish the other.” + </p> +<p> +“Speak more plainly to me,” said Travers, who felt a double interest in a +conversation which every moment contained an allusion that bore upon his +own fortune. +</p> +<p> +“There, there, sir,” said Kate, proudly, “your very request is an answer +to yourself. We, here, who have known each other for some time, have had +opportunities of interchanging opinions and sentiments, cannot understand +a simple matter in the same way, nor regard it in the same light, how do +you suppose, that millions separated by distance, habits and pursuits, can +attain to what we, with our advantages, have failed in. Can you not see +that we are not the same people. +</p> +<p> +“But need our dissimilitudes sever—may they not be made rather ties +to bind us more closely together,” said he, tenderly. +</p> +<p> +“Equality for the future, even if we obtained it, cannot eradicate the +memory of the past. The penal laws——” + </p> +<p> +“Come—come. There is no longer any thing there. See the University +for instance—by-the-bye,” and here Travers caught eagerly at the +opportunity of escape, “what of Herbert, is not this near the time for his +examination?” + </p> +<p> +“The very day, the 28th of February,” said she, reading from a small +memorandum book. “It is six weeks yesterday since we have seen him—poor +boy!” + </p> +<p> +“How pale and sickly he looked too. I wish with all my heart, he had not +set his mind so eagerly on College success.” + </p> +<p> +“It is only for women, to live without ambition of one sort or other;” + replied Kate, sadly, “and a very poor kind of existence it is, I assure +you.” + </p> +<p> +“What if we were to make a party, and meet him as he comes out? We might +persuade him to join us at dinner, too.” + </p> +<p> +“Well thought of, Fred,” said Sir Marmaduke. “Herbert seems to have +forgotten us latterly, and knowing his anxiety to succeed, I really +scrupled at the thought of idling him.” + </p> +<p> +“It is very kind of you all,” said Kate, with one of her sweetest smiles, +“to remember the poor student, and there is nothing I should like better +than the plan you propose.” + </p> +<p> +“We must find out the hour they leave the Hall,” said Frederick. +</p> +<p> +“I heard him say it was at four o'clock,” said Sybella, timidly, venturing +for the first time to interpose a word in the conversation. +</p> +<p> +“You have the best memory in the world, Sybella,” whispered Kate in her +friend's ear, and simple as the words were, they called the blush to her +cheek in an instant. +</p> +<p> +The morning passed away in the thousand little avocations which affluence +and ease have invented, to banish “ennui,” and render life always +interesting. A few minutes before four o'clock, the splendid equipage of +Sir Marmaduke Travers, in all the massive perfection of its London +appointments, drew up at the outer gate of the University; the party +preferring to enter the courts on foot. +</p> +<p> +As Frederick Travers, with his two lady companions, appeared within the +walls, the murmur of their names ran through the crowd of gownsmen, +already assembled in the court; for although by College time, it still +wanted fifteen minutes of the hour, a considerable number of students were +gathered together, anxious to hear the result of the day. The simple but +massive style of the buildings; the sudden change from the tumult and +noise of a crowded city, to the silence and quietude of these spacious +quadrangles, the number of youths dressed in their University costume, and +either gazing wistfully, at the door of the Examination Hall, or +conversing eagerly together, were all matters of curious interest to the +Travers' party, who saw themselves in a world so different from that they +daily moved in. Nor were the loungers the students only; mixed up with +them, here and there, might be seen, some of the leading barristers of the +day, and one or two of the most distinguished members of the House of +Commons—men, who themselves had tasted the sweets of College +success, and were fain, even by a passing moment, to refresh the memory of +youthful triumphs, and bring back, by the sight of familiar objects, the +recollection of days, to which all the glories of after-life, are but poor +in comparison. Many of these were recognized by the students, and saluted +by them, with marks of profound respect; and one, a small mean-looking man +with jet black eyes, and olive complexion, was received with a cheer, +which was with difficulty arrested by a waving motion with his hand, and a +gesture towards the door of the “Hall,” from which with a hollow cavernous +sound, a heavy bolt was now drawn, and the wide portal opened. A general +movement in the crowd showed how intense expectation then was, but it was +destined to a further trial, for it was only the head porter dressed in +his crimson robe, and carrying his cap at arms length before him, who, +followed by the Provost, issued forth; the students removed their caps, +and stood in respectful silence as he passed. Again the door was closed, +and all was still. +</p> +<p> +“There is something in all this, that stimulates curiosity strongly,” said +Kate; “when I came in here, I could have waited patiently for an hour or +two, but now, the sight of all these anxious faces, these prying looks, +that seem eager to pierce the very door itself; those short sentences, +broken by quick glances at the clock, have worked me up to an excitement +high and fevered as their own.” + </p> +<p> +“It wants but a minute now,” said Fred. +</p> +<p> +“I think the hand has not moved, for the last ten,” said Sybella, smiling +faintly. +</p> +<p> +“I hope he has gained the prize,” muttered Kate, below her breath; and at +the moment, the bell tolled, and the wide doors, as if burst open by the +sound, were flung wide, and the human tide poured forth, and mingled with +that beneath; but what a different aspect did it present. The faces were +mostly flushed and heated, the eyes flashing, the dress disordered, the +cravats awry, the hair tangled—all the signs of mental excitement, +long and arduously sustained, were there, and save a few whose careless +look and unmoved expression showed that their part had no high ambition at +stake, all were impressed with the same character of mingled eagerness and +exhaustion. +</p> +<p> +Many among these were quickly singled out and surrounded by troops of +eager and anxious friends, and the passing stranger might easily read in +the tone and accent of the speaker his fortune, whether good or evil. +</p> +<p> +“Where is Herbert?—where can he be?—I don't see him,” said +each of the Travers' party, as, mingling with the crowd, they cast their +anxious looks on every side; but amid the bustle of the scene, the +hurrying forms, and the babble of tongues, they felt bewildered and +confused. +</p> +<p> +“Let us try at his chambers,” said Frederick; “he will, in all likelihood, +be there soon,” and at once they turned their steps towards the corner of +the old square near the library, where Herbert lived his solitary life; +for although nominally linked with a companion—a chum, in College +parlance—he rarely made his appearance within the walls, and then +only for a few days at a time. +</p> +<p> +When they reached the door, they found it open, and without further +waiting, or any notice of their approach, they entered, but so noiselessly +and quietly withal, that the deep accents of grief—the heavy sound +of broken sobs—struck at once upon their ears. They stopped and +gazed in silence at each other, reading, as it were, their own heartfelt +fears in the face of each. +</p> +<p> +“Poor fellow,” said Kate, as her proud lip trembled with agitation. “This +is a sad beginning.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us go back,” whispered Sybella, faintly, and her cheek was pale as +death as she spoke. +</p> +<p> +“No, no,” cried Frederick, hurriedly; “we must cheer him up, what +signifies the whole affair—a piece of mere boyish ambition, that +he'll only laugh at one of these days.” + </p> +<p> +“Not so,” said Kate. “The augury of success or failure in the outset of +life is no such trifle as you deem it. If he be faint-hearted, the game is +up with him for ever—if he be made of sterner stuff, as one of his +name and house ought to be, he'll revenge his present fall, by a great +hereafter. Let me see him,” and at once disengaging her arm, she walked +forward, and entered the chamber; while Frederick and his sister retired +to the court to await her return. +</p> +<p> +When Kate O'Donoghue entered the room, Herbert was seated before a table, +on which his head was leaning, with his hands pressed against his face. At +his feet lay his cap, and the books he carried with him from the Hall. +Unconscious of her presence, lost to every thing, save his overwhelming +affliction, the sobs came with a convulsive shudder that shook his frame, +and made the very table rattle, while at intervals there broke from him a +faint moan of heart-rending sorrow. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0015" id="linkimage-0015"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00284.jpg" width="100%" alt="284 " /> +</div> +<p> +“My dear brother,” said Kate, placing her arm around his neck. The boy +started and looked up, and prepared as she was to see the traces of +suffering there, she started at the ravages long days and nights of study +and deep grief had left behind them: his eyes were sunk, and surrounded by +dark circles, that made them seem quite buried beneath his brows; his +forehead traversed by a net-work of blue veins, had that transparent +thinness mental labour impresses, and his lips were thin and colourless; +while on each cheek a burning spot of red looked like the mark of hectic. +He made no answer; but the tears ran fast from his eyes, and his mouth +quivered as he tried to say something. +</p> +<p> +She sat down beside him on the same chair, and bending her head, till the +silken curls touched his very cheek, she spoke to him—not in words +of encouragement or good cheer, for such her own instinct told her were +inapplicable, but in the soft accents of affection, neither undervaluing +the source of his grief, nor yet suffering him to be carried away by his +own sense of his calamity. “Remember, my dear brother,” said she, “you are +not less dear to our hearts for all this—remember that for the +casualties of the world, and its chances, we can only do our utmost—that +success is not for us to determine, but to strive for. Had you won to-day, +some other must now have grieved like you, and who can tell if he could +count as many fond and loving hearts to feel for and console him.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, if you knew how I strived and longed—how I prayed for success,” + said he, in a voice almost stifled by convulsive throbs. +</p> +<p> +“And it will come yet, Herbert. The tree is only the more fruitful when +the knife has cut down to its very heart. Yours is not the nature to be +deterred by one repulse, nor yours the name to be stamped with failure, +because the contest is difficult. Ambitions are only noble when their path +is steep. Who knows how indolent you might have become, had you found the +prize too easily won. Come, come, Herbert, enough for the past; look +forward now, and with good courage and hope. The next struggle will end +differently; but, above all, wear a fair face before the world. I remember +some French prisoners being brought into Courtray, who amused us so much +by their gay and smiling air, and look of ease and satisfaction—their +secret was, that defeat was never disgrace, save when it lowered the +spirit, and made the heart droop. Theirs never failed, and I promise you +we thought all the better of them.” + </p> +<p> +“But my uncle—who is to tell him——” + </p> +<p> +“Let <i>me</i> tell him. I see you have begun a letter already—” + </p> +<p> +“That was written last night,” said the boy, as the tears gushed forth +afresh—“last night, when hope was almost certainty.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I'll finish it,” said Kate, taking up the half-written letter. +</p> +<p> +“Say to him—I would wish him to know all—say that I had beaten +my opponents down to one, and that he, too, almost gave up the contest, +when, somehow—I cannot now say exactly how or wherefore—I got +into a dispute with the examiner about the meaning of a word in Terence; +he seemed to enjoy the eagerness with which I defended my opinion for a +time, and actually encouraged my persistence, until at length, my temper +excited, and my brain on fire, I said something—I know not what—but +it was evidently an offence, for he closed the book, and merely replied—'Enough, +sir, I give your opponent the premium; his temper more than compensates +for any deficiency in his scholarship; and I was beaten.” The last words +evoked all his sorrow once more, and the youth burst into tears. +</p> +<p> +“That, then, I call unfair,” said Kate, passionately, “unless the +gentleman were the arbiter of temperament, as well as talent. Come, +Herbert, even this should reconcile you to your fortune: you have not +failed unworthily.” + </p> +<p> +“But my uncle, Kate—my uncle will deem it far otherwise. To guard +against this very error of my temper was almost the last pledge I made +him, and here, in my first trial, see how I have kept my promise.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave the explanation to me, only promise one thing—and mind, +Herbert, this is a pledge there must be no forgetting—do all in your +power—spare nothing to win the next time. I care not whether you +ever carry away another prize within these walls; but one you must have. +Is this agreed?—give me your hand upon it. There, that's like your +own self, and now don't waste another thought on what's bygone. The +Travers invited you to dine with them to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, no—no.” + </p> +<p> +“No—I have not any intention to press you, only come soon to see us—to +see <i>me</i>.” She kissed his forehead tenderly as she spoke the last +word, and glided rapidly from the room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIX. FIRST IMPRESSIONS. +</h2> +<p> +Kate O'Donoghue was more deeply affected by Herbert's failure than she had +let appear to the youth, or even confessed to herself. It was not that the +character of his ambition enlisted her sympathies, or engaged her +interest. Far from it: she thought too meanly of such triumphs, and knew +not how far they shed an influence on a future career. The habits of her +education, all her early prejudices, disposed her to regard the life of a +soldier as the only one becoming a gentleman. The passion for military +glory, which the great victories of the Republic and the Consulate had +spread throughout Europe, penetrated into every remote village of the +continent, and even the prison-like walls of the convent did not keep out +the spirit-stirring sounds of drum and trumpet, the tramp of marching +hosts, and the proud clangor of war. It was a time when the soldier was +every thing. There was but one path in life by which to win honour, rank, +fame, and fortune. Even the humblest might strive, for the race was open +to all; or, in the phrase of the period, every conscript left a spare +corner in his knapsack for his future “baton de maréchal.” + </p> +<p> +All she had ever seen of foreign society, partook of this character. For, +strangely enough, on the ruin of an aristocracy, a new and splendid +chivalry was founded—a chivalry, whose fascinations covered many a +wrong, and made many a bad cause glorious by the heroism it evoked! The +peaceful path in life was, then, in her estimate, the inglorious one. +Still, her proud nature could not brook defeat in any thing. It was not +without its influence upon the hearts and minds of her house, that the +eagle figured as their crest. The soaring bird, with outstretched wing, +careering high above his compeers, told of a race who once, at least, +thought no ambition above their daring; and she was worthy of the +haughtiest of her ancestors. +</p> +<p> +Too proud to enter into any detail of Herbert's failure, she dismissed the +subject as briefly as she could, and made her appearance in the +drawing-room without any perceptible change of manner; nor did she appear +to take any notice of the announcement made by Sir Marmaduke to his son, +that Hemsworth, who had just arrived from Scotland, would join the family +circle at dinner. Kate had never seen him, but his name was long +associated in her mind with anecdotes of oppression and cruelty to her +uncle—of petty insults and annoyances which the letters from +Carrig-na-curra used constantly to tell of, and of which her relatives +abroad had often descanted in her hearing. The picture she had drawn of +him in her own mind was not a flattering one—composed of features +and ingredients which represented all that was base, low-minded, and +treacherous—a vulgar sycophant, and a merciless tyrant. What was her +astonishment, almost her chagrin, to discover, that Hemsworth entered the +room a gentleman-like person, of about five-and-forty, tall, and +well-formed, with regular features, rather melancholy in their expression +than otherwise, and with a voice singularly low, soft, and pleasing, his +manner a mixture of well-bred ease, and that excessive deference so often +seen in those who have passed a long portion of life about persons of rank +superior to their own, but without the slightest trace, that she could +discover, of any thing subservient. With all her disposition to be +critical, she could find little fault with either his manner or his +conversation, nor could she detect any appearance of affectation. On the +contrary, he seemed affable, like one who felt himself among friends, and +need set no limits to his natural frankness. On the several topics he +talked, he spoke with good sense and fairness; and even when the often +agitated question of the state of Ireland was alluded to, he surprised +Kate by the absence of any violent or exaggerated tone, speaking of the +people in terms of kindliness and even affection—lauding the native +virtues of their character, and dwelling with pleasure on the traits which +advantageously distinguish them from the peasantry of other lands. +</p> +<p> +She listened at first with suspicion and distrust, then, by degrees, with +interested attention, and, at last, with actual delight, to the narrative +he gave of the social condition of Ireland; in which he laboured to show +that a mistaken estimate of the people by England—a misconception of +the national character, a contempt of it, perhaps—had perpetuated +usages, which, by their injustice, had excited the hatred and animosity of +the country, and led to that condition of insulting depreciation on one +side, and proud defiance on the other, which the two people exhibited +towards each other. +</p> +<p> +So well and ably did he sustain his part—so powerfully support each +position by reference to some fact with which his ample memory supplied +him—that Sir Marmaduke was eventually obliged to confess himself +vanquished, though unconvinced—who ever was, when worsted?—and +Frederick, chagrined at the favour Kate bestowed on the speaker, merely +remarked as he concluded— +</p> +<p> +“Very conclusive and satisfactory, I have no doubt, it is; but, in my +mind, all you have said goes to prove, that we English are a very inferior +nation, and very unworthily placed in rule and governance over a people so +much our superiors.” + </p> +<p> +Kate's eyes flashed with an unwonted fire, and for an instant she felt +almost unable to control the temptation to answer this taunt; but a quiet +smile of half acquiescence on Hemsworth's face so adequately expressed +what she wished but dared not say, that she merely returned the smile, and +was silent. +</p> +<p> +Had Hemsworth's whole object been on that evening to disabuse Kate +O'Donoghue of her dislike to him—to obliterate all memory of the +wrongs with which she had heard him charged towards her family—he +could not have chosen a more successful path. There was the very degree of +firmness and decision she admired in the manner he gave his opinions, and +yet all the courtesy of one who would not be supposed capable of advancing +them as incontrovertible or irrefutable. They were merely his sentiments—his +mode of seeing and estimating particular events, of which another might +judge differently. For all he advanced he was ready to show his reasons—they +might be shallow, they might be inconclusive—but they were <i>his</i>, +and, fortunately for his chance of winning her favour, they were <i>her</i> +opinions also. +</p> +<p> +“So you think we shall have no outbreak, Hemsworth,” said Sir Marmaduke, +as they sat at tea. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely go so far,” said he, gravely. “There are too many reasons for +an opposite fear, to say so much, even if the Secretary of State did not +assure us that the danger is over. The youth of Ireland will always be +dangerous, when left without a career, or a road to their ambition; and +from them, any peril that may now be apprehended will certainly come. Many +young men of the best families of the country, whose estates are deeply +incumbered—heavy mortgages and large dowries weighing them down—are +ready to join in any bold attempt which promises a new order of things. +They see themselves forgotten in the distribution of all patronage—excluded +from every office—-sometimes for reasons of religion—sometimes +for family, even for a mere name's sake. They are ready to play a bold +game, where losing is only quicker ruin, and to gain would be a glorious +victory.” + </p> +<p> +“But what could a few rash and desperate young men like these effect +against a power so great and so consolidated as England?” + </p> +<p> +“Little, perhaps, as regards the overthrow of a Government; but a world of +injury to the prospect of future quiet. The rebellion of a week—ay, +a day—in Ireland, will sow the seeds of fifty years of misery, and +retard the settlement of peaceful relations at least another century. Had +the Minister made the same concessions here he was glad to accord to +Scotland—had he, without insulting a nationality, converted it into +a banner under which loyalty was only rendered more conspicuous—you +might have, perchance, seen a different order of things in Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“For the life of me, I cannot see the evils and wrongs these people labour +under. I have a very large Irish acquaintance in London, and pleasanter, +happier fellows cannot exist than they are.” + </p> +<p> +“All the young men of family in Ireland are not in the Guards,” said +Hemsworth, with a smile, which, with all its blandishment, very thinly +covered over the sarcasm of his remark. +</p> +<p> +Frederick's face flushed angrily, and he turned away without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“Should we not ask pardon of the ladies for this subject of our +conversation?” said Hemsworth. “I am sure neither Miss Travers nor Miss +O'Donoghue deem the topic interesting or amusing.” + </p> +<p> +“On the contrary, sir, I believe I may reply for both of us,” said Kate, +“whatever concerns the fortunes of a country we have so near at heart, has +all our sympathy; and, as an Irish girl, I feel grateful for your +explanation of motives which, while I appreciate, I should still be unable +so satisfactorily to account for.” + </p> +<p> +“How happy I am to meet my countrywoman's approval,” said Hemsworth, +bowing courteously, and with a marked emphasis directing his speech to +Kate. +</p> +<p> +The manner in which he spoke the words was so palpably intended for +herself, that she felt all the charm of a flattery to which the disparity +of their years imparted force. +</p> +<p> +Soon after tea, Sir Marmaduke retired with Hemsworth to his study. +Frederick took his leave at the same time, and Sybella and Kate were left +alone together. +</p> +<p> +“I have a long letter to write this evening, my dear Sybella,” said Kate, +after they had talked some time. “Poor Herbert has failed in his +examination, and I have promised to break the news to my uncle. Not so +difficult a task as the poor boy deems, but one to which he is himself +unequal.” + </p> +<p> +“Does he then feel it so deeply?” said Sybella, timidly. +</p> +<p> +“Too much, as regards the object of the ambition; but no more than he +ought as a defeat. It is so bad to be beaten, Sybella,” said she, with a +sharp distinctness on each word. “I shall hate the sight of that +University until he carries off the next prize; and then—then I care +not whether his taste incline him for another effort;” and so saying, she +embraced her friend, and they parted for the night. +</p> +<p> +The epistle which Kate had promised to conclude was in itself a lengthy +one—written at different intervals during the week before the +examination, and containing a minute account of his progress, his hopes +and his fears, up to that very moment. There was little in it which could +interest any but him to whom it was addressed, and to whom every allusion +was familiar, and the reference to each book and subject thoroughly known—what +difficulties he had found here, what obscurity there—how well he had +mastered this, how much he feared he might have mistaken the other—until +on the evening of the first day's examination, when the following few +lines, written with a trembling hand, appeared:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“They say I shall gain it. H——— called my translation +of Horace a brilliant one, and asked the Vice-Provost to +listen to my repeating it. I heard. I gave it in blank +verse. Oh, my dearest uncle, am I deceiving myself, and +deceiving you? Shall I be able to write thus to-morrow +night?” + +Then came one tremulous line, dated, “Twelve o'clock:”— + +“Better and better—I might almost even now say, victory; +but my heart is too much excited to endure a chance.” + +“And it remains for me, my dear uncle,” wrote Kate after +these words, “to fulfil the ungrateful task of bearing bad +tidings; and I, who have never had the good fortune to +bring you happiness, must now speak to you of misfortune.— +My dear cousin has failed.” + </pre> +<p> +She followed these few lines by the brief narrative Herbert had given her—neither +seeking to extenuate his errors, nor excuse his rashness—well +knowing in her heart that Sir Archy would regard the lesson thus conveyed, +an ample recompense for the honour of a victory so hardly lost. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“It is to you he looks for comfort—to you, sir, whom his +efforts were all made to please, and for whose praise his +weary nights and toilsome days were offered. You, who know +more of the human heart than I do, can tell how far so +severe a discouragement may work for good or evil on his +future life; for myself, I feel the even current of +prosperity is but a sluggish stream, that calls for no +efforts to stem its tide; and were his grief over, I'd +rather rejoice that he has found a conflict, because he +may now discover he has courage to meet it. + +“Even I, to follow a theme as dispiriting, even I, grow +weary of pleasure, and tired of gaiety. The busy world of +enjoyment leaves not a moment free for happiness, and +already I am longing to be back in the still valley of +Glenflesk. It is not that Dublin is not very brilliant, or +that society has less of agreeability than I expected—both +have exceeded my anticipations; nor is it, that I have not +been what we should call in France 'successful' in my +'debut'—far from that, I am the fashion, or, rather, half +the fashion—Sybella dividing public favour with me;—but, +somehow, nobody contradicts me here—no one has courage to +tell me I'm wrong—no one will venture to say, what you have +often said, and even oftener looked, that 'I talked of what +I knew nothing;' and, in fact, my dear uncle, every one is +so very much in love with me, that I am beginning to detest +them, and would give the world to be once more at home, +before I extend the hatred to myself, which I must +inevitably end by doing, if nobody anticipates me in the +sentiment. + +“You told me I should prove faithless to you. Well, I have +refused heaven knows how many 'brilliant offers,' for such +even the proposers called them. Generals of fourscore, +guardsmen of twenty, dignitaries in the church, sergeants +learned in the law, country gentlemen in hordes, two +baronets, and one luckless viscount, have asked for the +valueless hand that writes these lines; and yet—and yet, +my dear chevalier, I shall still write myself at the bottom +of this page, Kate O'Donoghue. I have no doubt you are very +vain of my constancy, and will be so when you read this; +and it is right you should be, for, I promise you, in my +'robe, couleur de cerise,' looped with white roses, and my +'chapeau de paysanne,' I am a very pretty person indeed—at +least, it seems a point the twelve judges agree upon, and +the Master of the Rolls tells me, 'that with such long eye- +lashes I might lift my eyes very high indeed.' + +“And now, my dear, kind uncle, divide your sorrow between +your niece who is dying of vanity, and your nephew who is +sick of grief—continue your affection to both—and believe +me, in all sincerity of heart, your own fond and faithful, + +“Kate O'Donoghue.” + +“I have met Hems worth, and, strange to say, found him both +pleasant and agreeable.” + </pre> +<p> +Such were the concluding lines of an epistle, in which few, who did not +possess Sir Arches acuteness, could successfully trace any thing of the +real character of the writer. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXX. OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES. +</h2> +<p> +At the time we speak of, Clontarf was the fashionable watering-place of +the inhabitants of Dublin; and although it boasted of little other +accommodation than a number of small thatched cabins could afford, and +from which the fishermen removed to give place to their more opulent +guests, yet, thither the great and the wealthy of the capital resorted in +summer, to taste the pleasures of a sea side, and that not inferior one, +the change of life and habit, entailed by altered circumstances and more +restricted spheres of enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +If, with all the aid of sunshine and blue water, waving foliage and golden +beach, this place had an aspect of modest poverty in its whitened walls +and net-covered gardens in summer, in winter its dreariness and desolation +were great indeed. The sea swept in long waves the narrow road, even to +the doors of the cabins, the muddy foam settling on the window sills, and +even drifting to the very roofs; the thatch was fastened down with strong +ropes, assisted by oars and spars, to resist the wild gale that generally +blew from the south-east. The trim cottages of summer were now nothing but +the miserable hovels of the poor, their gardens waste, their gay aspect +departed; even the stirring signs of life seemed vanished; few, if any, of +the inhabitants stirred abroad, and save some muffled figure that moved +past, screening his face from the beating storm, all was silent and +motionless. The little inn, which in the summer time was thronged from +morning till night, and from whose open windows the merry laugh and the +jocund sound of happy voices poured, was now fast shuttered up, and all +the precautions of a voyage were taken against the dreaded winter; even to +the sign of a gigantic crab, rudely carved in wood and painted red, every +thing was removed, and a single melancholy dip candle burned in the bar, +as if keeping watch over the sleeping revelry of the place. +</p> +<p> +If such were the gloomy features without, within doors matters wore a more +thriving aspect. In a little parlour behind the bar a brisk fire was +burning, before which stood a table neatly prepared for supper; the covers +were laid for two, but the provision of wine displayed seemed suited to a +larger number. The flashy-looking prints upon the walls shone brightly in +the ruddy blaze; the brass fender and the glasses sparkled in its clear +light, and even to the small, keen eyes of Billy Corcoran, the host, who +kept eternally running in and out, to see all right, every thing presented +a very cheering contrast to the bleak desolation of the night without. +</p> +<p> +It was evident that Mr. Corcoran's guests were behind time; his impatience +was not to be mistaken. He walked from the kitchen to the parlour and back +again without ceasing, now, adding a turf to the fire, now, removing the +roasting chickens a little farther from the blaze, and anon, bending his +ear to listen if perchance he could catch the sound of approaching wheels. +He had sat down on every chair of the parlour, he had taken a half glass +out of each decanter on the table, he had sharpened every knife in turn, +and in fact resorted to every device to cheat time, when suddenly the +sound of a carriage was heard on the road, and the next moment he unbarred +the door and admitted two persons, whose dripping hats and soaked great +coats bore evidence to the downpour without. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Billy,” said the first who entered, “this rain will beat down the +wind at last, and we shall be able to get some fish in the market.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra bit, sir,” said Billy, as he assisted the speaker to remove his wet +garments, leaving the other stranger to his own devices. “The wind is +coming more round to the east, and I know from the noise on the Bull we'll +have plenty of it. I was afeard something happened you, sir; you're an +hour behind the time you said yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true—so I am. I was detained at a dinner party, and my friend +here also kept me waiting a few minutes for him.” + </p> +<p> +“It was not my fault,” interposed the other; “I was ready when——” + </p> +<p> +“Never mind—it was of no consequence whatever; the only misfortune +was, we could find no coach, and were forced to put up with a car, and got +wet for our pains; but the supper, Bill—the supper.” + </p> +<p> +“Is smoking hot on the table,” was the reply; and as he opened the door +into the parlour, the fact declared itself to their senses. +</p> +<p> +The strangers were soon seated at the meal, and like men who could relish +its enjoyment not the less for the merit of what they had quitted without +doors. It is not necessary to consume much time in presenting them to our +readers; they are both already known to him. One was Mr. Hemsworth; the +other no less a person than Lanty Lawler, the horse-dealer. One only +remark is necessary. Familiar as these characters already are, they here +appeared in aspect somewhat different from what they have hitherto +exhibited. Hemsworth, no longer the associate of fashionable company, had +exchanged his silken deferential manner for an air of easy confidence that +seemed to fit him even better; Lanty, on the other hand, had lost all his +habitual self-possession, looked abashed and sheepish, and seemed for all +the world, as though he were in the hands of one, who could dispose of his +destiny as he willed it. All the got up readiness of his wit, all his +acquired frankness were now gone, and in their place a timid hesitating +manner that bespoke the most abject fear and terror; it was evident, too, +that he struggled hard to conceal these signs of trepidation. He ate +voraciously of all before him, and endeavoured by the pre-occupation of +the table to cover his real sentiments at the moment; he drank, too, +freely, filling a large goblet to the brim with sherry several times +during the meal; nor was this unnoticed by Hemsworth, who at last +interposed in a calm, but commanding tone, as he laid his hand on the +decanter— +</p> +<p> +“A pipe of it, if you please, Lanty; you may have a whole bank of the +Guadalquiver for your own drinking at another time; but now, if you +please, let us have calm heads and cool judgments. It is some time since +we met, and it may be longer ere we have another opportunity like the +present.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true, sir,” said Lanty, submissively, as he pushed his untasted +glass before him. “It was the wetting I was afeard of; my clothes were +soaked through.” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth paid no attention to the excuse, but sat for some minutes deeply +sunk in his reflections; then lifting his head suddenly, he said— +</p> +<p> +“And so these papers have never been found?” + </p> +<p> +“Never, sir. I did my best to get them. I spent days at the place, and had +others looking besides. I said I'd give five guineas—and you know +what a reward that is down there—to the man who would bring them to +me; but from that hour to this, I never set eyes on them.” + </p> +<p> +“While he was speaking these words, Hemsworth's eyes never turned from +him. They were fixed on him, not with any expression of severity or +harshness, neither did the glance indicate suspicion. It was a steady, +passionless stare, rather like one seeking an explanation, than prejudging +a motive. +</p> +<p> +“You were quite certain that they were the papers we wanted?” + </p> +<p> +“Sure I opened them—sure I read the writing myself, when I took them +out of the old man's desk.” + </p> +<p> +“They had better have remained there,” said Hemsworth to himself, but loud +enough for the other to hear; then rallying quickly, he added, “no matter, +however, we have evidence enough of another kind. Where are the letters +Mark wrote to the Delegates.” + </p> +<p> +“I think Mr. Morrissy has most of them, sir,” said Lanty, hesitatingly; +“he is the man that keeps all the writings.” + </p> +<p> +“So he may he, Lanty; but you have some of them yourself: three or four +are as good as thirty or forty, and you have as many as that—aye, +and here in your pocket, too, this minute. Come, my worthy friend, you may +cheat me in horse flesh, whenever I'm fool enough to deal with you; but at +this game I'm your master. Let me see these letters.” + </p> +<p> +“How would I have them, Captain, at all,” said Lanty, imploringly; “sure +you know as well as me, that I'm not in the scheme at all.” + </p> +<p> +“Save so far as having a contract to mount five hundred men of the French +on their landing in Ireland, the money for which you have partly received, +and for which I hold the check, countersigned by yourself, Master Lanty. +Very pretty evidence in a Court of justice—more than enough to hang +you, that's all.” + </p> +<p> +“There's many a one sould a horse, and didn't know what use he was for,” + replied Lanty, half rudely. +</p> +<p> +“Very true; but a contract that stipulates for strong cattle, able to +carry twelve stone men with full cavalry equipments, does not read like an +engagement to furnish plough horses.” Then altering his tone, he added, +“No more of this, sir, I can't afford time for such fencing. Show me these +letters—show me, that you have done something to earn your own +indemnity, or by G—d, I'll let them hang you, as I'd see them hang a +dog.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty became lividly pale, as Hemsworth was speaking; a slight convulsive +tremor shook his lip for a moment, and he seemed struggling to repress a +burst of passion, as he held the chair with either hand; but he uttered +not a word. Hemsworth leisurely drew forth his watch, and placed it on the +table before him, saying— +</p> +<p> +“It wants eleven minutes of one o'clock; I'll give you to that hour to +make up your mind, whether you prefer five hundred pounds in your hand, or +take your place in the dock with the rest of them; for, mark me, whether +we have your evidence or not, they are equally in our hands. It is only an +economy of testimony I'm studying here, and I reserve my other blackguards +for occasions of more moment.” + </p> +<p> +The taunt would appear an ill-timed one at such a minute; but Hemsworth +knew well the temperament of him he addressed, and did not utter a +syllable at random. Lanty still preserved silence, and looked as though +doggedly determined to let the minutes elapse without speaking; his head +slightly sunk on his chest, his eyes bent downwards, he sat perfectly +motionless. Hemsworth meanwhile refilled his glass, crossed his arms +before him, and seemed awaiting, without impatience, the result of the +other's deliberation. At length the hand approached the figure; it wanted +but about half a minute of the time, and Hems-worth, taking up the watch +from the table, held it before Lanty's eyes, as he said— +</p> +<p> +“Time is nearly up, Master Lawler; do you refuse?” + </p> +<p> +“I only ask one condition,” said Lanty, in a faint whisper. +</p> +<p> +“You shall make no bargains: the letters, or———. It is +too late now;” and with these words he replaced his watch in his pocket, +and rose from the table. +</p> +<p> +Lanty never moved a muscle, while Hemsworth approached the fireplace, and +rang the bell. In doing so, he turned his back to the horse-dealer, but +commanded a view of him through means of the little glass above the +chimney. He stood thus for a few seconds, when Lanty—in whose +flashing eyes, and darkened colour, inward rage was depicted—suddenly +thrust his arm into the breast of his coat. Hems-worth turned round at +once, and seizing the arm in his powerful grasp, said in a cool, +determined voice— +</p> +<p> +“No, no, Lanty; I'm armed, too. +</p> +<p> +“It was the pocket-book I was feeling for, sir,” said Lanty, with a sickly +effort at a smile, while he drew forth a black leather case, and handed it +towards Hemsworth. “They are all there—seventeen letters—besides +two French commissions, signed by young Mark, and a receipt for four +hundred pounds in French gold.” + </p> +<p> +“You must find it hard to get bullets for those pistols I gave you, +Lanty,” said Hemsworth, in a tranquil voice. “I forgot to let you have the +bullet-mould with them. Remind me of it to-morrow or next day.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty muttered a faint “I will,” but looked the very picture of abject +misery as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Let me see them, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, in a manner, as calm and +unconcerned as could be. “If I don't mistake, they are nearly a quarter of +an inch in the bore.” + </p> +<p> +“About that same, sir,” replied Lawler, while he drew forth the two +pistols from the same breast-pocket he had taken the letters. +</p> +<p> +Hemsworth first examined one, and then the other, leisurely, passing the +ramrod into each in turn, and then opening the pans, inspected the +priming, adjusting the powder carefully with his finger. “You spoil such +pistols as these, by loading with two bullets, Lanty,” said he, as he +handed them back to him. “The bore is too perfect for such course usage. +Now, this is a less delicate weapon, and will bear harder usage,” and he +drew forth a short pistol, containing four revolving barrels, each as wide +as the bore of a musket. Lanty gazed in astonishment and terror at the +murderous implement, into which the hand fitted by a handle like that of a +saw. Hemsworth played the spring by which the barrels moved, with a +practised finger, and seemed to exult in the expression of Lanty's terror, +as he watched them. Then quickly replacing the weapon, he resumed—“Well, +I am glad, for your own sake, that you are more reasonable. You ought to +know, that I never place dependence on only one man, for any single +service. Such would be merely to play the part of slave, instead of +master. But, first of all, how did you become possessed of these letters?” + </p> +<p> +“I was charged by Mark to deliver them to the Delegates, and as they never +saw his hand-writing, I just copied the letters, and kept all the +originals, so that he has received his answers regularly, and never +suspects what has happened.” + </p> +<p> +“All right so far—and the younger brother—what of him?” “Oh, +he is too much under old M'Nab's influence to be caught. I wouldn't say +but that he's a Protestant this minute.” + </p> +<p> +“You appear to be greatly shocked at your suspicion, Lanty,” said +Hemsworth, smiling. “Well, well; we must hope for the best; and now as to +this other fellow—where and how can I see him—this Talbot I +mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, that's the puzzle,” replied Lanty, with a greater appearance of ease +in his manner than before. “You never can meet him when you look for him; +but he's at your elbow every day, twenty times, if you don't want him.” + </p> +<p> +“Could you not manage a meeting for me with him, down here, Lanty?—I'll +take care of the rest.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think so; he's a wary fellow; he gave me a fright once or twice +already, by a word he let drop. I am not easy in his company at all.” + </p> +<p> +“False or true, he would be an immense service to us,” said Hemsworth, +musingly. “If I only could see and speak with him, I'd soon convince him +that he incurred no risk himself. It's a bad sportsman shoots his decoy +duck, Lanty,” and he pinched his cheek good-humouredly as he spoke. Lanty +endeavoured to laugh, but the effort was a feeble one. Meanwhile, the +host, now summoned for the second time, made his appearance, and by +Hemsworth's orders, the car was brought round to the door; for, severe as +the night was, he determined to return to the city. +</p> +<p> +“You are coming back to town, too, Lanty?” said he, in a tone of inquiry. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; I'm going to stop here with Billy, if your honour has no +objection?” + </p> +<p> +“None whatever. Remember to let me see you on Tuesday, when I shall have +every thing in readiness for your journey south—till then, good +bye;” so saying, and handing Corcoran two guineas in gold, for he paid +liberally, Hemsworth mounted the car, and drove off. +</p> +<p> +Lanty looked after him, till the darkness shut out the view, and then +buttoning his rough coat tightly around his throat, set out himself +towards town, muttering as he went—“I wish it was the last I was +ever to see of you.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXI. SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT. +</h2> +<p> +We must beg of our reader to retrace his steps once more to the valley of +Glenflesk, but only for a fleeting moment. When last we left +Carrig-na-curra it was at night, the party were at supper in the old +tower, and Kerry stood outside, rehearsing to himself for the tenth time +the manner in which he should open his communication. The sound of Mark's +voice, raised above its ordinary pitch, warned him that his mission might +not be without danger, if perchance any thing on his part might offend the +youth. None knew better than Kerry the violent temper of the young +O'Donoghue, and how little restraint he ever put upon any scheme he +thought of to vent his humour on him who crossed him. It was an account of +debtor and creditor then with him, how he should act; on the one side lay +the penalties, on the other the rewards of his venture—how was he to +escape the one and secure the other? A moment's reflection suggested the +plan. +</p> +<p> +“I'll not go in, divil a step, but I'll tell I was convarsin' with them +this half hour, and that the rope and the bit of lead is a new way they do +have for catching mermaids and other faymale fishes in the Bay; and sure +if I only say that there's an act of Parlimint agin doin' it, she'll not +only believe it all, but she'll keep the saycret to her dying bed;” and +with this profound reflection on Mrs. Branagan's character, and a face of +very well got up surprise, Kerry re-entered the kitchen to announce his +discovery. +</p> +<p> +It is not our intention to dwell on the scene that followed; we have +merely adverted to the fact inasmuch as that on the trivial circumstance +of Kerry's resolve depended the discovery of a plot, which, if once known +to M'Nab, would immediately have been communicated to the Government. The +fates willed it otherwise, and when the party separated in the old tower, +Sir Archy was as little satisfied concerning Talbot's character as ever, +and as eager to ascertain whence and wherefore he came, and with what +intention he had made Mark's acquaintance. With many a wily scheme for the +morrow, the old man went to rest, determining to spare no pains to unravel +the mystery—a fruitless resolve after all, for when day broke, +Talbot and Mark were already away, many miles on the road to Dublin. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue's first act on completing his arrangements with Swaby, was +to place at Mark's disposal a sum of five hundred pounds, an amount far +greater than ever the young man had at any time possessed in his life. +Talbot, to whom the circumstance was told by Mark, readily persuaded him +to visit Dublin, not merely for the pleasures and amusements of the +capital, but that he might personally be made known to the Delegates, and +see and confer with those who were the directors of the threatened +rebellion.. Talbot understood perfectly the kind of flattery which would +succeed with the youth, and by allusion to his ancient lineage, his more +than noble blood, the rights to which he was entitled, and to which he +would unquestionably be restored, not only stimulated his ardour in the +cause, but bound him in a debt of gratitude to all who encouraged him to +engage in it. +</p> +<p> +Mark's character, whatever its faults, was candid and frank in every +thing; he made no secret to his new friend of his present unhappiness, nor +did he conceal that an unpaid debt of vengeance with respect to young +Travers weighed heavily on his spirits. It was the first time in his life +he had tasted the bitterness of an insult, and it worked like a deadly +poison within him, sapping the springs of his health and rendering +miserable the hours of his solitude; the thought rarely left him day or +night, how was he to wipe out this stain? When Talbot, therefore, spoke of +a visit to the capital, Mark cheerfully acceded, but rather from a secret +hope that some opportunity might arise to gratify this cherished passion, +than from any desire of witnessing the splendour of the metropolis; and +while the one pictured the glittering scenes of festive enjoyment to which +youth and money are the passports, the other darkly ruminated on the +chances of meeting his enemy and provoking him to a duel. +</p> +<p> +It was on the evening of the third day after they left Carrig-na-curra +that they drew near the capital, and after a promise from Mark that in +every thing he should be guided by his friend, nor take any step without +his counsel and advice, they both entered the city. +</p> +<p> +“You see, Mark,” said Talbot, as after passing through some of the wider +and better lighted thoroughfares, they approached a less frequented and +more gloomy part of the town; “you see, Mark, that the day is not come +when we should occupy the place of honour, an humble and quiet hotel will +best suit us for the present, but the hour is not very distant, my boy, +when the proudest mansion of the capital will throw wide its doors to +receive us. The Saxon has but a short tenure of it now.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't see any reason for secrecy,” said Mark, half-doggedly, “we have +good names and a good purse, why then must we betake ourselves to this +gloomy and desolate quarter.” + </p> +<p> +“Because I am the guide,” said Talbot, laughing; “and, if that's not +reason enough, that's the only one I will give you just now, but come, +here we are, and I do not think you will complain of your entertainment.” + And as he spoke, the carriage entered the spacious court-yard of an old +fashioned inn, which, standing in Thomas-street, commanded a view of the +river through one of the narrow streets leading down to the quay. +</p> +<p> +“This was the fashionable house some fifty years back,” said Talbot as he +assisted his friend to alight; “and though the heyday of its youth is +over, there are many generous qualities in its good old age—not your +father's cellar can boast a better bottle of Burgundy.” + </p> +<p> +Talbot's recommendation was far from being unmerited, the “Black Jack” as +the inn was named, was a most comfortable house of the old school, with +large, low-ceilinged rooms, wide stairs, and spacious corridors; the +whole, furnished in a style, which, though far from pretending to elegance +or fashion, possessed strong claims for the tired traveller, seeking rest +and repose. Here then our young travellers alighted. Talbot being received +with all the courteous urbanity due to an old acquaintance; the landlord +himself appearing to do the honours of the house, and welcome a valued +guest. +</p> +<p> +“We must get our host, Billy Crossley, to sup with us, Mark. No one can +tell us so much of how matters are doing here, for, however it happens, +Billy knows all the gossip of the day, fashionable, political, or +sporting, he keeps himself up to what is going forward everywhere.” And so +saying, Talbot at once hastened after the landlord to secure his company +for the evening. +</p> +<p> +Billy was somewhat fastidious about bestowing his agreeability in general, +but on the present occasion, he acceded at once, and in less than +half-an-hour, the three were seated at a meal, which would not have +disgraced an hotel of more pretensious exterior. Mr. Crossley doing the +honours of the table, like a host entertaining his friends. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely had expected to see you so soon, Mr. Talbot,” said he, when +the servants had left the room, and the party drew round the fire. “They +told me you would pass the winter in the country.” + </p> +<p> +“So I had intended, Billy, but as good luck would have it, I made an +acquaintance in the south, which changed my plans, my friend, Mr. +O'Donoghue here, and as he had never seen the capital, and knew nothing of +your gay doings, I thought I'd just take a run back, and show him at +least, the map of the land.” + </p> +<p> +“My service to you, sir,” said Billy, bowing to Mark; “it would be hard to +have got a better guide than you have in Master Harry. I can assure you, +so far as wickedness goes, he's a match for any thing here—from the +Royal Barracks to Trinity College.” + </p> +<p> +“Flattery, gross flattery, Bill. I was your own pupil, and you can't help +partiality.” + </p> +<p> +“You are a most favourable specimen of private tuition, there's no doubt +of it,” said Crossley, laughing, “and I have reason to be proud of you. +Did Mr. O'Donoghue ever hear of your clearing out Hancey Hennessy at +hazard—the fellow that carried the loaded dice?” + </p> +<p> +“Have done, Bill. None of these absurd stories now.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor what a trick you played Corny Mehan at the spring meeting with the +roan cob that knew how to limp when you wanted him?—as great a devil +as himself, Mr. O'Donoghue. You'd swear the beast had a bad blood spavin +if you saw him move, and he all the time a three-quarter bred horse, +without a stain or a blemish about him.” + </p> +<p> +Talbot seemed for a second or two somewhat uneasy at these familiar +reminiscences of his friend Crossley, not knowing precisely how Mark might +take them; but when he saw that a hearty laugh was the reception they met +with, he joined in the mirth as freely as the others. +</p> +<p> +“The best of all was the Wicklow steeple-chase; sorrow doubt about it, +that was good fun;” and Crossley laughed till his eyes streamed again with +the emotion. +</p> +<p> +“You must tell me that,” said Mark. +</p> +<p> +“It was just this:—Mister Henry there had a wager with Captain +Steevens of the staff, that he'd reach the course before him, each +starting at the same moment from Quin's door at Bray. Well, what does he +do, but bribes one of the boys to let him ride postillion to Steevens' +chaise, because that way he was sure to win his wager. All went right. The +bluejacket and boots fitted him neatly—they were both new—got +on purpose for the day; and Mr. Talbot lay snug in the stable, waiting for +the chaise to be ordered round, when down comes the word, 'Number four, +two bays, you're wanted;' and up he jumps into the saddle, and trots round +to the door, afraid of his life to look round, and keeping his chin sunk +down in his cravat to hide his face. He never once looked back, but let +the boys harness the cattle without saying a word. +</p> +<p> +“'My lord says you're to drive slow,' said one of the boys. +</p> +<p> +“He looked round, and what did he see, but an old man in the chaise with a +horse-shoe wig, and in the full dress of a bishop. +</p> +<p> +“'Who is he at all?' said Talbot. +</p> +<p> +“'The Bishop of Cloyne,' whispered the boy; 'he's going up to the Levee.' +</p> +<p> +“By my conscience, he is not,” said Talbot, for at that moment he spied +Steevens starting from the door at a round trot, and with that he turned +the bishop's horses sharp round, laid the whip heavily over them, and took +the lead towards Wicklow. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0016" id="linkimage-0016"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00304.jpg" alt="304 " width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Never such cries were heard as the bishop's. Some say that he swore hard; +but it isn't true—he prayed, and begged, and shouted—but no +use. Talbot gave them the steel at every stride; and after a long slapping +gallop, he drew up at the stand-house, with a cheer that shook the course; +and a fine sight it was, to gee the little man in the lawn sleeves +stepping out, his face red with shame and passion. +</p> +<p> +“'Twelve miles in forty-two minutes, my lord,' said Talbot, showing his +watch; 'hope your lordship won't forget the boy.'” + </p> +<p> +If Mark O'Donoghue enjoyed heartily the story, he was not the less +surprised that Harry Talbot was the hero of it—all his previous +knowledge of that gentleman leading him to a very different estimate of +his taste and pursuits. Indeed, he only knew Talbot from his own lips, and +from them he learned to regard him as the emissary despatched by the Irish +party in France, to report on the condition of the insurgents in Ireland; +and, if necessary, to make preparations for the French landing on the +Irish shores. Mark could not well understand how any one charged with such +a mission, could have either wasted his time or endangered his safety by +any ridiculous adventures, and did not scruple to show his astonishment at +the circumstance. +</p> +<p> +Talbot smiled significantly at the remark, and exchanged a glance with +Crossley, while he answered— +</p> +<p> +“Placed in such a position as I have been for some years, Mark, many +different parts have been forced upon me; and I have often found that +there is no such safe mask against detection, as following out the bent of +one's humour in circumstances of difficulty. An irresistible impulse to +play the fool, even at a moment when high interests were at stake, has +saved me more than once from detection; and from habit I have acquired a +kind of address at the practice, that with the world passes for +cleverness. And so, in turn, I have been an actor, a smuggler, a French +officer, an Irish refugee, a sporting character, a man of pleasure, and a +man of intrigue; and however such features may have blended themselves +into my true character, my real part has remained undetected. Master +Crossley here might furnish a hint or two towards it; but—but, as +Peachem says, 'we could hang one another'—eh, Bill?” + </p> +<p> +A nod and a smile, more grave than gay, was Crossley's answer; and a +silence ensued on all sides. There was a tone of seriousness even through +the levity of what Talbot said, very unlike his ordinary manner; and Mark +began, for the first time, to feel that he knew very little about his +friend. The silence continued unbroken for some time; for while Mark +speculated on the various interpretations Talbot's words might hear, +Talbot himself was reflecting on what he had just uttered. There is a very +strange, but not wholly unaccountable tendency in men of subtle minds, to +venture near enough to disclosures to awaken the suspicions, without +satisfying the curiosity of others. The dexterity with which they can +approach danger, yet not incur it, is an exercise they learn to pride +themselves upon; and as the Indian guides his canoe through the dangerous +rapids of the St. Lawrence—now bending to this side and to that—each +moment in peril, but ever calm and collected—so do they feel all the +excitement of hazard in the game of address. Under an impulse of this kind +was it that Talbot spoke, and the unguarded freedom of his manner showed +even to so poor an observer as Mark, that the words contained a hidden +meaning. +</p> +<p> +“And our gay city of Dublin—what of it, Billy?” said he, at length +rallying from his mood of thought, as he nodded his head, and drank to +Crossley. +</p> +<p> +“Pretty much as you have always known it. 'A short life and a merry one,' +seems the adage in favour here. Every one spending his money and character—” + </p> +<p> +“Like gentlemen, Bill—that's the phrase,” interrupted Talbot; “and a +very comprehensive term it is, after all. But what is the Parliament +doing?” + </p> +<p> +“Voting itself into Government situations.” + </p> +<p> +“And the Viceroy?” + </p> +<p> +“Snubbing the Parliament.” + </p> +<p> +“And the Government in England?” + </p> +<p> +“Snubbing the Viceroy.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, they are all employed, at least; and, as the French say, that's +always something. And who are the playmen now?” + </p> +<p> +“The old set. Tom Whaley and Lord Drogheda—your old friend, Giles +Daxon—Sandy Moore——” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, what of Sandy? They told me he won heavily at the October races.” + </p> +<p> +“So he did—beggared the whole club at hazard, and was robbed of the +money the night after, when coming up through Naas.” + </p> +<p> +“Ha! I never heard of that, Billy. Let us hear all about it.” + </p> +<p> +“It's soon told, sir. Sandy, who never tries economy till he has won +largely, and is reckless enough of money when on the verge of ruin, heard, +on leaving the course, that a strange gentleman was waiting to get some +one to join him in a chaise up to Dublin. Sandy at once sent the waiter to +open the negociations, which were soon concluded, and the stranger +appeared—a fat, unwieldy-looking old fellow, with a powdered wig and +green goggles—not a very sporting style of travelling companion; but +no matter for that, he had a dark chestnut mare with him, that looked like +breeding, and with strength enough for any weight over a country. +</p> +<p> +“'She'll follow the chaise—my son taught her that trick,' said the +old fellow, as he hobbled out of the inn, and took his place in the +carriage. +</p> +<p> +“Well, in jumped Sandy, all his pockets bursting with guineas, and a book +of notes crammed into his hat—very happy at his adventure, but +prouder of saving half the posting than all besides. +</p> +<p> +“'Keep to your ten miles an hour, my lad, or not a sixpence,' said the old +gentleman, and he drew his night-cap over his eyes, and was soon snoring +away as sound as need be. +</p> +<p> +“That was the last was seen of him, however, for when the postillion drew +up for fresh horses at Carrick's, they found Sandy alone in the chaise, +with his hands tied behind him, and his mouth gagged. His companion and +the dark chestnut were off, and all the winnings along with them.” + </p> +<p> +“Cleverly done, by Jove,” cried Talbot, in an ecstacy of admiration. +</p> +<p> +“What a contemptible fellow your friend Sandy must be,” exclaimed Mark, in +the same breath. “Man to man—I can't conceive the thing possible.” + </p> +<p> +“A bold fellow, well armed, Mark,” observed Talbot, gravely, “might do the +deed, and Sandy be no coward after all.” + </p> +<p> +Chatting in this wise, the first evening was spent; and if Mark was, at +times, disposed to doubt the morality of his new friend, he was very far +from questioning his knowledge of mankind; his observations were ever +shrewd and caustic, and his views of life, those of one, who looked at the +world with a scrutinizing glance, and although the young O'Donoghue would +gladly have seen in his young companion some traces of the enthusiasm he +himself experienced in the contemplated rising, he felt convinced that a +cooler judgment, and a more calculating head than his, were indispensable +requisites to a cause beset with so many dangers. He, therefore, +implicitly yielded himself to Talbot's guidance, resolving not to go +anywhere, nor see any one, even his brother, save with his knowledge and +consent. +</p> +<p> +If the scenes into which Talbot introduced Mark O'Donoghue were not those +of fashionable life, they were certainly as novel and exciting to one so +young and inexperienced. The taverns resorted to by young men of fashion, +the haunts of sporting characters, the tennis court, but more frequently +still the houses where high play was carried on, he was all familiar with—knew +the precise type of the company at each, and not a little of their private +history; still it seemed as if he himself were but little known, and +rather received for the recommendation of good address and engaging +manners, than from any circumstance of previous acquaintance. Mark was +astonished at this, as well as that, although now several weeks in Dublin, +Talbot had made no advance towards introducing him to the leading members +of the insurgent party, and latterly had even but very rarely alluded to +the prospect of the contemplated movement. +</p> +<p> +The young O'Donoghue was not one to harbour any secret thought long +unuttered in his breast, and he briefly expressed to Talbot his surprise—almost +his dissatisfaction—at the life they were leading. At first Talbot +endeavoured to laugh off such inquiries, or turn them aside by some +passing pleasantry; but when more closely pressed, he avowed that his +present part was a duty imposed upon him by his friends in France, who +desired above all things to ascertain the feeling among young men of +family and fortune in the metropolis—how they really felt affected +towards England, and with what success, should French republicanism fail +to convert them, would the fascinations of Parisian elegance and vice be +thrown around them. +</p> +<p> +“There must be bribes for all temperaments, Mark,” said he, at the end of +a very lengthened detail of his views and stratagems. “Glory is enough for +such as you, and happily you can have wherewithal to satisfy a craving +appetite; but some must be bought by gold, some by promises of vengeance +upon others, some by indemnities for past offences, and not a few by the +vague hope of change, which disappointed men ever regard as for the +better. To sound the depths of all such motives is part of my mission +here, and hence, I have rigidly avoided those by whom I am more than +slightly known; but in a week or two I shall exchange this part for +another, and then, Mark, we shall mix in the gayer world of the squares, +where your fair cousin shines so brilliantly. Meanwhile have a little +patience with me, and suffer me to seem sometimes inconsistent, that I may +be least so in reality. I see you are not satisfied with me, Mark, and I +am sorry to incur a friend's reproach even for a brief season; but come—I +make you a pledge. To-day is the 12th; in five days more the Viceroy gives +his St. Patrick's ball, at which I am to meet one of our confederates. You +seem surprised at this; but where can man speak treason so safely as under +the canopy of the Throne?” + </p> +<p> +“But how do you mean to go there? You do not surely expect an invitation.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course not; but I shall go notwithstanding, and you with me. Ay, Mark, +never frown and shake your head. This same ball is a public assembly, to +which all presented at the Levees are eligible, without any bidding or +invitation. Who is to say that Harry Talbot and Mark O'Donoghue have not +paid their homage to mock royalty? If you mean that there is some danger +in the step, I agree with you there is; but you are not the man, I take +it, to flinch on that account.” + </p> +<p> +This adroit stroke of Talbot's settled the matter; and Mark felt ashamed +to offer any objection to a course, which, however disinclined to, he now +believed was accompanied by a certain amount of peril. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXII. A PRESAGE OF DANGER +</h2> +<p> +When the long-wished-for evening drew nigh, in which Talbot had pledged +himself to reveal to Mark the circumstances of their enterprise, and to +make him known to those concerned in the plot, his manner became flurried +and excited;—he answered, when spoken to, with signs of impatience, +and seemed so engrossed by his own thoughts, as to be unable to divert his +attention from them. Mark, in general the reverse of a shrewd observer, +perceived this, and attributing it to the heavy losses he had latterly +incurred at play, forebore in any way to notice the circumstance, and from +his silence Talbot became probably more indifferent to appearances, and +placed less restraint on his conduct. He drank, too, more freely than was +his wont, and appeared like one desirous by any means to rid himself of +some unwelcome reflections. +</p> +<p> +“It is almost time to dress, Mark,” said he, with an effort to seem easy +and unconcerned. “Let us have another flask of Burgundy before we go.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll have no more wine, nor you, if you will be advised by me, either,” + said Mark, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“Ha! then you would imply I have drank too much already, Mark? Not far +wrong there, perhaps, and under ordinary circumstances such would be the +case; but there are times when the mind, like the body, demands double +nourishment, and with me wine strengthens, never confuses thought. Do you +know, Mark, that I have a presentiment of some evil before me;—whence, +and in what shape it is to come, I cannot tell you; but I feel it as +certain as if it had been revealed to me.” + </p> +<p> +“You are despondent about our prospects,” said Mark, gloomily. +</p> +<p> +Talbot made no answer, but leaned his head on the chimney-piece, and +seemed buried in deep thought;—then recovering himself, he said, in +a low, but distinct accent— +</p> +<p> +“Did you take notice of a fellow at the tennis-court the other day, who +stood beside me all the time I was settling with the marker? Oh! I forgot—you +were not there. Well, there was such a one—a flashy-looking, vulgar +fellow, with that cast of countenance that betokens shrewdness and +cunning. I met him yesterday in the Park, and this evening, as I came to +dinner, I saw him talking to the landlord's nephew, in the hall.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and what of all that? If any one should keep account of where and +how often he had seen either of us, this week past, might he not conjure +up suspicions fully as strong as your's? Let us begin to take fright at +shadows, and we shall make but a sorry hand of it, when real dangers +approach us.” + </p> +<p> +“The shadows are the warnings, Mark, and the wise man never neglects a +warning.” + </p> +<p> +“He who sees thunder in every dark cloud above him, is but the fool of his +own fears,” said Mark, rudely, and walked towards the window. “Is that +anything like your friend, Talbot?” added he, as he beheld the dark +outline of a figure, which seemed standing, intently looking up at the +window. +</p> +<p> +“The very fellow!” cried Talbot; for at the moment a passing gleam of +light fell upon the figure, and marked it out distinctly. +</p> +<p> +“There is something about him I can half recognize myself,” said Mark; +“but he is so muffled up with great-coat and cravat, I cannot clearly +distinguish him.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed! Do, for heaven's sake, think of where you saw him, and when, +Mark; for I own my anxiety about him is more than common.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll soon find out for you,” said Mark, suddenly seizing his hat;—but +at the same instant the door opened, and a waiter appeared. +</p> +<p> +“There's a gentleman below stairs, Mr. Talbot, would be glad to speak a +few words with you.” + </p> +<p> +Talbot motioned, by an almost imperceptible gesture, that Mark should +retire into the adjoining room; and then, approaching the waiter, asked, +in a low cautious voice, if the stranger were known to him. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir—never saw him before. He seems like one from the country: +Mr. Crossley says he's from the south.” + </p> +<p> +“Show him up,” said Talbot, hurriedly; and, as the waiter left the room, +he seated himself in his chair, in an attitude of well-assumed +carelessness and ease. This was scarcely done, when the stranger entered, +and closed the door behind him. +</p> +<p> +“Good evening to you, Mr. Talbot. I hope I see your honor well,” said he, +in an accent of very unmistakable Kerry Doric. +</p> +<p> +“Good evening to you, friend,” replied Talbot. “My memory is not so good +as yours, or I'd call you by your name also.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm Lanty Lawler, sir—that man that sold your honor the dark +chesnut mare down in the county Kerry, last winter. I was always wishing +to see your honor again, by reason of that same. +</p> +<p> +“How so?” said Talbot, getting suddenly paler, but with no other +appearance of emotion in his manner. “Was not our contract honestly +concluded at the time?” + </p> +<p> +“It was, sir—there's no doubt of it. Your honor paid like a +gentleman, and in goold besides;—but that's just the business I come +about here. It was French money you gave me, and I got into trouble about +it—some saying that I was a spy, and others making out that I was, +maybe, worse; and so I thought I wouldn't pass any more of it, till I seen +yourself, and maybe you'd change it for me.” + </p> +<p> +While he was speaking, Talbot's eye never wandered from him—not +fixed, indeed, with any seeming scrutiny, but still intently watching +every play of his features. +</p> +<p> +“You told me at the time, however, that French gold was just as convenient +to you as English,” said he, smiling good-humouredly, “and from the +company I met you in, I found no difficulty in believing you.” + </p> +<p> +“The times is changed, sir,” said Lanty, sighing. “God help us—we +must do the best we can.” + </p> +<p> +This evasive answer seemed perfectly to satisfy Talbot, who assented with +a shake of the head, as he said— +</p> +<p> +“Very well, Lanty; if you will come here to-morrow, I'll exchange your +gold for you.” + </p> +<p> +“Thank your honor kindly,” said Lanty, with a bow; but still making no +sign of leaving the room, where he stood, changing from one foot to the +other, in an attitude of bashful diffidence. “There was another little +matter, sir, but I'd be sorry to trouble you about it—and sure you +couldn't help it, besides.” + </p> +<p> +“And that is—Let us hear it, Lanty.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, sir, it's the horse—the mare with the one white fetlock. They +say, sir, that she was left at Moran's stables by the man that robbed Mr. +Moore of Moorecroft. Deaf Collison, the post-boy, can swear to her; and as +I bought her myself at Dycer's, they are calling me to account for when I +sold her, and to whom.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, there's no end to your trouble about that unlucky beast, Lanty,” + said Talbot, laughing; “and I confess it's rather hard, that you are not +only expected to warrant your horse sound, but must give a guarantee that +the rider is honest.” + </p> +<p> +“Devil a lie in it, but that's just it,” said Lanty, who laughed heartily +at the notion. +</p> +<p> +“Well, we must look to this for you, Lanty; for although I have no desire +to have my name brought forward, still you must not suffer on that +account. I remember paying my bill at Rathmallow with that same mare. She +made an overreach coming down a hill, and became dead lame with me; and I +gave her to the landlord of the little inn in the square, in lieu of my +score.” + </p> +<p> +“See now, what liars there's in the world!” said Lanty, holding up his +hands in pious horror. “Ould Finn of the Head Inn tould me she ate a feed +of oats at the door, and started again for Askeaton, with a gentleman just +like your honor, the night after I sold her. He knew the mare well; and by +the same token he said she was galled on the shoulder with holsters that +was fixed to the saddle. Now, think of that, and he after buying her! Is +it early in the morning I'm to come to your honor?” said he, moving +towards the door. +</p> +<p> +“Yes—that is—no, Lanty, no—about twelve o'clock. I'm a +late riser. Wait a moment, Lanty; I have something more to say to you, if +I could only remember it.” He passed his hand across his brow as he spoke, +and looked like one labouring to recall some lost thought. “No matter,” + said he, after a pause of some minutes; “I shall perhaps recollect it +before to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Good night to you, then, sir,” said Lanty, with a most obsequious bow, as +he opened the door. +</p> +<p> +Their eyes met: it was only for a moment; but with such intelligence did +each glance read the other, that they both smiled significantly. Talbot +moved quickly forward at the instant, and closing the door with one hand, +he laid the other gently on Lanty's shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“Come, Lanty,” said he, jocularly, “I can afford to sport ten pounds for a +whim. Tell me who it was sent you after me this evening, and I'll give you +the money.” + </p> +<p> +“Done, then!” cried Lanty, grasping his hand; “And you'll ask no more than +his name?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing more. I pledge my word; and here's the money.” + </p> +<p> +“Captain Hemsworth, the agent to the rich Englishman in Glen-flesk.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think I ever saw him in my life—I'm certain I don't know +him. Is he a tall, dark man?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll tell you no more,” said Lanty. “The devil a luck I ever knew come of +speaking of him.” + </p> +<p> +“All fair, Lanty—a bargain's a bargain; and so, good-night.” And +with a shake-hands of affected cordiality, they parted. +</p> +<p> +“Your conference has been a long one,” said Mark, who waited with +impatience, until the silence without permitted him to come forth. +</p> +<p> +“Not so long as I could have wished it,” was Talbot's reply, as he stood +in deep thought over what had passed. “It is just as I feared, Mark; there +is danger brewing for me in some quarter, but how, and in what shape, I +cannot even guess. This same horsedealer, this Lanty Lawler——” + </p> +<p> +“Lanty Lawler, did you say?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. You know him, then?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure I do. We've had many dealings together. He's a shrewd fellow, +and not over-scrupulous in the way of his trade; but, apart from that, +he's a true-hearted, honest fellow, and a friend to the cause.” + </p> +<p> +“You think so, Mark,” said Talbot, with a smile of significant meaning. +</p> +<p> +“I know it, Talbot. He is not an acquaintance of yesterday with me. I have +known him for years long. He is as deep in the plot as any, and perhaps +has run greater risks than either of us.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, well,” said Talbot, sighing, as though either weary of the theme, +or disinclined to contradict the opinion; “let us think of other matters. +Shall we go to this ball or not? I incline to say nay.” + </p> +<p> +“What! Not go there?” said Mark, starting back in astonishment. “Why, what +in heaven's name have we been waiting for, but this very opportunity?—and +what reason is there now to turn from our plans?” + </p> +<p> +“There may be good and sufficient ones, even though they should be purely +personal to myself,” said Talbot, in a tone of ill-dissembled pique. “But +come; we will go. I have been walking over a mine too long to care for a +mere petard. And now, let us lose no more time, but dress at once.” + </p> +<p> +“Must I really wear this absurd dress, Talbot? For very shame's sake, I +shall not be able to look about me.” + </p> +<p> +“That you must, Mark. Remember that your safety lies in the fact that we +attract no notice of any kind. To be as little remarked as possible is our +object; and for this reason I shall wear the uniform of an English militia +regiment, of which there are many at every Levee. We shall separate on +entering the room, and meet only from time to time; but as we go along, +I'll give you all your instructions. And now to dress, as quickly as may +be.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIII. THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL +</h2> +<p> +Much as O'Donoghue marvelled at the change effected in his own appearance +by the court dress, he was still more surprised at finding what a complete +transformation his friend Talbot had undergone. The scarlet uniform seemed +to make him appear larger and fatter; while the assumption of a pair of +dark whiskers added several years to his apparent age, and totally changed +the character of his countenance. +</p> +<p> +“I see by your face, Mark,” said he, laughing, “that the disguise is +complete. You could scarcely recognise me—I may safely defy most +others?” + </p> +<p> +“But you are taller, I think?” + </p> +<p> +“About an inch and a-half only—false heels inside my boots give me a +slight advantage over you. Don't be jealous, however, I'm not your match +on a fair footing.” + </p> +<p> +This flattery seemed successful, for Mark smiled, and reddened slightly. +As they drove along, Talbot entered minutely into an account of the people +they should meet with—warning Mark of the necessity there existed to +avoid any, even the most trivial, sign of astonishment at anything he saw—to +mix with the crowd, and follow the current from room to room, carefully +guarding against making any chance acquaintance—and, above all, not +to be recognised by his cousin Kate, if by any accident he should be near +her. +</p> +<p> +In the midst of these directions, Talbot was interrupted by the sudden +stoppage of the carriages in the line, which already extended above a mile +from the Castle gate. +</p> +<p> +“Here we are at last, Mark, in the train of the courtiers—does your +patriotism burn for the time when your homage shall be rendered to a +native Sovereign. Ha! there goes one of the privileged class—that +carriage, with the two footmen, is the Lord Chancellor's, he has the right +of the private 'entrée,' and takes the lead of such humble folk as we are +mixed up with.” + </p> +<p> +A deep groan from the mob burst forth, as the equipage, thus noticed, +dashed forward. Such manifestations of public feeling were then frequent, +and not always limited to mere expressions of dislike. The very +circumstance of quitting the regular line, and passing the rest, seemed to +evoke popular indignation, and it was wonderful with what readiness the +mob caught up allusions to the public or private life of those, thus +momentarily exposed to their indignation. Some speech or vote in +Parliament—some judicial sentence—or some act or event in +their private history, was at once recalled and criticised, in a manner +far more frank than flattering. None escaped this notice, for, +notwithstanding the strong force of mounted police that kept the street +clear, some adventurous spirit was always ready to rush forward to the +carriage window, and in a moment announce to the others the name of its +occupant. By all this, Mark was greatly amused—he had few sympathies +with those in little favour with the multitude, and could afford to laugh +at the sallies which assailed the members of the Government. The taunting +sarcasms and personal allusions, of which the Irish members were not +sparing in the house, were here repeated by those, who suffered the +severity to lose little of its sting in their own version. +</p> +<p> +“Look at Flood, boys—there's the old vulture with broken beak and +cadaverous aspect—a groan for Flood,” and the demand was answered by +thousands. +</p> +<p> +“There's Tom Connolly,” shouted a loud voice, “three cheers for the +Volunteers—three cheers for Castletown.” + </p> +<p> +“Thank you, boys, thank you,” said a rich mellow voice, as in their +enthusiasm the mob pressed around the carriage of the popular member, and +even shook hands with the footmen behind the carriage. +</p> +<p> +“Here's Luttrel, here's Luttrel,” cried out several together, and in a +moment the excitement, which before was all of joy, assumed a character of +deepest execration. +</p> +<p> +Aware of the popular feeling towards him, this gentleman's carriage was +guarded by two troopers of the horse police—nor was the precaution +needless, for no sooner was he recognised, than a general rush was made by +the mob, and for a moment or two the carriage was separated from the rest +of the line. +</p> +<p> +“Groan him, boys, groan him, but don't touch the traitor,” shouted a +savage-looking fellow, who stood a head and shoulders above the crowd. +</p> +<p> +“Couldn't you afford to buy new liveries with the eighty thousand pounds +the Government gave you,” yelled another, and the sally was responded to +with a burst of savage laughter. +</p> +<p> +“Throw us out a penny,” called a third, “it will treat all your friends in +Ireland—let him go, boys, let him go on, he's only stopping the way +of his betters.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's the man that knows how to spend his money—three cheers for +the Englishman from Stephen's-green—three cheers for Sir Marmaduke +Travers,” and the cheers burst forth with an enthusiasm that showed, how +much more a character for benevolence and personal kindness conciliated +mob estimation, than all the attributes of political partizanship. +</p> +<p> +“Bring us a lamp here, bring us a lamp,” cried a miserable object in +tattered rags, “take down a lamp, boys, till we have a look at the two +beauties,” and strange as the suggestion may seem, it was hailed with a +cry of triumphal delight, and in another moment a street lamp was taken +from its place and handed over the heads of the mob, to the very window of +Sir Marmaduke's carriage; while the old Baronet, kindly humouring the +eccentricity of the people, lowered the glass to permit them to see in. A +respectful silence extended over that crowd, motley and miserable as it +was, and they stood in mute admiration, not venturing upon a word nor a +remark, until as it were overcome by a spontaneous feeling of enthusiasm +they broke forth into one loud cheer that echoed from the College to the +very gates of the Castle; and with blessings deep and fervent, as they +would have bestowed for some real favour, the carriage was allowed to +proceed on its way once more. +</p> +<p> +“Here's Morris, here's the Colonel,” was now the cry, and a burst of as +merry laughter as ever issued from happy hearts, welcomed the new arrival; +“make him get out, boys, make him get out, and show us his legs, that's +the fellow ran away in Flanders,” and before the mirth had subsided, the +unhappy Colonel had passed on. +</p> +<p> +“Who's this in the hackney-coach?” said one, as the carriage in which +Talbot and Mark were seated came up. The window was let down in a moment, +and Talbot, leaning his head out, whispered a few words in a low voice; +whatever their import, their effect was magical, and a hurra, as wild as +the war-cry of an Indian, shook the street. +</p> +<p> +“What was it you said?” cried Mark. +</p> +<p> +“Three word in Irish,” said Talbot, laughing; “they are the only three in +my vocabulary, and their meaning is 'wait awhile;' and somehow, it would +seem a very significant intimation to Irishmen.” + </p> +<p> +The carriage moved on, and the two friends soon alighted in the +brilliantly-illuminated vestibule, now lined with battleaxe-guards, and +resounding with the clangor of a brass band. Mixing with the crowd that +poured up the staircase, they passed into the first drawing-room, without +stopping to write their names, as was done by the others, Talbot telling +Mark, in a whisper, to move up and follow him closely. +</p> +<p> +The distressing impression, that he himself would be an object of notice +and remark to others, and which had up to that very moment tortured him, +gave way at once, as he found himself in that splendid assemblage, where +beauty, in all the glare of dress and jewels, abounded, and where, for the +first time, the world of fashion and elegance burst upon his astonished +senses. The courage that, with dauntless nerve, would have led him to the +cannon's mouth, now actually faltered, and made him feel faint-hearted, to +find himself mixing with those among whom he had no right to be present. +Talbot's shrewd intelligence seemed to divine what was passing in Mark's +mind, for he took him by the arm, and as he led him forward, whispered, +from time to time, certain particulars of the company, intended to satisfy +him, that, however distinguished by rank and personal appearance, in +reality, their characters had little claim to his respect. With such +success did he demolish reputations—so fatally did his sarcasms +depreciate those against whom they were directed—that, ere long, +Mark moved along in utter contempt for that gorgeous throng, which at +first had impressed him so profoundly. To hear that the proud-looking +general, his coat a blaze of orders, was a coward; that the benign and +mild-faced judge was a merciless, unrelenting tyrant; that the bishop, +whose simple bearing and gentle quietude of manner were most winning, was +in reality a crafty place-hunter and a subtle “intrigant”—such were +the lessons Talbot poured into his ear, while amid the ranks of beauty +still more deadly calumnies pointed all he said. +</p> +<p> +“Society is rotten to the very core here, Mark,” said he, bitterly. “There +never was a land nor an age when profligacy stood so high in the market. +It remains to be seen if our friends will do better—for a time, at +least, they are almost certain to do so; but now, that I have shown you +something of the company, let us separate, lest we be remarked. This +pillar can always be our rallying spot. Whenever you want me, come here;” + and so saying, and with a slight pressure of his hand, Talbot mixed with +the crowd, and soon was lost to Mark's view. +</p> +<p> +Talbot's revelations served at first to impair the pleasure Mark +experienced in the brilliant scene around him; but when once more alone, +the magnetic influence of a splendour so new, and of beauty so dazzling, +appealed to his heart far more powerfully than the cold sarcasms of his +companion. Glances which, directed to others, he caught in passing, and +felt with a throb of ecstasy within his own bosom; bright eyes, that +beamed not for him, sent a glow of delight through his frame. The +atmosphere of pleasure which he had never breathed before, now warmed the +current of his blood, and his pulse beat high and madly. All the bitter +thoughts he had harboured against his country's enemies could not stand +before his admiration of that gorgeous assemblage, and he felt ashamed to +think that he, and such as he, should conspire the downfall of a system, +whose very externals were so captivating. He wandered thus from room to +room in a dream of pleasure—now stopping to gaze at the dancers, +then moving towards some of the refreshment-rooms, where parties were +seated in familiar circles, all in the full enjoyment of the brilliant +festivity. Like a child roaming at will through some beauteous garden, +heightening enjoyment by the rapid variety of new pleasures, and making in +the quick transition of sensations a source of more fervid delight, so did +he pass from place to place, and in this way time stole by, and he utterly +forgot the rendezvous he had arranged with Talbot. At last, suddenly +remembering this, he endeavoured to find out the place, and in doing so +was forced to pass through a card-room, where several parties were now at +play. Around one of the tables a greater crowd than usual was assembled. +There, as he passed, Mark thought he overheard Talbot's voice. He stopped +and drew near, and, with some little difficulty, making his way through, +perceived his friend seated at the table, deeply engaged in what, if he +were to judge from the heap of gold before him, seemed very high play. His +antagonist was an old, fine-looking man, in the uniform of a general +officer; but while Mark looked, he arose, and his place was taken by +another—the etiquette being, that the winner should remain until he +ceased to win. +</p> +<p> +“He has passed eleven times,” said a gentleman to his friend, in Mark's +hearing; “he must at least have won four hundred pounds.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you happen to know who he is?” + </p> +<p> +“No; nor do I know any one that does. There!—see!—he has won +again.” + </p> +<p> +“He's a devilish cool player—that's certain. I never saw a man more +collected.” + </p> +<p> +“He studies his adversary far more than his cards—I remark that.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! here's old Clangoff come to try his luck:” and an opening of the +crowd was now made to permit a tall and very old man to approach the +table. Very much stooped in the shoulders, and with snow-white hair, Lord +Clangoff still preserved the remains of one who in his youth had been the +handsomest man of his day. Although simply dressed in the Windsor uniform, +the brilliant rings he wore upon his fingers, and the splendour of a gold +snuff-box surrounded by enormous diamonds, evinced the taste for +magnificence for which he was celebrated. There was an air of dignity with +which he took his seat, saluting the acquaintances he recognised about +him, very strikingly in contrast with the familiar manners then growing +into vogue, while in the courteous urbanity of his bow to Talbot, his +whole breeding was revealed. +</p> +<p> +“It is a proud thing even to encounter such an adversary, sir,” said he, +smiling. “They have just told me that you have vanquished our best +players.” + </p> +<p> +“The caprice of Fortune, my lord, that so often favours the undeserving,” + said Talbot, with a gesture of extreme humility. +</p> +<p> +“Your success should be small at play, if the French adage have any truth +in it,” said his lordship, alluding to Talbot's handsome features, which +seemed to indicate favour with the softer sex. +</p> +<p> +“According to that theory, my lord, I have the advantage over you at +present.” + </p> +<p> +This adroit flattery of the other's earlier reputation as a gallant, +seemed to please him highly; for, as he presented his box to one of his +friends near, he whispered—“A very well-bred fellow, indeed,” Then +turning to Talbot, said, “Do you like a high stake?” + </p> +<p> +“I am completely at your service, my lord—whatever you please.” + </p> +<p> +“Shall we say fifty?—or do you prefer a hundred?” + </p> +<p> +“If the same to you, I like the latter just twice as well.” + </p> +<p> +The old lord smiled at having found an adversary similarly disposed with +himself, and drew out his pocket-book with an air of palpable +satisfaction; while in the looks of increased interest among the +bystanders could be seen the anxiety they felt in the coming struggle. +</p> +<p> +“You have the deal, my lord,” said Talbot, presenting the cards. “Still, +if any gentleman cares for another fifty on the game——” + </p> +<p> +“I'll take it, sir,” said a voice from behind Lord Clangoff s chair, and +Mark, struck by the accent, fixed his eyes on the speaker. The blood +rushed to his face at once, for it was Hemsworth who stood before him—the +ancient enemy of his house—the tyrant, whose petty oppressions and +studied insults had been a theme he was familiar with from boyhood. All +fear of his being recognised himself was merged in the savage pleasure he +felt in staring fixedly at the man he hated. +</p> +<p> +He would have given much to be able to whisper the name into Talbot's ear; +but remembering how such an attempt might be attended by a discovery of +himself, he desisted, and with a throbbing heart awaited the result of the +game. Meanwhile Hemsworth, whose whole attention was concentrated on +Talbot, never turned his eyes towards any other quarter. The moment seemed +favourable for Mark, and gently retiring through the crowd, he at last +disengaged himself, and sat down on a bench near a door-way. His mind was +full of its own teeming thoughts, thoughts that the hated presence of his +enemy sent madly thronging upon him; he lost all memory of where he was, +nor did he remark that two persons had entered, and seated themselves near +him, when a word, a single word, fell upon his ear. He turned round, and +saw his cousin Kate sitting beside Frederick Travers. The start of +surprise he could not restrain attracted her notice. She turned also, and +as a deadly pallor came over her features, she uttered the one word, +“Mark.” Travers immediately caught the name, and, leaning forward, the two +young men's eyes met, and for some seconds never wandered from each other. +</p> +<p> +“I should have gone to see you, cousin Kate,” said Mark, after a momentary +struggle to seem calm and collected, “but I feared—that is, I did +not know——” + </p> +<p> +“But, Mark, dear Mark, why are you here?” said she, in a tone of heartfelt +terror. “Do you know that none save those presented at the Levees, and +known to the Lord Lieutenant, dare to attend these balls?” + </p> +<p> +“I came with a friend,” said Mark, in a voice where anger and +self-reproach were mingled. “If he misled me, he must answer for it.” + </p> +<p> +“It was imprudent, Mr. O'Donoghue, and that's all,” said Travers, in a +tone of great gentleness; “and your friend should not have misled you. +I'll take care that nothing unpleasant shall arise in consequence. Just +remain here for a moment.” + </p> +<p> +“Stay, sir,” said Mark, as Travers arose from his seat; “I hate accepting +favours, even should they release me from a position as awkward as this +is. Here comes my friend, Talbot, and he'll perhaps explain what I +cannot.” + </p> +<p> +“I have lost my money, Mark,” said Talbot, coming forward, and perceiving +with much anxiety that his young friend was engaged in a conversation. +“Let us move about and see the dancers.” + </p> +<p> +“Wait a few seconds first,” said Mark, sternly, “and satisfy this +gentleman that I am not in fault in coming here, save so far as being +induced by you to do so.” + </p> +<p> +“May I ask how the gentleman feels called on to require the explanation?” + said Talbot, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“I wish him to know the circumstances,” said Mark. +</p> +<p> +“And I,” said Travers, interrupting, “might claim a right to ask it, as +first aide-de-camp to his Excellency.” + </p> +<p> +“So, then,” whispered Talbot, with a smile, “it is the mere impertinence +of office.” + </p> +<p> +Travers' face flushed up, and his his quivered, as in an equally low tone +of voice he said— +</p> +<p> +“Where and when, sir, will you dare to repeat these words?” + </p> +<p> +“To-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, on the strand below Clontarf, and in +this gentleman's presence,” said Talbot into his ear. +</p> +<p> +A nod from Travers completed the arrangement, and Talbot, placing his arm +hurriedly within Mark's, said— +</p> +<p> +“Let us get away from this, Mark. It is all settled. We meet tomorrow.” + </p> +<p> +Mark turned one look towards Kate, who was just in the act of accepting +Travers' arm to return to the ball-room. Their glances met for a second, +but with how different a meaning!—in <i>hers</i>, a world of anxiety +and interest—in <i>his</i>, the proud and scornful defiance of one +who seemed to accept of no compromise with fortune. +</p> +<p> +“So, then, it is your friend Travers, Mark, with whom I am to have the +honour of a rencontre! I'm sorry, for your sake, that it is so.” + </p> +<p> +“And why so?” asked Mark, sternly, for in his present mood he was as +little satisfied with Talbot as with Travers. +</p> +<p> +“Because if I don't mistake much, you will not have the opportunity of +wiping out your old score with him. I'll shoot him, Mark!” These last +words were uttered between his almost closed teeth, and in a tone of +scarce restrained anger. “Are either of us looking very bloody-minded or +savage, Mark, I wonder? for see how the people are staring and whispering +as we pass!” + </p> +<p> +The observation was not made without reason, for already the two young men +were regarded on all sides as they passed—the different persons in +their way retiring as they approached. +</p> +<p> +“How do you do, my lord? I hope I see you well,” said Talbot, bowing +familiarly to a venerable old man who stood near, and who as promptly +returned his salute. +</p> +<p> +“Who is it you bowed to?” said Mark, in a whisper. +</p> +<p> +“The Chief-Justice, Mark. Not that I know him, or he me; but at this +critical moment such a recognition is a certificate of character, which +will at least last long enough to see us down stairs. There, let me move +on first, and follow me,” and as he spoke, he edged his way through a +crowded door, leaving Mark to follow how he could. This was, however a +task of more difficulty than it seemed, for already a number of persons +blocked up the doorway, eager to hear something which a gentleman was +relating to those about him. +</p> +<p> +“I can only tell you,” continued he, “that none seems to know either of +them. As Clangoff has lost the diamond snuff-box the Emperor of Austria +presented him with—he missed it after leaving the card-table—the +presumption is, that we are favoured with somewhat doubtful company.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0017" id="linkimage-0017"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00326.jpg" width="100%" alt="326 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Carysford says,” cried another, “that he knows one of them well, and has +often seen him in Paris at the play-houses.” + </p> +<p> +A low whisper ran around after these words, and at the instant every eye +was directed to Mark O'Donoghue. The young man sustained their looks with +a frown of resolute daring, turning from one to the other to see if, +perchance, by any gesture or expression, he could single out one to pay +the penalty for the rest—his blood boiled at the insulting glances +that fell upon him, and he was in the very act of giving his temper vent, +when an arm was slipped within his, and Frederick Travers whispered in his +ear— +</p> +<p> +“I hope your friend has got safely away. There are some fellows here +to-night of notoriously bad character, and Mr. Talbot may get into trouble +on that account.” + </p> +<p> +“He has just left this. I hope before now he has reached the street.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me be your convoy, then,” said Travers, good-naturedly. “These +talking fools will cease their scandal when they see us together;” and, +affecting an air of easy intimacy, he led Mark through the crowd, which +even already bestowed very altered glances as they passed. +</p> +<p> +“Good night, sir,” said Mark, abruptly, as they arrived at the room by +which he remembered to have entered, “I see my friend yonder, awaiting +me.” Travers returned the greeting, and half extended his hand, but Mark +coolly bowed and turned away. The moment after he was at Talbot's side. +</p> +<p> +“Thank heaven, we are breathing the free air again,” he exclaimed, as they +issued forth into the street, “a little longer would have suffocated me.” + </p> +<p> +“It was with Travers you parted at the head of the stair?” said Talbot, +inquiringly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; he was polite enough to come up when you left me, and the company +and myself have reason to be thankful to him, for assuredly, we were, both +of us, forgetting our good manners, very much at the moment. They were +pleased to look at me in a fashion of very questionable civility, and I, I +greatly fear, was scarcely more polite. It would seem, Talbot, that some +swindlers or pickpockets had introduced themselves at the assembly, and we +had the honor of being confounded with them—so much for the prudence +of our first step.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Mark, don't lose temper about trifles.” + </p> +<p> +“Would it have proved a trifle, if I had thrown one of those gold-laced +fops out of the window into the court? I promise you the temptation was +devilish strong in me to act so, at one moment. But what have we gained by +all this—where were the friends you should have met—whom have +you seen—what have you learned?” + </p> +<p> +Talbot made no reply, but walked on in silence. +</p> +<p> +“Or have we exposed ourselves to the taunting insolence of these people, +for the mock pleasure of mixing with them. Is that our gain here?” + </p> +<p> +Still Talbot made no reply, and Mark, as if his passion had expended +itself, now became silent also, and in this wise they reached the hotel, +each sunk in his own personal reflections. +</p> +<p> +“Now, Mark,” said Talbot, when they had gained their room, “now let us set +ourselves to think over what is to be done, and not waste a thought on +what is bygone. At seven, to-morrow, I am to meet Travers; before nine I +must be on the way to France, that is if he do not issue a leaden 'ne +exeat' against me. I shall certainly fire at him—your pretty cousin +will never forgive me for it, that I know well”—here he stole a side +look at Mark, across whose features a flash of passion was thrown—“still, +I am sorry this should have occurred, because I had many things to settle +here; among others, some which more nearly concerned yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Me! concerned me,” said Mark, in surprise. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; I am deeper in your secrets than you are aware of—deeper than +you are yourself, perhaps. What would you say, Mark, if I could insure you +the possession of your property and estate, as it was left to you by your +grandfather, without debt or incumbrance of any kind, free from mortgage?” + </p> +<p> +“Free from Hemsworth,” cried Mark, passionately. +</p> +<p> +“Even so—I was just coming to that.”; +</p> +<p> +“I know not what I should say, Talbot, but I know what I should do—throw +every farthing of it into the scale where I have thrown life and hope—the +cause of my country.” + </p> +<p> +Talbot shook his head, doubtfully, for a second or two, then said: “It is +not money is wanting to the enterprise, it is rather what no money can buy—the +reckless courage of men willing to devote themselves to a cause which they +must never hope to live to see successful, but whose graves must be the +ramparts over which others will achieve liberty. No, my hopes for you +point otherwise. I wish to see you as the head and representative of an +ancient name and house, with the influence property and position would +confer, taking your place in the movement, not as a soldier of fortune, +but as a man of rank and weight.” Talbot paused for a moment to enjoy, as +it were, the delight this brilliant picture of coming greatness produced +upon the youth, and then went on, “such a place I can offer you, Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“How, and on what terms?” cried Mark, bursting with impatience. +</p> +<p> +“I make no conditions—I am your friend, and ask nothing but your +friendship—a lucky chance has given me the opportunity to serve you—all +I bargain for is, that you do not inquire further how that chance arose.” + </p> +<p> +Mark stood in mute amazement, while Talbot, unlocking his writing desk, +drew forth a dark leather pocket-book, tied with a string, and laid it +leisurely on the table before him. +</p> +<p> +“There is a condition I will bargain for, Mark,” said Talbot, after a +pause—“although I'm sure it is a weakness, I scarcely ever thought +to feel. We shall soon be separated, who knows when we shall meet again, +if ever. Now, if men should speak of me in terms unworthy of one who has +been your friend, laying to my charge acts of dishonour——” + </p> +<p> +“Who will dare to do so before me?” said Mark, indignantly. +</p> +<p> +“It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your defence of me when +absent—as much as that you will yourself reject all belief in these +calumnies. I have told you enough of my life to let you know in what +circumstances of difficulty and danger different parts have been forced +upon me, and it may be that, while I have personated others, they in +revenge have masqueraded under my name. This is no mere suspicion. I know +it has already happened; bear it well in mind, and when your friend Henry +Talbot is assailed, remember the explanation and your own promise.” + </p> +<p> +Mark grasped Talbot's hand firmly, and shook it with the warmth of true +friendship. +</p> +<p> +“Sit down beside me, Mark,” said he, placing the chairs at the table, “and +read this.” + </p> +<p> +With these words, he unfastened the string of the pocket-book, and took +forth a small paper from an envelope, of which the seal was already +broken. +</p> +<p> +“This is addressed to your father, Mark,” said he, showing him the +superscription. +</p> +<p> +“I know that hand-writing,” said Mark, gazing fixedly at it; “that is +Father Rourke's.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that's the name,” said Talbot, opening the letter. “Read this,” and +he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud— +</p> +<p> +“Mark O'Donoghue, son of Miles O'Donoghue, and Mary his wife, born 25th +December, 1774, and christened on the morning of the 27th December, same +year, by me Nicholas Rourke, P.P., Ballyvourney and Glengariff. Witnessed +by us, Simon Gaffney, steward, and Sam. Wylie, butler.” + </p> +<p> +“And what of all that,” said Mark, with a voice of evident disappointment. +“Do you think I wanted this certificate of birth or baptism to claim my +name or my kindred?” + </p> +<p> +“No, but to claim your estate and fortune,” said Talbot, hurriedly. “Do +you not perceive the date of this document—1774—and that you +only attained your majority on last Christmas day——” + </p> +<p> +“That cannot be,” interrupted Mark. “I joined my father in a loan upon the +estate two years ago; the sale to Hemsworth was made at the same time, and +I must have been of age to do so.” + </p> +<p> +“That does not follow,” said Talbot, smiling. “It suited the objects of +others to make you think so; but you were little more than nineteen at the +time. Here's the certificate of your mother's marriage, and the date is +February, 1773.” + </p> +<p> +Mark's countenance became perfectly bloodless, his lips grew livid, while +his nostrils were alternately distended and contracted violently, as he +breathed with a heaving effort. +</p> +<p> +“You have your choice, therefore,” said Talbot, flippantly, “to believe +your father, a man of honour, or your mother——” + </p> +<p> +“Stop,” cried Mark, as he seized his arm and shook it in his strong grasp; +“speak the word, and, by Heaven, you'll never leave this spot alive.” + </p> +<p> +Talbot seemed to feel no anger at this savage threat, but calmly said— +</p> +<p> +“It was not my wish to hurt your feelings, Mark. Very little reflection on +your part might convince you, that I can have no object to serve here, +save my regard for you. You seemed to doubt what I said about your age, +and I wished to satisfy you at once that I was correct. You were not of +age till last December. A false certificate of birth and baptism enabled +your father to raise a considerable sum of money with your concurrence, +and also permitted him to make a sale to Hemsworth of a property strictly +entailed on you and yours. Both these acts were illegal and unjust. If +Hemsworth be the rightful owner of that estate your birth is illegitimate—nay, +nay—I am but putting the alternative, which you cannot, dare not +accept. You must hear me with temper, Mark—calmly and patiently. It +is a sad lesson when one must learn to think disparagingly of those they +have ever looked up to and revered. But remember, that when your father +did this act, he was surrounded with difficulties on every hand. There +seemed no escape from the dangers around him; inevitable ruin was his lot: +he doubtless intended to apply a considerable portion of this money to the +repair of his shattered fortunes—of his affection for you there can +be no question——” + </p> +<p> +“There, there,” said Mark, interrupting him rudely; “there is no need to +defend a father to his son. Tell me, rather, why you have revealed this +secret to me at all, and to what end have you added this to the other +calamities of my fortune?” + </p> +<p> +He stood up as he said these words, and paced the room with slow steps, +his head sunk upon his bosom, and his arms dropped listlessly at his side. +Talbot looked upon the figure, marked with every trait of despondency, and +for some moments he seemed really to sorrow over the part he had taken; +then rallying with his accustomed energy, he said— +</p> +<p> +“If I had thought, Mark, that you had neither ambition for yourself, nor +hatred for an enemy, I would never have told you these things. I did +fancy, however, that you were one who struggled indignantly against an +inglorious fortune, and, still more, believed that you were not of a race +to repay injury with forgetfulness. Hemsworth, you have often told me, has +been the insulting enemy of your family. Not content with despoiling you +of fortune, he has done his utmost to rob you of fair fame—to reduce +an honoured house to the ignoble condition of peasants, and to break down +the high and haughty spirit of a noble family by the humiliating ills of +poverty. If you can forgive his injuries, can you forget his insults and +his taunts?” + </p> +<p> +“Would you have me repay either by arraigning my father as a criminal?” + </p> +<p> +“Not so, Mark; many other courses are open to you. The knowledge of this +fact by you, places you in a position to make your own terms with +Hemsworth. He who has spent thirty thousand pounds on a purchase without a +title, must needs yield to any conditions you think fit to impose—you +have but to threaten——-” + </p> +<p> +“That I will expose my father in a court of justice,” said Mark, between +his teeth; “that I will put money in one scale, and the honour of my house +in the other; that I will truck the name and credit of my race, against +the acres that were theirs. No, no; you mistake me much; you know little +of the kind of vengeance my heart yearns for, or you would never have +tempted me with such a bait as this.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so,” said Talbot, coolly; “Hemsworth is only the luckier man that +has met such a temperament as yours to deal with; a vulgar spirit like +mine would have turned the tables upon him. But I have done; keep the +paper, Mark, there might come a time when it should prove useful to you. +Hark!—what's that noise below? Don't you hear that fellow Lawless +voice in the court-yard?”—and as he spoke, the voice of the host, +Billy Crossley, raised very high above its usual pitch, called out— +</p> +<p> +“I tell you, gentlemen, Mr. Talbot is not in the house; he dined out +to-day, and has not returned since dinner.” + </p> +<p> +A confused murmur followed this announcement; and again Crossley said, but +in a still louder tone— +</p> +<p> +“You have perfect liberty to look for him wherever you please; don't say +that I gave you any impediment or hindrance; follow me—I'll show you +the way.” + </p> +<p> +Talbot knew in a moment the intention of the speaker, and recognized in +Crossley's vehemence an urgent warning to himself. +</p> +<p> +“I'm tracked, Mark,” cried he; “there, take that key—burn the papers +in that desk—all of them. At seven to-morrow, meet me on the strand; +if all be safe, I'll be true to time; if not——” + </p> +<p> +The remainder of his sentence was cut short by the hurrying sounds of feet +upon the stairs, and Crossley's voice, which in its loudest key continued +to protest that Talbot was not in the house, nor had he seen him since +dinner. +</p> +<p> +Mark hastily unlocked the desk and took out the papers, but when he turned +round, Talbot was gone; a tremulous motion of the tapestry on the wall +seemed to indicate that his escape had been made through some secret door +behind it. He had no time, however, to think further of the circumstance, +for scarcely had he applied the lighted candle to the papers, when the +door was burst violently open, and three strange men, followed by Lanty +Lawler, entered the room, while Crossley, whom they had pushed roughly +aside, stood without, on the lobby, still talking as loudly as before. +</p> +<p> +“Is that him?” said one of the fellows, who seemed like a constable in +plain clothes. +</p> +<p> +“No,” whispered Lanty, as he skulked behind the shoulder of the speaker; +“that's another gentleman.” + </p> +<p> +“Were you alone in this apartment?” said the same man who spoke first, as +he addressed Mark in the tone of authority. +</p> +<p> +“It is rather for me to ask what business you have to come here?” replied +Mark, as he continued to feed the flames with the letters and papers +before him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0018" id="linkimage-0018"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00334.jpg" width="100%" alt="334 " /> +</div> +<p> +“You shall see my warrant when you have answered my question. Meanwhile +these may be of some consequence,” said the other, as, approaching the +hearth, he stooped down to seize the burning papers. +</p> +<p> +“They do not concern you,” said Mark, as he placed his foot in the very +middle of the blaze. +</p> +<p> +“Stand back, sir,” cried the constable, half raising his arm to enforce +the command. +</p> +<p> +“Lay but a finger on me,” said Mark, scornfully, “and I'll dash your head +against the wall.” + </p> +<p> +The insolence of this threat might have been followed by ill consequences, +had not Lanty sprung hastily forward, and, catching the constable by the +arm, cried out— +</p> +<p> +“It is the O'Donoghue of Glenflesk, a young gentleman of rank and +fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“What do we care for his rank or fortune,” said the other, passionately. +“If he obstructs the King's warrant for the arrest of a traitor or a +felon, I value him no more than the meanest beggar in the street. Those +papers there, for all I know, might throw light on the whole plot.” + </p> +<p> +“They are at your service now,” said Mark, as, with a kick of his foot, he +dashed the blackened embers from him, and sent them in floating fragments +through the room. +</p> +<p> +Unwilling as he seemed to continue a contest in which his authority had +met only defiance, the constable gave the order to his underlings to make +a strict search of the apartment and the bed-room which opened into it, +during which Mark seated himself carelessly in an arm-chair, and taking a +newspaper from the table, affected to read it. +</p> +<p> +Lanty stood for a few seconds, irresolute what to do; then stealing softly +behind Mark's chair, he muttered, in a broken voice— +</p> +<p> +“If I thought he was a friend of yours, Master Mark—— But it's +no matter—I know he's off. I heard the gallop of a beast on the +stones since we came in. Well, well, I never expected to see you here.” + </p> +<p> +Mark made no other reply to this speech than a steady frown, whose +contemptuous expression Lanty cowered under, as he said once more— +</p> +<p> +“It wasn't my fault at all, if I was obliged to come with the constables. +There's more charges nor mine against him, the chap with the black +whiskers says——” + </p> +<p> +“It's quite clear,” said the chief of the party, as he re-entered the +room, “it's quite clear this man was here a few minutes since, and equally +so that you know of his place of concealment. I tell you plainly, sir, if +you continue to refuse information concerning him, I'll take you as my +prisoner. I have two warrants against him—one for highway robbery, +the other for treason.” + </p> +<p> +“Why the devil have you no informations sworn against him for murder?” + said Mark, insolently, for the language of the bailiff had completely +aroused his passion. “Whoever he is, you are looking for, seems to have a +clear conscience.” + </p> +<p> +“Master Mark knows nothing at all about him, I'll go bail to any amount.” + </p> +<p> +“We don't want your bail, my good friend; we want the man who calls +himself Harvey Middleton in Herts, Godfrey Middleton in Surrey, the +Chevalier Duchatel in France, Harry Talbot in Ireland, but who is better +known in the police sheet;” and here he opened a printed paper, and +pointing to the words,—“full description of John Barrington, +convicted at the Maidstone assizes, and sentenced to fifteen years +transportation.” + </p> +<p> +The smile of insolent incredulity with which Mark listened to these +imputations on the honour of his friend, if it did not assuage the anger +of the constable, served to satisfy him that he was at least no practised +colleague in crime, and turning to Lanty, he talked to him in a low +whisper for several minutes. +</p> +<p> +“I tell ye,” said Lanty, eagerly, in reply to some remark of the other, +“his worship will never forgive you if you arrest him; his time is not yet +come, and you'll get little thanks for interfering where ye had no +business.” + </p> +<p> +Whether convinced by these arguments, or deterred from making Mark his +prisoner, by the conscious illegality of the act, the man collected his +party, and having given them his orders in a low voice, left the room, +followed by the others. +</p> +<p> +A gesture from Mark arrested Lanty, as he was in the act of passing out. +“A word with you Lanty,” said he, firmly. “What is the information against +Talbot?—what is he accused of?” + </p> +<p> +“Sure didn't you hear yourself,” replied Lanty, in a simpering, mock +bashful voice. “They say he's Barrington the robber, and faith, they've +strong evidence that they're not far out. 'Tis about a horse I sold him +that I came here. I didn't want to harm or hurt any body, and if I thought +he was a friend of yours——” + </p> +<p> +“He is a friend of mine,” said Mark, “and therefore these stories are but +one tissue of falsehoods. Are you aware, Lanty”—and here as the +youth spoke his voice became low and whispering—“are you aware that +Talbot is an agent of the French Government—that he is over here to +report on the condition of our party, and arrange for the rising?” + </p> +<p> +“Is it in earnest you are?” cried Lanty, with an expression of admirably +dissembled astonishment. “Are you telling me truth, Master Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, and more still—the day is not far distant now, when we shall +strike the blow.” + </p> +<p> +“I want you here, my worthy friend,” said the constable, putting his head +into the room, and touching Lanty's shoulder. The horsedealer looked +confused, and for a second seemed undetermined how to act; but suddenly +recovering his composure, he smiled significantly at Mark, wished him a +good night, and departed. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND +</h2> +<p> +It was with an impatience almost amounting to madness that Mark O'Donoghue +awaited the dawn of day; long before that hour had arrived he had made +every preparation for joining his friend. A horse stood ready saddled +awaiting him in the stable, and his pistols—the weapons Talbot knew +so well how to handle—were carefully packed in the heavy holsters. +The time settled for the meeting was seven o'clock, but he was certain +that Talbot would be near the place before that hour, if not already +there. The scene which followed Talbot's escape also stimulated his +anxiety to meet with him; not that any, even the faintest suspicion of his +friend's honour ever crossed Mark's mind, but he wished to warn him of the +dangers that were gathering around him, for were he arrested on a +suspicion, who was to say what material evidence might not arise against +him in his real character of a French spy. Mark's was not a character long +to brood over doubtful circumstances, and seek an explanation for +difficulties which only assumed the guise of suspicions. Too prone always +to be led by first impressions of every body and every thing, he hated and +avoided whatever should disturb the opinions he thus hastily formed. When +matters too complicated and knotty for his immediate comprehension crossed +him, he turned from them without an effort, and rather satisfied himself +that it was a point of honour to “go on believing,” than harbour a doubt +even where the circumstances were calculated to suggest it. This frame of +mind saved him from all uneasiness on the score of Talbot's honour; he had +often heard how many disguises and masks his friend had worn in the events +of his wild and dangerous career, and if he felt how incapable he himself +would have been to play so many different parts, the same reason prevented +his questioning the necessity of such subterfuges. That Harry Talbot had +personated any or all of the persons mentioned by the constable, he little +doubted, and therefore he regarded their warrant after him as only another +evidence of his skill and cleverness, but that his character were in the +least involved, was a supposition that never once occurred to him. Amid +all his anxieties of that weary night, not one arose from this cause; no +secret distrust of his friend lurked in any corner of his heart; his fear +was solely for Talbot's safety, and for what he probably ranked as highly—the +certainty of his keeping his appointment with Frederick Travers; and what +a world of conflicting feelings were here! At one moment a sense of +savage, unrelenting hatred to the man who had grossly insulted himself, at +the next a dreadful thrill of agony that this same Travers might be the +object of his cousin's love, and that on <i>his</i> fate, <i>her</i> whole +happiness in life depended. Had the meeting been between himself and +Travers—had the time come round to settle that old score of insult +that lay between them, he thought that such feelings as these would have +been merged in the gratified sense of vengeance, but now, how should he +look on, and see him fall by another's pistol?—how see another +expose his life in the place he felt to be his own? He could not forgive +Talbot for this, and every painful thought the whole event suggested, +embittered him against his friend as the cause of his suffering. And yet, +was it possible for him ever himself to have challenged Travers? Did not +the discovery of Kate's secret, as he called it to her, on the road below +the cliff, at once and for ever, prevent such a catastrophe? Such were +some of the harassing reflections which distracted Mark's mind, and to +which his own wayward temper and natural excitability gave additional +poignancy; while jealousy, a passion that fed and ministered to his hate, +lived through every sentiment and tinctured every thought. Such had been +his waking and sleeping thoughts for many a day-thoughts which, though +lurking, like a slow poison, within him, had never become so palpable to +his mind before; his very patriotism, the attachment he thought he felt to +his native country, his ardent desire for liberty, his aspirations for +national greatness, all sprung from this one sentiment of hate to the +Saxon, and jealousy of the man who was his rival. Frederick Travers was +the embodiment of all those feelings he himself believed were enlisted in +the cause of his country. +</p> +<p> +As these reflections crowded on him, they suggested new sources of +suffering, and in the bewildered frame of mind to which he was now +reduced, there seemed no possible issue to his difficulties. Mark was not, +however, one of those who chalk out their line in life in moments of quiet +reflection, and then pursue the career they have fixed upon. His course +was rather to throw passion and impulse into the same scale with +circumstances, and take his chance of the result. He had little power of +anticipation, nor was his a mind that could calmly array facts before it, +and draw the inferences from them. No, he met the dangers of life, as he +would have done those of battle, with a heart undaunted, and a spirit +resolved never to turn back. The sullen courage of his nature, if it did +not suggest hope, at least supplied resolution—and how many go +through life with no other star to guide them! +</p> +<p> +At last the grey dawn of breaking day appeared above the house-tops, and +the low distant sounds that prelude the movement of life in great cities, +stirred faintly without. +</p> +<p> +“Thank heaven, the night is over at last,” was Mark's exclamation, as he +gazed upon the leaden streak of cloud that told of morning. +</p> +<p> +All his preparations for departure were made, so that he had only to +descend to the stable, and mount his horse. The animal, he was told, had +formerly belonged to Talbot, and nothing save the especial favour of Billy +Crossley could have procured him so admirable a mount. +</p> +<p> +“He has never left the stable, sir,” said Billy, as he held the stirrup +himself—“he has never left the stable for ten days, but he has wind +enough to carry you two and twenty miles within the hour, if you were put +to it.” + </p> +<p> +“And if I were, Billy,” said Mark, for a sudden thought just flashed +across him—“if I were, and if I should not bring him back to you, +his price is—— +</p> +<p> +“I wouldn't take a hundred guineas for him from any man living save Mr. +Talbot himself; but if it were a question of saving him from danger, or +any man he deems his friend, then, then, sir, I tell you fairly, Billy +Crossley isn't so poor a man, but he can afford to do a generous thing. +Take him. I see you know how to sit on him; use him well and tenderly, +keep him until you find the time to give him back, and now a good journey +to you wherever you go; and go quickly, whispered Billy, for I see two +fellows at the gate who appear listening attentively to our conversation. +</p> +<p> +“Take that in any case as a pledge,” said Mark, as he pitched a purse, +containing above a hundred pounds in gold, towards Crossley, and before +the other could interpose to restore it, Mark had dashed his spurs into +the beast's flanks, and in another minute was hastening down +Thomas-street. +</p> +<p> +Mark had not proceeded far when he slackened his pace to a walk—he +remembered that it was yet two hours before the time, and with the old +spirit of a horseman, he husbanded the qualities of the noble animal he +bestrode. Whether it was, that as the moment approached which should solve +some of the many difficulties that beset him, or that the free air of the +morning, and the pleasure he felt on being once more in the saddle, had +rallied his mind and raised his courage, I know not, but so it was; Mark's +spirits grew each instant lighter, and he rode along revolving other ones, +if not happier thoughts, such as were at least in a frame more befitting +his youth and the bold heart that beat within his bosom. The streets were +deserted, the great city was sleeping, the thoroughfares he had seen +crowded with brilliant equipages and hurrying masses of foot passengers, +were still and vacant; and as Mark turned from side to side to gaze on the +stately public edifices now sleeping in their own shadows, he thought of +the dreadful conflict which, perchance, it might be his own lot to lead in +that same city—he thought of the wild shout of the insurgent masses, +as with long-pent-up, but now loosened fury they poured into the devoted +streets—he fancied the swelling clangour which denoted the approach +of troops, ringing through the various approaches, and the clattering +sounds of distant musketry as post after post in different parts of the +town was assailed. He halted before the Castle gate, where a single +dragoon sat motionless in his saddle, his carbine at rest beneath his long +cloak, the very emblem of peaceful security, and as Mark gazed on him, his +lip curled with an insolent sneer as he thought over the false security of +those within; and that proud banner whose lazy folds scarce moved with the +breath of morning, “How soon may we see a national flag replace it?”—were +the words he muttered, as he resumed his way as slowly as before. A few +minutes after brought him in front of the College. All was still silent in +that vast area, along which at noon-day the wealth and the life of the +city poured. A single figure here appeared, a poor miserable object in +tattered black, who was occupied in affixing a placard on the front of the +Post-office. Mark stopped to watch him—there seemed something sad +and miserable in the lot of this one poor creature, singled out as it were +to labour while others were sunk in sleep. He drew near, and as the paper +was unfolded before him, read, in large letters, the words “Capital Felony—£500 +Reward”—and then followed a description of John Barrington, which in +every particular of height, age, look, and gesture, seemed perfectly +applicable to Talbot. +</p> +<p> +“Then, sorra one of me but would rather be tearing you down than putting +you up,” said the bill-sticker, as with his arms folded leisurely on his +breast, and his ragged hat set sideways on his head, he apostrophized his +handiwork. +</p> +<p> +“And why so, my good fellow,” said Mark, replying to the words. He turned +round rapidly, and pulling off his hat, exclaimed, in an accent of +unfeigned delight—“Tear-an-ages, captain, is it yourself? Och! och! +no,” added he, in a tone of as great despondency—“it is the black +horse that deceived me. I beg your honor's pardon.” + </p> +<p> +“And you know this horse,” said Mark, with some anxiety of manner. +</p> +<p> +The bill-sticker made no answer, but carefully surveyed Mark, for a few +moments from head to foot, and then, as if not perfectly satisfied with +the result of his scrutiny, he slowly resumed the implements of his trade, +and prepared to move on. +</p> +<p> +“Stop a moment,” said Mark, “I know what you mean, this horse belonged to——” + and he pointed with his whip to the name on the placard. “Don't be afraid +of me, then, for I am his friend, perhaps the nearest friend he has in the +world.” + </p> +<p> +“Av you were his brother, you don't like him better than I do myself. I'll +never forget the night he got his head laid open for me on the bridge +there beyant. The polis wanted to take me up for a bit of a ballad I was +singing about Major Sirr, and they were hauling me along through the +gutter, and kicking me at every step, when up comes the captain, and he +sent one flying here, and the other flying there, and he tripped up the +chief, calling out to me the whole time, 'Run for it, Dinny—run for +it like a man; I'll give you five minutes fair start of them any way.' And +he kept his word, though one of them cut his forehead clean down to the +bone; and here I am now sticking up a reward to take him, God pardon me”—and +the poor fellow uttered the last words in a voice of self-reproach, that +actually brought the tears into his eyes. +</p> +<p> +Mark threw him a crown, and pressed on once more; but somehow the +convictions which resisted, before, were now shaken by this chance +meeting. The recognition of the horse at once identified Talbot with +Barrington, and although Mark rejected altogether any thought which +impugned the honour of his friend, he felt obliged to believe that, for +some object of intrigue, Talbot had assumed the name and character of this +celebrated personage. The very fact of his rescuing the bill-sticker +strengthened this impression. Such an act seemed to Mark far more in +unison with the wayward recklessness of Talbot's character, than with the +bearing of a man who might thus expose himself to capture. With the +subtlety which the will supplies to furnish arguments for its own +conviction, Mark fancied how readily Talbot might have made this +personation of Barrington a master-stroke of policy, and while thus he +ruminated, he reached the sea shore, and could see before him that long +bleak track of sand, which, uncovered save at high tide, is called “the +Bull.” This was the spot appointed for the meeting, and, although now +within half an hour of the time, no figure was seen upon its bleak surface. +Mark rode on, and crossing the narrow channel of water which separates +“the Bull” from the main-land, reached the place over which, for above two +miles in extent, his eye could range freely. Still no one was to be seen; +the light ripple of the ebbing tide was the only sound in the stillness of +the morning; there was a calmness over the surface of the sea, on which +the morning sunbeams were slanting faintly, and glittering like freckled +gold, wherever some passing breeze or shore-current stirred the waters. +One solitary vessel could be seen, and she, a small schooner, with all her +canvas bent, seemed scarcely to move. +</p> +<p> +Mark watched her, as one watches any object which relieves the dreariness +of waiting, he gazed on her tall spars and white sails reflected in the +sea, when suddenly a bright flash burst from her side, a light-blue smoke, +followed by a booming sound, rolled forth, and a shot was seen skimming +the surface of the water, for above a mile in her wake; the next moment a +flag was run up to her peak, when it fluttered for a moment and was then +lowered again. Mark's experience of a smuggling life taught him at once to +recognize these signs as signals, and he turned his gaze towards the land +to discover to whom they were made; but although for miles long the coast +lay beneath his view, he could see nothing that corresponded with this +suspicion. A single figure on horseback was all that he could detect, and +he was too far off to observe minutely. Once more Mark turned towards the +ship, which now was feeling a fresher breeze and beginning to bead beneath +it. The white curl that broke from her bow, and rushed foaming along her +sides, showed that she was making way through the water, not as it seemed +without the will of those on board, for as the wind freshened they shook +out their mainsail more fully, and continued at every moment to spread +sail after sail. The hollow tramp of a horse's feet galloping on the +strand made Mark turn quickly round, and he saw the rider, whom he had +observed before, bending his course directly towards him. Supposing it +must be Talbot, Mark turned to meet him, and the horseman, who never +slackened his speed, came quickly within view, and discovered the features +of Frederick Travers. He was unaccompanied by friend or servant, and +seemed, from the condition of his horse, to have ridden at the top of his +speed. Before Mark could think of what apology he should make for, or how +explain Talbot's absence, Travers addressed him—— +</p> +<p> +“I half feared that it might not be you, Mr. O'Donoghue,” said he, as he +wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he seemed no less exhausted than +his horse. +</p> +<p> +“I'm alone, sir,” said Mark; “and were you not unaccompanied by a friend, +I should feel the difficulty of my present position more severely.” + </p> +<p> +“I know—I am aware,” said Travers, hurriedly, “your friend is gone. +I heard it but an hour since; you, in all likelihood, were not aware of +the fact, till you saw the signal yonder.” + </p> +<p> +“What!—Talbot's signal! Was that his?” + </p> +<p> +“Talbot, or Barrington,” said Travers, smiling; “perhaps we should better +call him by the name he is best known by.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you concur in the silly notion that confounds Harry Talbot with a +highwayman?” said Mark, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“I fear,” said Travers, “that in doing so I but follow the impression of +all the world. It was not the least clever thing he has eyer done, his +deception of you. Be assured, Mr. O'Donoghue, that the matter admits of no +doubt. The warrant for his apprehension, the informations sworn against +him, are not only plain and precise, but I have myself read certain facts +of his intimacy with you, the places you have frequented, the objects for +which, it is alleged, you were confederated—all these are at this +moment in the hands of the Secretary of State. Forgive me, sir, if I tell +you that you appear to have trusted too implicitly to men who were not +guided by your own principles of honor. This very day a warrant for your +own arrest will be issued from the Privy Council, on the information of a +man whom, I believe, you never suspected. He is a horsedealer named Lawler—Lanty +Lawler.” + </p> +<p> +“And he has sworn informations against me?” + </p> +<p> +“He has done more; he has produced letters written by your hand, and +addressed to different leaders of the United Irish party, letters whose +treasonable contents do not admit of a doubt. +</p> +<p> +“And the scoundrel has my letters?” said Mark, as his face grew purple +with passion. +</p> +<p> +“He has them no longer,” said Travers. “Here they are, sir. They Were +shown in confidence to my father, by one, who certainly is not your +friend. Sir Marmaduke asked permission to let me see them, and I have +taken on myself, without permission, to give them back to you.” + </p> +<p> +“At whose suggestion,” said Mark, proudly, “comes this act of grace? Is it +your father, who extends his protection to a tenant, or is it yourself, +whose wish is to humble me by an obligation?” + </p> +<p> +“There is none,” said Travers, frankly. “I believe, that scoundrels +without heart or courage have laid a trap for a man who has both one and +the other. I do not desire you should accept my conduct as a favour, still +less as offering any bar to such a reckoning between us as two gentleman +of equal place and standing may demand or expect from one another.” + </p> +<p> +“Say you so, indeed!” cried Mark, as his eyes flashed with joy: “is that +your meaning?” + </p> +<p> +“There's my hand on it,” said Travers, “as friend or foe!” + </p> +<p> +Mark grasped his hand, and wrung it with a convulsive pressure. +</p> +<p> +“Then you are aware that you owe me such a reparation,” said he, in a +voice tremulous with emotion. “You do not forget the day at +Carrig-na-curra—beside the hearth—before my brother?” + </p> +<p> +“I remember it well,” said Travers. “I ask your pardon for the insult. It +was unworthy of me to have made the speech, nor have I been on good terms +with myself since I uttered it.” + </p> +<p> +Mark dropped his head, and uttered not a word. He could better have looked +on Travers wounded and bleeding than have seen him thus elevated above +himself by temper and manly candour. The vengeance he had yearned after so +long was not only snatched from his grasp, but in the bitterness of +disappointment its sting was turned against himself. +</p> +<p> +“This would be an unworthy cause of quarrel,” said Travers; “one of which +I could not but feel ashamed, and wherein you could have no pride. If we +are not to be friends—and I seek no man's friendship who is not as +willing to accept of mine—if we are not to be friends, let our +enmity be ratified on some better cause—we surely can have little +difficulty in finding one.” + </p> +<p> +Mark nodded assentingly, and Travers resumed— +</p> +<p> +“There is something still more pressing than this. My father will be able +to defer the issue of the warrant against you for three days, when the +Privy Council will again be summoned together. Until that time you are +safe. Make good use of it, therefore. Leave the capital—reach some +place of security; and, after some time, when the excitement of the affair +has passed away——” + </p> +<p> +“By a due expression of sorrow and penitence, I might be fortunate enough +to obtain the King's pardon. You were about to say so much. Is't not so?” + </p> +<p> +“Not exactly,” said Frederick, smiling; “but now that the Government are +in possession of the secret details of this plot, and thoroughly aware of +the men engaged in it, and what their objects are, to persist in it, would +be hopeless folly. Believe me, the chances were never in your favour, and +at present you have not a single one left. For your sake, Mr. O'Donoghue, +this is most fortunate. The courage that would seem madness in a hopeless +cause, will win you fame and honour where the prospects are fairer. There +is a new world beyond the seas, where men of hardy minds and enterprising +spirits achieve rank and fortune—in India, where war has all the +features of chivalry, where personal daring and heroism are surer roads to +distinction than influence and patronage; no prize will be too high for +your aspirations.” + </p> +<p> +Mark was silent, and Travers conjecturing that his words were sinking into +his heart with a persuasive power, went on to re-picture the adventurous +life which should open to him, if he would consent to leave his country, +and seek fortune beyond the seas. As he continued to speak, they rode +along side by side, and at last came to that part of the shore, where a +road branched off. Here Mark suddenly drew up, and said— +</p> +<p> +“I must say good-bye here, Mr. Travers. My path will lie this way for the +present. Do not suspect me of want of feeling because I have not thanked +you for the part you have taken; but in truth you have averted the evil +from one whose life has nothing worth living for. You have saved me from a +danger, but I am without a hope. Betrayed and cheated by those I trusted, +I have little care for the future, because I have no confidence in any +thing. Nay, nay—don't speak of that again. I will not go to India,—I +will not accept of favours from a country that has been the enemy of my +own. The epaulette which <i>you</i> wear with honour, would be a badge of +disgrace upon <i>my</i> shoulder. Good-bye, I can afford to thank you, +because you have not made a service take the form of an 'amende.'” + </p> +<p> +Travers forbore to press him further. He wisely judged that enough had +been done for the present, and that his safety being provided for, time +and opportunity would both present themselves for the remainder. He shook +his proffered hand with cordiality, and they separated, Frederick to +return to Dublin, Mark to wander wherever chance might incline him. +</p> +<p> +“He said truly,” exclaimed Mark, as soon as he once more found himself +separated from his companion—“he said truly, the chances were never +in our favour, and at present we have not a single one left. The cause +which depends on such elements as these is worse than hopeless.” Such were +the words that broke from him, as, in sorrow and humiliation, he +remembered the character of his associates, and felt, in deep shame, the +companionship he had fallen into. “Had there been but one true to me!” + exclaimed he, in accents of misery, “I could have stood against the shock, +stout hearted; but to find all false—all!” + </p> +<p> +Seeking out some of the least frequented lanes, he rode on for several +miles, caring little which way, so long as he turned from the capital;—for +although as yet no personal danger threatened him, a nervous sense of +shame made him dread the sight of his former acquaintances. Again and +again did the thought recur to him: “How will Kate hear me spoken of? In +what light will my actions be displayed to her? Is it as the miserable +dupe of such a wretch as Lawler, or is it as the friend and chosen +companion of Barrington, I would be known? And yet, what have I to fear, +to whom no hope is left!” + </p> +<p> +Among the many sources of his sorrow, one recurred at every moment, and +mingled itself with every other thought: “What would their noble-hearted +friends in France say of them?—how would they speak of a land whose +struggle for freedom is stained with treachery, or which cannot number in +the ranks of its defenders but the felon or the outlaw?” + </p> +<p> +For the deceit practised on the people he felt bitterly. He knew with what +devotedness they followed the cause—the privations they had borne in +silence, awaiting the time of retribution—how they had forborne all +ebullitions of momentary passion, in expectation of the day of a greater +reckoning—with what trust they obeyed their leaders—how +implicitly they confided in every direction given for their guidance. Can +patriotism like this survive such a trial? Will they ever believe in the +words of their chief again?—were questions which his heart answered +despondingly. +</p> +<p> +The day wore over in these sad musings, and by evening, Mark, who had made +a wide circuit of the country, arrived at the village of Lucan, where he +passed the night. As day was breaking, he was again on the road, directing +his steps towards Wicklow, where in the wild district near Blessington, he +had acquaintance with several farmers, all sincerely devoted to the +“United party.” It was as much to rescue his own character from any false +imputations that might be cast on it, as from any hope of learning +favourable tidings, that he turned hither. The mountain country, too, +promised security for the present, and left him time to think what course +he should follow. +</p> +<p> +Mark did not miscalculate the good feeling of the people in this quarter. +No success, however triumphant, would have made him one half so popular as +his disasters had done. That he had been betrayed, was an appeal stronger +than all others to their best affections; and had the deliverance of +Ireland depended on his safety, there could not have been greater efforts +to provide for it, nor more heartfelt solicitude for his own comfort. He +found, too, that the treachery of individuals did not shake general +confidence in the success of the plot, so much hope had they of French +assistance and co-operation. These expectations were often exaggerated, +because the victories of the French armies had been represented as +triumphs against which no opposition availed; but they served to keep up +national courage; and the theme of all their discourses and their ballads +was the same: “The French will do us right.” + </p> +<p> +If Mark did not fully concur in the expectations so confidently formed, he +was equally far from feeling disposed to throw any damper on them; and at +length, as by daily intercourse these hopes became familiarized to his +mind, he ended by a partial belief in that future to which all still +looked, undismayed by past reverses: and in this way time rolled on, and +the embers of rebellion died not out, but smouldered. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXV. THE WANDERER'S RETURN +</h2> +<p> +It was about two months after the events detailed in the last chapter, on +the evening of a bright day in midsummer, that a solitary traveller was +seen descending one of the mountain-passes which lead from Macroom to +Glengariff, and which were only known to those well acquainted with the +place. He led his horse by the bridle, for the ground did not admit of +riding; but were it otherwise, the beast showed too many signs of a hard +journey not to make the course advisable, and in this respect both horse +and rider well agreed. The man, though young and athletic, was emaciated +and weary-looking. His clothes, once good, seemed neglected; and his +beard, unshaven and uncared for, gave an air of savage ferocity to a face +pale and care-worn, while his horse, with as many evidences of better +days, exhibited unquestionable signs of fatigue and bad-feeding. The path +by which he descended was the cleft worn by a mountain-torrent, a rough +and rugged road, with many spots of difficulty and danger, but neither +these nor the scene which unfolded itself in the glen beneath, attracted +any share of his attention; and yet few scenes were fairer to look upon. +The sun was just setting, and its last glories were lighting up the purple +tints upon the mountains, and shedding a flood of golden hue over lake and +river. The bright yellow of the furze, and the gay colours of the foxglove +contrasted with the stern grandeur of the dark rocks, while in the +abundance of wild holly and arbutus which grew from even the most +precipitous places, the scene had a character of seeming cultivation to an +eye unpractised to the foliage of this lovely valley. The traveller, who, +for above an hour, had pursued his way, treading with the skill of a +mountaineer over places where a false step might have perilled life, and +guiding his horse with a caution that seemed an instinct, so little of his +attention did it exact, at last halted, and, leaning his arm over his +saddle, stood for some time in contemplation of the picture. From the spot +on which he stood, one solitary cabin was discernible on the side of the +road that wound through the valley, and from whose chimney a thin blue +smoke slowly curled, and floated along the mountain side. On this little +habitation the traveller's eyes were fixedly bent, until their gaze was +dimmed by a passing emotion. He drew his hand roughly over his face, as if +angry at his own weakness, and was about to proceed on his way, when a +shrill whistle from a cliff above his head arrested his step. It was a +mountain recognition he well knew, and was about to reply to, when +suddenly, with a bounding speed that seemed perilous in such a place, a +creature clad in the most tattered rags, but with naked legs and bare +head, came springing towards him. +</p> +<p> +“I knew you from the top of Goorhaun dhub—I knew you well, Master +Mark. There's not many with a good coat on their back could venture over +the way you came, and I said to myself it was you,” cried Terry the Woods, +as with his pale features lit up his smiles, he welcomed the young +O'Donoghue to his native hills. +</p> +<p> +“How are they all yonder?” asked Mark, in a voice scarcely above a +whisper, pointing with his finger up the glen in the direction of +Car-rig-na-curra, but which was not visible from where they were. +</p> +<p> +“I saw the master yesterday,” replied Terry, who applied to the O'Donoghue +the respected title by which he was known in his own household. “He was +sitting on a big chair at the window, and the young girl with the black +eyes was reading to him out of a book—but sorra much he was mindin' +it, for when he seen me he beckoned this way, and says he, 'Terry, you +villain, why don't you ever come up here now and talk to me?' 'Faix,' says +I, 'I haven't the heart to do it. Since Master Mark was gone, I didn't +like the place,' and the master wiped his eyes, and the young girl made a +sign to me not to speak about that any more.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is at 'the Lodge' now?” asked Mark, endeavouring tore-strain any +semblance of emotion, even before Terry. +</p> +<p> +“There's nobody but the agent. The family is over in England till the +house is ready for them. Oh, then, but you'll wonder to see the illigant +place it is now, wid towers and spires all over it—the ground all +gardens, with grass walks as fine as a carpet, and the beautifullest +flowers growin' against the walls and up against the windows, and a +fountain, as they call it, of cool water spouting up in the air, and +coming down like rain.” + </p> +<p> +“And my brother—where is he?” + </p> +<p> +“He's over in England with the family from 'the Lodge;' the black-eyed +girl, Miss Kate, wouldn't go. They say—but there's no knowing if +it's true—they say she likes Hemsworth better than the Captain—and +troth, if she does, its a dhroll choice.” + </p> +<p> +“Like Hemsworth! Do they say that my cousin likes Hemsworth?” said Mark, +whose anger was only kept down by gazing on the tranquil features of the +poor witless object before him. +</p> +<p> +“They do,” said Terry quietly, “and it's razonable, too, seein' that he's +never out of the house from morning till night.” + </p> +<p> +“What house?—where do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“What house but Carrig-na-curra—your father's house.” + </p> +<p> +Mark passed his hand across his forehead, and over his closed eyelids, and +for a second or two seemed trying to dispel some horrible vision, for +deep-rooted as was his jealousy of Frederick Travers, his most gloomy +forebodings had never conjured up the thought of such a rival as +Hemsworth, nor did he now credit it. His indignation was, however, +scarcely less to think that this man should now be received on terms of +intimacy, perhaps of friendship, by those he so long pursued with insult +and oppression. He paid no attention to Terry, as he continued to narrate +the changes effected in his absence, and the various surmises current +among the people to account for his long absence, when at length they +approached the high road that led up the valley. Here Terry halted, and, +pointing in the direction of Mary's cabin, about half a mile distant, said— +</p> +<p> +“I can't go any further with you. I dar'n't go there.” + </p> +<p> +“And why not, my poor fellow?” said Mark, compassionately, for the terror +depicted in his face too plainly indicated the return of some +hallucination. +</p> +<p> +“They're there, now,” said Terry, in a faint whisper, “watching for me. +They're five weeks waiting to catch me, but if I keep in the mountains I +needn't care.” + </p> +<p> +“And who are they, Terry?” + </p> +<p> +“The soldiers,” said Terry, trembling all over. “I ran away from them, and +they want to shoot me for desarting.” + </p> +<p> +“And there are soldiers quartered at Mary's now?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and at Macroom, and at Bantry, and Kinsale—they have them all +round us; but devil a one o' me cares; so long as they keep to the towns, +I'll never trouble them.” + </p> +<p> +“And how does poor Mary bear it?” said Mark. +</p> +<p> +“Bad enough, I hear, for nobody ever goes into the house at all, since she +had the red-coats, and there she's pining away every day; but I must be +going. I'll come down and see you soon, Master Mark, and I hope you won't +lave us in a hurry again.” Terry did not wait for any rejoinder to this +speech, but with the agility of his wild life, sprung lightly up the +mountain, from whence his voice was heard gaily carolling as he went, long +afterwards. +</p> +<p> +Mark looked after him for a few moments, and probably amid the +compassionate feelings with which he regarded the poor creature, there +were mingled others of actual envy, so light-hearted and happy did he seem +amidst all his poverty. +</p> +<p> +“I could even change with him,” said Mark, aloud, and then, as if he had +unburdened his heart of its weary load, he resumed his way. +</p> +<p> +The grey twilight was fast merging into night, as he approached the little +inn, nor was it without emotion that he watched the light that streamed +from the windows across the road. Many an evening of his happy boyhood had +been passed beside that humble hearth—many a thrilling tale and many +a merry story had he listened to, there. Beneath that roof it was he first +imbibed the proud thoughts of his house and family, and learned to know +the estimation in which men held his name. It was there he first felt the +spirit of chieftainship, and there, too, he had first devoted himself to +the cause of his country. Alas! these were but sad memories, how he had +lived to find himself deceived, by every one he had trusted; falsehood and +treachery in so many shapes surrounded him, that it needed only the +extinction of hope to make him feel his life a weary and unprofitable +load. He stood for a few seconds before the door, and listened with an +indignant spirit to the coarse revelry of the soldiers who caroused +within. Their very laughter smote upon his ear like derision, and he +turned away from the spot, angry and impatient. Some vague resolve to +return home and take a last farewell of his father, was the only plan he +could fix on; whither, afterwards, or how, he knew not, nor did he care. +Like most men who attribute their failures in life to evil destinies that +sway them, and not to their own faults and follies, his fatalism urged him +to a recklessness of the future, and in place of hope there sprung up in +his heart a strange feeling of wonder to think, what trials and straits +fortune might yet have in store for him. He often deliberated with himself +how he should meet, and how part with his father—whether acknowledge +that he knew the secret of the deceit that had been practised upon him, or +whether he should conceal that knowledge within his own bosom. To do the +latter was his final resolve. To spare the old man the added misery of +knowing that his son had detected his criminality, was the suggestion of +his better and purer feeling, and even though his leaving him should thus +be wanting in the only excuse he could proffer, he preferred this to the +misery another course would entail. +</p> +<p> +At last he reached the old gateway, and often as it had been his lot to +bring beneath its shadow a heavy and sorrow-struck heart, never had he +passed it so deeply depressed as now. +</p> +<p> +“Come on, good beast,” he said, patting the wearied horse, “you shall have +rest here, and that,” said he, with a sigh, “that, is more than I can +promise to myself.” + </p> +<p> +With these sad words he toiled up the steep ascent, and gained the terrace +in front of the Castle. There were lights burning in the old tower and in +the hall, but all the rest of the building was in darkness. The door lay +open, and as Mark stood within it, he could hear the mellow sounds of a +harp which came floating softly through the long-vaulted corridor, blended +with a voice that stirred the fibres of his strong heart, and made him +tremble like a child. +</p> +<p> +“Why should I not linger here?” thought he; “why not stay and listen to +these sweet sounds? I shall never hear them more!” and he stood and bent +his ear to drink them in, and stirred not until they ceased. The last +chord had died away in silence—then hastily fastening his horse to +the door-ring, he entered the long passage unnoticed by any, and reached +the door. The sound of voices, as of persons talking pleasantly together, +struck harshly on his ear, and the loud laughter that burst forth grated +strangely on his senses. +</p> +<p> +“They have little sorrow for the outcast—that is certain,” said he, +as, with a swelling heart and proud step, he opened the door and entered. +</p> +<p> +This part of the room lay in deep shadow, and while Mark could distinctly +perceive the others, they could but dimly discern the outline of his +figure, without being able to recognize him. His father and Sir Archy were +seated, as of old, on either side of the chimney; Kate was leaning over +her harp, which she had just ceased to play; while seated near her, and +bending forward in an attitude of eager attention, was Hemsworth himself, +the man of all others he least wished to see at such a moment. +</p> +<p> +“Who is that?” cried the O'Donoghue, “who is standing yonder?” and they +all turned their eyes towards the door. +</p> +<p> +“Why don't you speak?” continued the old man. “Have you any tidings from +my son?—is it news of Mark you bring me?” + </p> +<p> +“Even so sir,” responded the other, as he slowly advanced into the strong +light, his arms folded upon his breast, and his brow stern and contracted. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0019" id="linkimage-0019"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00353.jpg" width="100%" alt="353 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Mark!—my boy! my child!” cried the old man, springing from his +chair, and, with a strength that seemed at once to defy age and infirmity, +rushed towards him, and threw his arms about him. “He's here—he's +with us once more!” said he, in accents half choked by sobs—“my son! +my hope! my pride!”—and while the old man poured forth these words +of happiness, the young one stood pale, cold, and seemingly apathetic. His +eyes bent on vacancy, and his features devoid of all expression of +passion, he turned from Sir Archy, who grasped one hand, and looked at +Kate, who held the other between hers, but in his gaze there was rather +the look of one suddenly recalled to consciousness out of some +long-fevered sleep, than the healthful aspect of waking life. +</p> +<p> +“You are not ill, Mark—you're only fatigued,” said Kate, as a tear +slowly trickled down her cheek, and fell upon his hand. +</p> +<p> +Mark started as he felt the drop, and looked at her with a searching +glance, then turned his eyes towards Hemsworth, and back again to her, and +for the first time a stern and scornful smile curled upon his lip. Kate +seemed to read the glance, and returned it with a look, proud and haughty +as his own, while dropping his hand, she walked towards her chair without +speaking. +</p> +<p> +“We maun let him hae a bit supper as soon as may be,” said Sir Archy, +whose practical good sense saw how much bodily fatigue influenced the +youth's demeanour. +</p> +<p> +“Supper!” said the O'Donoghue; “ay, faith, every bottle in the cellar +would be too little to celebrate the boy's return. Ring that bell, Archy. +Where is Kerry? What are the people doing not to know that their young +master is here?” + </p> +<p> +“At another moment, I should beg that Mr. O'Donoghue might remember me,” + said Hemsworth, with a deferential bow. “And I hope the time is coming +when I may be permitted to renew my acquaintance;—for the present, I +feel how unsuited the presence of a stranger is, on an occasion like this, +and cannot better show how deeply I appreciate your feeling than by taking +my leave.” + </p> +<p> +So saying, he courteously saluted the O'Donoghue, Sir Archy, and Kate; +while, turning to Mark, he proffered his hand, as he said— +</p> +<p> +“Pray, sir, let the occasion excuse the liberty, and permit me to add my +welcome also.” + </p> +<p> +“You do the honours of this house too early, sir,” was Mark's savage +reply, while he folded his arms upon his breast, and measured Hemsworth +with a glance of withering scorn. “I'm beneath my father's roof. It is not +for a stranger to bid me welcome here.” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth smiled, and muttered some words in mild acquiescence, their tone +and accent were apologetic, and the manner in which he spoke them humble +even to humility. When they were uttered, he bowed deeply, and with a look +towards the others that seemed to indicate the absence of any feeling of +offence, withdrew. +</p> +<p> +“You are unco severe on Maister Hemsworth, Mark,” said Sir Archy, gravely. +“If his politeness wasna altogether correct, it was weel intended.” + </p> +<p> +“Mark was all right, whatever he said,” cried the old man, exultingly. +“Egad, I'll not dispute with the boy to-night, if he thought proper to +throw the fellow out of the window.” + </p> +<p> +“I am sorry my rudeness should have offended others,” said Mark, with a +sidelong glance at Kate. “As for Mr. Hemsworth, we understand each other. +He neither thinks better nor worse of me than he did before.” + </p> +<p> +“D——n Hemsworth!” said the O'Donoghue; “why are we talking of +him at all? Sit down beside me, Mark. Let me see you again, my boy, in +your old place. Give me your hand, and let me think that my three months +of fretting have only been a dream.” + </p> +<p> +“Would it had been a dream to me,” said Mark, with a deep sigh, as he +seated himself beside the old man. +</p> +<p> +“Come, come, Mark,” said Sir Archy, “Ye hae often laughed at my Scotch +adage about 'byganes,' let me have my revenge now by applying it to your +own fortunes.” + </p> +<p> +“So, you have come at last,” cried the O'Donoghue, as Kerry O'Leary at +length made his appearance at the door. “Is Master Mark to go supperless +to bed——” + </p> +<p> +“Master Mark,” shouted Kerry, “Oh, murther alive, and is it himself that's +in it. Oh, blessed hour, but I'm glad to see you home again, and your +honor looking so well and hearty. Maybe we won't have bonfires over the +hills, when the boys hear it.” + </p> +<p> +“The supper, the supper. Confound the fellow, the boy is famished, and the +rascal stands prating there about bonfires.” + </p> +<p> +“My horse is far more in need of care than I am,” said Mark, suddenly, +remembering the wearied animal he left fastened to the door. “I must look +to the poor beast before I take anything myself;” and so saying he left +the room, none wishing to gainsay anything he desired to do. +</p> +<p> +“Poor fellow,” said the O'Donoghue, “how pale and careworn he looks—he +appears to have suffered heavily.” + </p> +<p> +“Depend upon it,” said Sir Archy, gravely, “the lad has learned much since +we saw him last. I dinna mislike the look his features have, although it +be one of sorrow. What says Kate?” No answer followed this appeal, but the +young girl turned away her head, and affected to assist in arranging the +table. +</p> +<p> +“Mind, Archy,” said the O'Donoghue, eagerly, “remember, not a word about +his absence, no questioning whatever—the boy has gone through too +many troubles already to bear the penalty of relating them. Take care, +too, that there be no allusion to Hemsworth, Mark does not yet know the +friendly part he has taken, and only knows him as we used to think and +speak of him of old—but hush, here he comes.” + </p> +<p> +When Mark re-entered the room, he seemed at least easier, if not happier, +than before. The cloud that Hemsworth's presence threw over him had passed +away, and he felt anxious to show himself in more favourable colours than +his first appearance had displayed. While, therefore, he did his utmost to +repay to his father and uncle, the kind and affectionate greetings by +which they met him—to his cousin Kate he was either sternly distant, +or totally indifferent in manner; and when at last, repulsed in many +efforts to attract his notice, she arose to retire for the night, he took +a formal leave of her, and seemed relieved by her departure. This was not +remarked by the O'Donoghue; but Sir Archy was a shrewd observer, and noted +the circumstance with displeasure; still, too careful of consequences to +show that he had observed it, he reserved his interference for another and +more favourable moment, and soon afterwards, wished them good night, and +left the room. +</p> +<p> +“It is time for me to go also,” said Mark, as, after a silence of some +moments, he arose, and lighted a candle. “I have not been accustomed to a +good bed latterly, and I feel that one sound night's sleep is due to me.” + </p> +<p> +“But for that, Mark, I could not part with you just yet. I have so much to +say, so much to hear from you. There have been many things during your +absence I must tell you of.” + </p> +<p> +“And first of all,” said Mark, rapidly, “How comes that man, Hemsworth, so +intimate here? What claim has he to darken our door with his presence?” + </p> +<p> +“The strong claim of true friendship,” said the old man, firmly, “a claim +I have not met so much of in life, that I can afford to undervalue it when +it does present itself. But for him, the ejectment would have been sued +out last assizes—he saved us also from a foreclosure of Drake's +mortgage—advanced me five thousand pounds upon my own bond, Archy +being a co-surety, which you well know was a matter of form. This, besides +saving us from any proceedings the Travers might have taken, in revenge +for their own disappointment about Kate——” + </p> +<p> +“Speak more plainly, I beg you, sir, and above all, please to remember +that I am ignorant of everything you allude to. What of Kate?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, I forgot you were not with us then. It was a proposal of marriage. +Young Travers made your cousin a brilliant offer, as far as money was +concerned, which Kate refused. There was some negociation about leaving +the thing open. Something about the future—I forget exactly what—but +I only know she was peremptory and decided, as she always is, and wrote to +me to take her home. Archy went up for her to Dublin, and the Travers soon +after left Ireland in high indignation with us, and determined, as we soon +found, to let us feel their enmity. Then it was that we learned to +appreciate Hemsworth, whom all along we had so completely mistaken, and +indeed, but for him, we should never have heard of you.” + </p> +<p> +“Of me. What did he know of me?” + </p> +<p> +“Everything, Mark—all—said the old man, in a low whisper, as +he stole a prying glance through the room to satisfy himself that they +were not overheard. +</p> +<p> +“Once more, sir, speak out, and intelligibly—say what this man +seemed to know of me?” + </p> +<p> +“He knew Talbot—Barrington rather”—said the O'Donoghue, in a +low voice—“knew of your intercourse with him—knew of the plot +that fellow laid to entangle you in his schemes—knew all about the +robbery at the Curragh, and saved you, without your knowing it, from being +there. But for him, Mark, your name would have figured in the +'Hue-and-Cry.' A reward for your apprehension was actually deliberated at +the Privy Council. Hemsworth rescued you from this——” + </p> +<p> +“The scoundrel—the base, black-hearted villain,” exclaimed Mark, +“did he dare to speak thus of <i>me</i>?” + </p> +<p> +“You mistake, Mark, he never said you were culpable—he only deplored +the fatal accident of your intimacy with Barrington—a man twice +convicted and sentenced—that in company with this man you frequented +certain houses of high play, where more than one large robbery was +effected. Then came the Castle ball—was it not true that you went +there? Well, the diamond snuff-box stolen from Lord Clan-goff, at the card +table——” + </p> +<p> +“Hell and confusion, you will drive me mad,” cried Mark, stamping his foot +with passion. “This infernal mixture of truth and falsehood—this +half fact and all lying statement is more than my brain can bear. What +does this scoundrel mean—is it that I am guilty of a robbery?” + </p> +<p> +“Heaven forbid, boy, but that you lived on terms of closest friendship +with one branded as a felon, and that information of your intimacy with +him was obtained by the police, who, for political reasons—you are +aware of what I mean—would strain a point to have caught you within +their grasp. There were letters too, Mark, written by you, and of such a +character as would, if proved against you, haye cost your life; these, +Hemsworth, by some means, obtained and destroyed.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, did he so,” cried Mark, eagerly, for now a sudden light broke in upon +him of the game that Hemsworth had played, “and so, he burned my letters?” + </p> +<p> +“You know now, then, something of the services he rendered you,” said the +old man, who began at last to be satisfied that his conviction was coming +home to Mark's mind. +</p> +<p> +“I do,” replied he, calmly, “I believe that I can appreciate his kindness, +and I believe also I may promise that I shall not prove ungrateful—and +Kate, sir, what said she to those revelations concerning me?” + </p> +<p> +“What we all said, Mark, that nothing dishonourable would ever lie at your +door—there might be rashness, imprudence, and folly, but guilt or +dishonour never.” + </p> +<p> +“And my uncle, he is generally a shrewd and cautious judge—what was +his opinion?” + </p> +<p> +“Faith it is hard to say, Mark, but I think with all his affected freedom +from prejudice, he nourishes his old notions about Hemsworth as strong as +ever, and persists in thinking the Travers' family everything amiable and +high-minded, indeed, he forced me to let Herbert accompany them to +England, for I let him take the boy into his own hands, and so, as the +invitation had been made and accepted before Kate had refused the +Captain's offer, I thought it would look better even to suffer matters to +take their course quietly, as if nothing had happened.” + </p> +<p> +“It was well done,” said Mark, assentingly, “and now I have heard enough +to dream over for one night at least, and so I'll to bed.” + </p> +<p> +“Remember, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, grasping his son's arm, “remember I +am solemnly pledged to Hemsworth never to tell you anything of these +matters—it was a promise he exacted from me—I rely upon you, +Mark, not to betray me.” + </p> +<p> +“My discretion is above price, sir,” said Mark, smiling dubiously, and +left the room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVI. SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE +</h2> +<p> +Early on the following morning Mark O'Donoughue was on his way to “the +Lodge.” To see Hemsworth, and dare him to a proof of his assertions +regarding him, or provoke him, if possible, to a quarrel, were his waking +thoughts throughout the night, and not even all his weariness and +exhaustion could induce sleep. He did not, indeed, know the full depth of +the treachery practised against him; but in what he had discovered there +were circumstances that portended a well-planned and systematic scheme of +villainy. The more Mark reflected on these things, the more he saw the +importance of proceeding with a certain caution. Hemsworth's position at +Carrig-na-curra, the advances he had made in his father's esteem, the +place he seemed to occupy in Kate's good graces, were such that any +altercation which should not succeed in unmasking the infamy of his +conduct, would only be regarded as a burst of boyish intemperance and +passion; and although Mark was still but too much under the influence of +such motives, he was yet far less so than formerly; besides, to fix a duel +on Hemsworth might be taken as the consequences of a sense of rivalry on +his part, and anger that his cousin had preferred him to himself. This +thought was intolerable; the great effort he proposed to his heart, was to +eradicate every sentiment of affection for his cousin, and every feeling +of interest. To be able to regard her as one whose destiny had never +crossed with his own—to do this, was now become a question of +self-esteem and pride. To return her indifference as haughtily as she +bestowed it, was a duty he thought he owed to himself, and therefore he +shrunk from anything which should have the faintest semblance of avenging +his own defeat. +</p> +<p> +Such were some of the difficulties of his present position, and he thought +over them long and patiently, weighing well the consequences each mode of +acting might entail, and deliberating with himself as to what course he +should follow. His first resolve, then, which was to fasten a hostile +meeting upon Hemsworth, was changed for what seemed a better line of +procedure—which was simply to see that gentleman, to demand an +explanation of the statements he had made concerning him, calling upon him +to retract whenever anything unfounded occurred, and requiring him to +acknowledge that he had given a colouring and semblance to his conduct at +total variance with fact. By this means, Mark calculated on the low +position to which Hemsworth would be reduced in Kate's estimation, the +subterfuges and excuses he would be forced to adopt,—all the +miserable expedients to gloss over his falsehood, and all the contemptible +straits to conceal his true motives. To exhibit him in this light before +Kate's eyes, she whose high sense of honour never brooked the slightest +act that savoured of mere expediency, would be a far more ample revenge +than any which should follow a personal rencontre. +</p> +<p> +“She shall see him in his true colours,” muttered he to himself, as he +went along; “she shall know something of the man to whom she would pledge +honour and affection; and then, when his treachery is open as the +noon-day, and the blackness of his heart revealed, she shall be free to +take him, unscathed and uninjured. I'll never touch a hair of his head.” + </p> +<p> +Mark had a certain pride in thus conducting himself on this occasion, to +show that he possessed other qualities than those of rash and impetuous +courage—that he could reason calmly and act deliberately, was now +the great object he had at heart. Nor was the least motive that prompted +him the desire he felt to exhibit himself to Kate in circumstances more +favourable than any mere outbreak of indignant rage would display him. +</p> +<p> +The more he meditated on these things, the more firm and resolute were his +determinations not to suffer Hemsworth to escape his difficulties, by +converting the demand for explanation into an immediate cause of quarrel. +Such a tactique he thought it most probable Hemsworth would at once adopt, +as the readiest expedient in his power. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said Mark to himself, “he shall find that he has mistaken me; my +patience and endurance will stand the proof; he must and shall avow his +own baseness, and then, if he wish for fighting——” + </p> +<p> +The clenched lip and flashing eye the words were accompanied by, plainly +confessed that, if Mark had adopted a more pacific line of conduct, it +certainly was not in obedience to any temptations of his will. +</p> +<p> +Immersed in his reveries, he found himself in front of “the Lodge” before +he was aware of it; and, although his thoughts were of a nature that left +him little room for other considerations, he could not help standing in +surprise and admiration at the changes effected in his absence. The neat +but unpretending cottage had now been converted into a building of +Elizabethean style; the front extended along the lake side, to which it +descended in two terraced gardens. The ample windows, thrown open to the +ground, displayed a suite of apartments furnished with all that taste and +luxury could suggest—the walls ornamented by pictures, and the +panels of both doors and window-shutters formed of plate glass, reflecting +the mountain scenery in every variety of light and shadow. The rarest +flowers, the most costly shrubs, brought from long distances, at great +risk and price, were here assembled to add their beauties to a scene where +nature had already been so lavish. +</p> +<p> +While Mark was yet looking about in quest of the entrance to the building, +he saw a man approach, with whose features he was well acquainted. This +was no other than Sam. Wylie, the sub-agent, the same he had treated so +roughly when last they met. The fellow seemed to know that, though in +certain respects the tables were now turned, yet, that with such a foe as +Mark O'Donoghue, any exhibition of triumph might be an unsafe game; so he +touched his hat, and was about to move past in silence, when Mark cried +out— +</p> +<p> +“I want to speak with your master—can I see him?” + </p> +<p> +“Master!” said Wylie, and his sallow face grew sallower and sicklier. “If +ye mean Mr. Hemsworth, sir——” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I do. If I spoke of Sir Marmaduke Travers, I should mean <i>his</i> +master. Is he at home?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; he has left 'the Lodge.'” + </p> +<p> +“Left it!—since when? I saw him last night at ten o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +“He left here before eleven,” was Wylie's answer. +</p> +<p> +“When is he expected back?” + </p> +<p> +“Not for a week, at soonest, sir. It may be even longer, if, as he said, +it were necessary for him to go to England.” + </p> +<p> +“To England!” exclaimed Mark, in bitter disappointment, for in the +distance the hope of speedy vengeance seemed all but annihilated. “What is +his address in Dublin?” said he, recovering himself. +</p> +<p> +“To the office of the Upper Secretary, sir, I am to address all his +letters,” said Wylie, for the first time venturing on a slight approach to +a smile. +</p> +<p> +“His hotel, I mean. Where does he stop in the city?” + </p> +<p> +“He usually stays in the Lower Castle-yard, sir, when in town, and +probably will be there now, as the Privy Council is sitting, and they may +want to examine him.” + </p> +<p> +The slow measured tone in which these few words were uttered gave them a +direct application to Mark himself which made him flush deeply. He stood +for a few seconds, seemingly in doubt, and then turned his steps towards +home. +</p> +<p> +“Did you hear what the young O'Donoghue said, there, as he passed?” said +Wylie to a labouring man who stood gazing after the youth. +</p> +<p> +“I did, faix,” replied the other; “I heerd it plain enough.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me the words, Pat—I'd like to hear them.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis what he said—'He's escaped me this time; but, by G—, +he'll not have the same luck always.'” + </p> +<p> +“It was Mr. Hemsworth he was after,” said Wylie. “It was him he meant.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure it was; didn't I hear him asking after him.” + </p> +<p> +“All right—so you did,” added Wylie, nodding. “Take care you don't +forget the words, that's all, and here's the price of a glass to keep your +memory fresh.” + </p> +<p> +And he chucked a sixpence to the man, who, as he caught it, gave a look of +shrewd intelligence, that showed he felt there was a compact between them. +</p> +<p> +Mark moved homewards in deep thought. There was a time when disappointment +would have irritated him rather than have suggested any new expedient for +success. Now he was changed in this respect. If baffled, he did not feel +defeated. His first anger over, he began to think how best he should +obtain a meeting with Hemsworth, and a retractation of his calumnies +against himself. To venture back to Dublin would have been unsafe on every +account. The informations sworn against him by Lanty Lawler might be at +any moment used for his capture. In Glenflesk alone was he safe; so long +as he remained there, no force Government would think of sending against +him could avail; nor was it likely, for the sake of so humble an +individual as himself, that they would take measures which would have the +effect of disclosing their knowledge of the plot, and thus warn other and +more important persons of the approaching danger. Mark's first +determination to leave home at once, was thus altered by these casual +circumstances. He must await Hemsworth's return, since, without the +explanation he looked for, he never could bring himself to take leave of +his friends. As he pondered thus, a servant in Hemsworth's livery rode +rapidly past him. Mark looked suddenly up, and perceived, with some +surprise, from the train of dust upon the road, that the man was coming +from Carrig-na-curra. Slight as the incident was, he turned his thoughts +from his own fortunes to fix them on those of his cousin Kate. By what +magic this man Hemsworth had won favour in her eyes he could not conceive. +That he should have overcome all the prejudices of his father was strange +enough; but that Kate, whose opinions of people seldom or ever underwent a +change, and who of all others professed to dislike that very plausibility +of manner which Hemsworth possessed, that she could forgive and forget the +tyrannies with which his name was associated—she whose spirit no +sordid bait could tempt, nor any mean object of personal ambition bias—this +was, indeed, inexplicable. Twice or thrice a thought flashed across him, +if it should not be true,—if it were merely one of those rumours +which the world builds on circumstances,—that Hemsworth's intimacy +was the sole foundation for the report, and the friendly interchange of +visits the only reason for the story. +</p> +<p> +“I must know this,” said Mark; “it may not be too late to save her. I may +have come back in the very nick of time, and if so, I shall deem this +piece of fortune more than enough to requite all the mischances of my +life.” + </p> +<p> +As he spoke thus he had reached the little flower-garden, which, in front +of the tower, was the only spot of cultivation around the old building. +His eye wandered over the evidences of care, few and slight as they were, +with pleasant thoughts of her who suggested the culture, when at the turn +of a walk he beheld his cousin coming slowly towards him. +</p> +<p> +“Good morrow, Mark,” said she, extending her hand, and with a smile that +betokened no angry memory of the preceding night; “you took but little +sleep for one so much fatigued as you were.” + </p> +<p> +“And you, cousin, if I mistake not, even as little. I saw a light burning +in your room when day was breaking.” + </p> +<p> +“An old convent habit,” said she, smiling; “our matins used to be as +early.” + </p> +<p> +A low, soft sigh followed this speech. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Mark, “you have reason to regret it; your life was happier +there; you had the pleasure of thinking, that many a mile away in this +remote land, there were relatives and friends to whom you were dear, and +of whom you might feel proud; sad experience has told you how unworthy we +are of your affection, how much beneath your esteem. The cold realities +that strip life of its ideal happiness are only endurable when age has +blunted our affections and chilled our hearts. In youth their poignancy is +agony itself. Yes, Kate, I can dare to say it, even to you, would that you +had never come amongst us.” + </p> +<p> +“I will not misunderstand you, Mark; I will not affect to think that, in +your speech, there is any want of affection for me; I will take it as you +mean it, that it had been better for me; and, even on your own showing, I +tell you, nay. If I have shed some tears within these old walls, yet have +my brightest hours been passed within them. Never, until I came here, did +I know what it was to minister to another's happiness; never did I feel +before the ecstacy of being able to make joy more pleasurable, and sorrow +less afflicting. The daughter feeling has filled up what was once a void +in my poor heart; and when you pity me for this life of loneliness, my +pulse has throbbed with delight to think how a duty, rendered by one as +humble and insignificant as I am, can ennoble life, and make of this quiet +valley a scene of active enjoyment.” + </p> +<p> +“So you are happy here, Kate,” said he, taking her hand, “and would not +wish to leave it?” + </p> +<p> +“No, Mark, never; there would be no end to my ambition were the great +world open to me, and the prizes all glittering before me—ambitions +which should take the shape not of personal aggrandizement, but high hope +for objects that come not within a woman's sphere. Here, affection sways +me; there, it might be prejudice or passion.” + </p> +<p> +“Ambition!” muttered Mark, catching at the word; “ambition, the penalty +you pay for it is far too high; and were the gain certain, it is dearly +bought by a heart dead to all purer emotions, cold to every affection of +family and kindred, and a spirit made suspecting by treachery. No, Kate, +no, the humblest peasant on that mountain, whose toil is for his daily +bread, whose last hope at night is for the health that on the morrow shall +sustain more labour, he, has a nobler life than those who nourish high +desires by trading on the crimes and faults of others. I had ambition +once; God knows, it grew not in me from any unworthy hope of personal +advantage. I thought of myself then as meanly as I now do; but I dreamt, +that, by means, humble and unworthy as mine, great events have been +sometimes set in motion. The spark that ignites the train is insignificant +enough in itself, though the explosion may rend the solid masonry that has +endured for ages. Well, well, the dream is over now; let us speak of +something else. Tell me of Herbert, Kate. What success has he met with in +the University?” + </p> +<p> +“He failed the first time, but the second trial made ample amends for that +defeat. He carried away both prizes from his competitors, Mark, and stands +now, confessedly, the most distinguished youth of his day; disappointment +only nerved his courage. There was a failure to avenge, as well as a goal +to win, and he has accomplished both.” + </p> +<p> +“Happy fellow, that his career in life could depend on efforts of his own +making—who needed but to trust his own firm resolve, and his own +steady pursuit of success, and cared not how others might plot, and plan, +and intrigue around him.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true, Mark; the prizes of intellectual ambition have this advantage, +that they are self won; but, bethink you, are not other objects equally +noble—are not the efforts we make for others more worthy of fame +than those which are dictated by purely personal desire of distinction?” + </p> +<p> +Mark almost started at the words, whose direct application to himself +could not be doubted, and his cheek flushed, partly with pride, partly +with shame. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said he, after a brief pause, “these are noble themes, and can stir +a heart as sorrow-struck as mine—but the paths that lead upwards, +Kate, are dark and crooked—the guides that traverse them are false +and treacherous.” + </p> +<p> +“You have, indeed, found them so,” said Kate, with a deep sigh. +</p> +<p> +“How do you mean, I have found them so?” cried Mark, in amazement at the +words. +</p> +<p> +“I mean what I have said, Mark, that betrayal and treachery have tracked +you for many a day. You would not trust me with your secret, Mark, nor yet +confide in me, when an accident left it in my possession. Chance has +revealed to me many circumstances of your fortune, and even now, Mark, I +am only fearful lest your own prejudices should hazard your safety. Shall +I go on? May I speak still more plainly?” + </p> +<p> +Mark nodded, and she resumed— +</p> +<p> +“One who never favoured the cause you adopted, probably from the very +confederates it necessitated—yet saw with sympathy how much truth +and honour were involved in the struggle, has long watched over you—stretching +out, unseen, the hand to help, and the shield to protect you. He saw in +you the generous boldness of one whose courage supplies the nerve, that +mere plotters trade upon, but never possess. He saw, that once in the +current, you would be swept along, while they would watch you from the +shore. He, I say, saw this, and with a generosity the greater, because no +feelings of friendship swayed him, he came forward to save you.” + </p> +<p> +“And this unseen benefactor,” said Mark, with a proud look of scornful +meaning, “his name is——” + </p> +<p> +“I will not speak it, if you ask me thus,” said Kate, blushing, for she +read in his glance the imputation his heart was full of. “Could you so far +divest yourself of prejudice as to hear calmly, and speak dispassionately, +I could tell you anything—everything, Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Kate, no,” said he, smiling dubiously; “I have no right to ask, +perhaps not to accept of such a confidence.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so, then,” said she, proudly, “we will speak of this no more; and +with a slight bow, and a motion of her hand, she turned into another alley +of the garden, and left Mark silently musing over the scene. Scarcely, +however, had she screened herself from his view by the intervening trees, +than she hastened her steps, and soon gained the house. Without stopping +to take breath, she ascended the stairs, and tapped at Sir Archy's door. +</p> +<p> +“Come in, my sweet Kate,” said he, in his blandest voice, “I should know +that gentle tap amid a thousand; but, my dear child, why so pale?—what +has agitated you?—sit down and tell me.” + </p> +<p> +“Read this, sir,” said she, taking a letter from the folds of her +handkerchief—“this well tell you all, shorter and more collectedly +than I can. I want your advice and counsel, and quickly too, for no time +is to be lost. +</p> +<p> +“This is Mr. Hemsworth's writing,” said Sir Archy, as he adjusted his +spectacles to read. “When did you receive it?” + </p> +<p> +“About an hour ago,” answered Kate, half impatient at the unhurried +coolness of the old man's manner, who at last proceeded to examine the +epistle, but without the slightest show of anxiety or eagerness. His +apathy was, however, short-lived—short expressions of surprise broke +from him, followed by exclamations of terror and dismay, till at length, +laying down the letter, he said, “Leave me, sweet Kate, leave me to read +and reflect on this alone; be assured I'll lose no time in making up my +mind about it, for I see that hours are precious here.” And as she glided +from the room, Sir Archy placed the open letter on a table before him, and +sat down diligently to re-consider its contents. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVII. HEMSWORTH'S LETTER +</h2> +<p> +The letter, over which Sir Archy bent in deep thought, was from Hemsworth. +It was dated from the night before, and addressed to Kate O'Donoghue, and, +although professing to have been hurriedly written, an observer, as acute +as Sir Archy, could detect ample evidence of great care and consideration +in its composition. Statements seemingly clear and open, were in reality +confused and vague; assertions were qualified, and, in lieu of direct and +positive information, there were scattered throughout, hopes, and fears, +wishes, and expectations, all capable of being sustained, whatever the +issue of the affair they referred to. +</p> +<p> +The letter opened with a respectful apology for addressing Miss +O'Donoghue; but pleading that the urgency of the case, and the motives of +the writer, might be received as a sufficient excuse. After stating, in +sufficiently vague terms, to make the explanation capable of a double +meaning, the reasons for selecting her, and not either of her uncles, for +the correspondence, it entered at once upon the matter of the +communication, in these words:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I have hesitated and doubted, Miss O'Donoghue, how far my +interference in the affairs of your family may be +misconstrued, and whether the prejudices which were once +entertained to my disadvantage might not now be evoked to +give a false colouring to my actions. These doubts I have +resolved, by reflecting that they are for the most part +personal, and that if I succeed in rendering real service, +the question is comparatively indifferent what light or +shadow it may seem to throw on my conduct. A candid and +impartial judgment I certainly look to from <i>you</i>, and I +confess myself at liberty to lay less store by the opinions +of others.” + </pre> +<p> +Continuing for a brief space in this strain, the letter went on to mention +that the sudden return of Mark had left the writer no alternative but to +venture on this correspondence, whatever the consequences—consequences +which, the writer palpably inferred, might prove of the last moment to +himself. The explanation—and, for the reader's sake, it is better to +spare him Hemsworth's involved narrative, and merely give its substance—was +chiefly, that information of Mark O'Donoghue's complicity in the plot of +the United Irish party had been tendered to Government, and supported by +such evidence that a Judge's warrant was issued for his apprehension and +the seizure of all his papers; partly from friendly interference—this +was dubiously and delicately put by Hemsworth—and partly from the +fact that his extreme youth and ignorance of the real views of the +insurgents were pleaded in his favour, the execution of this warrant was +delayed, and the young man suffered to go at large. So long as he withdrew +himself from the company of the other conspirators, and avoided publicity, +the Government was willing to wink at the past. It had been, however, +determined on, that should he either be found mixed up with any of the +leaders of the movement in future, or should he venture to return to +Glenflesk, where his influence amongst the peasantry was well known to, +and apprehended by the Government, then there should no longer be any +hesitation in the line to be followed. He was immediately to be +apprehended and sent up under a sufficient escort to Dublin, to take his +trial, with five others, for high treason. The proofs of his guilt were +unquestionable, consisting of letters written and received, conversations +to which witnesses could depose, as well as an intimacy for months long +with Barrington, whose active participation in the schemes of rebellion +was as well known, as the notorious fact of his being a convicted felon. +To found a hope upon his innocence was thus shown to be perfectly +impossible. His most trusted associates were the evidence against him; +documents in his hand-writing were also in the hands of the law-officers +of the Crown, and, in fact, far more than enough to bring him to the +scaffold. +</p> +<p> +Hemsworth, who gently hinted all through, how far his interference had +been beneficial, was one of those entrusted with Mark's arrest, should he +ever dare to re-appear in his native country. The orders of the Privy +Council on this score were positive and clear, and admitted of no possible +misconception. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“You may judge, then,” continued he, “what were my feelings +on seeing him suddenly enter the house last night—to think +that, while I was enjoying the pleasure of your society, and +the hospitable attentions of your home, I had actually in my +pocket at the moment the official order to apprehend the +eldest son of my entertainer—the friend and companion of +your childhood—to bring grief and mourning beneath the roof +where I had passed so many happy hours—to dispel all the +dreams I had begun to nourish of a neighbourhood connected +by ties of kindness and good will. I had to choose between +the alternative of this, or else, by a palpable avoidance of +my duty, criminate myself, and leave my conduct open to the +most dangerous comments of my enemies. The latter involved +only myself. I have adopted it, and before this letter +reaches your hands, I shall be on my way up to Dublin, +nominally to attend the Council, but in reality to escape +the necessity my onerous position would impose. None save +those beneath your roof know that I have met Mr. Mark +O'Donoghue, and I shall be half-way to Dublin before his +arrival in the country is suspected. So much, in brief, for +the past and the present. Now for the future. There are two +courses open to this young gentleman, or to those who would +serve and befriend him. One is, by a free and unlimited +confession to the Government of all the circumstances of the +plot, so far as they have come to his knowledge, the parties +interested, their several shares in the undertaking, with +every detail of date and time, to sue for a pardon for +himself—a grace which, I need scarcely say, I will use all +my influence to obtain. The other mode is, by a +temporary exile; to withdraw himself from the notice of the +Government, until the danger having perfectly passed over, +political acrimony will have abated, and the necessity for +making severe examples of guilt be no longer urgent. This +latter course I opine to be preferable, on many grounds. It +demands no sacrifice of private feeling—no surrender of +honour. It merely provides for safety, reserving the future +untrammelled by any pledge. Neither need the absence be long; +a year or two at farthest; the probabilities are, that +with their present knowledge of the schemes of the +insurgents, the Government can either precipitate events, or +retard and protract them at will. Their policy, in this +respect, depending on the rank and importance of those who, +by either line of procedure, would be delivered into their +hands. Arguing from what they have already done, I should +pronounce it likely that their game will be to wait, to +weaken the hopes and break the spirit of the United party, +by frequent defections; to sow distrust and suspicion +amongst them, and thus, while avoiding the necessity of +bloodshed, to wear out rebellion by a long and lingering +fear. If, then, others, whose age and position involved a +greater prominence in these schemes, would require a longer +banishment to erase the memory of the acts, your young +relative, who has both youth and its rashness to plead for +him, need not reckon on so lengthened an absence from his +native land. + +“Above all things, however, remember that not an hour is to +be lost. Any moment may disclose to the Crown some new +feature of the plot, and may call forth measures of +stringent severity, The proclamation offering a reward for +the apprehension of four persons, of whom your cousin is +one, is already printed, and in the office of the Secretary. +An hour would see it all over the walls of the capital, in a +day or two more, it would reach every remote corner, of the +land. Then, all efforts on my part would be ineffectual, +were they even possible. Reflect on this. It is not a mere +question of fine or even imprisonment. It is life itself is +on the issue, and life which, in surrendering, will blast a +great name with dishonour, and a great house with obloquy +and shame; for there has been no struggle, no effort, no +bold and generous exposure to danger, to palliate treason, +and gloss over its faults. All has been plotting and +contriving for alien assistance and foreign help; no self- +reliance, no patriotism, which, if mistaken, was still +sincere and manly. Reflect on all this, and think that a +life offered up in such a cause has no martyrdom to throw +lustre on the grave shared with the felon and the +highwayman. Forgive me if, in the warmth of my zeal, I have +said one word which may offend. If I had not spoken thus +forcibly, I should be a traitor to my own heart. + +“I have written hurriedly, and I doubt not, in some +respects, unadvisedly; but the sincerity of my purpose will +plead for me, should the indiscretion of my zeal require +apology. You will, perhaps, ask why I should have imposed a +task difficult as this upon you—why I should have loaded +you with a responsibility so weighty? My answer is simply, I +dared not write to the O'Donoghue on the subject of his +son's indiscretion—to impugn the acts of the young man, +would be to forfeit all influence with the old one. You will +then say, why not address Sir Archibald? For the simple +reason, that the prejudices of his country are too strong in +him to make due allowances for those who err from excitable +or impetuous natures; not only would he judge too harshly +of Mark, but he would be anxious to record that judgment as +a warning to Herbert, for whom alone he is interested. I +therefore make it a strenuous request—nay, more, I esteem +it as the term of a compact between us, that you do not show +this letter either to the O'Donoghue or to his brother. I +have expressed myself openly and candidly to you, but with a +tacit assurance that my confidence is not to be extended to +others. In the part I have taken, I already incur +considerable risk. This is a period when loyalty cannot +afford to be even suspected; yet have I jeoparded mine in +befriending this youth. I now conclude, dear madam, assuring +you that any danger I incur, or any anxiety I feel, will be +amply repaid if I only know that you think not unworthily of + +“William Hemsworth.” + </pre> +<p> +Sir Archy studied this letter with the patient care a lawyer bestows upon +a brief. He thought over each sentence, and weighed the expressions in his +mind with deep thought. It had been his fortune, in early life, to have +been thrown into situations of no common difficulty, and his mind had, in +consequence, acquired a habit of shrewd and piercing investigation, which, +though long disused, was not altogether forgotten; by the aid of this +faculty, Hemsworth's letter appeared to him in a very different light from +that in which Kate viewed it. The knowledge of every circumstance +concerning Mark evinced an anxiety which he was very far from attributing +to motives of friendship. Sir Archy well knew the feelings of dislike +which subsisted between these two men—how then account for this +sudden change on Hemsworth's part?—to what attribute this wonderful +interest concerning him? +</p> +<p> +“Let us see,” said the old man to himself, “let us see the fruit, and then +we may pronounce upon the tree. Where and to what does Hemsworth's +benevolence point, dishonour or banishment? Such are the terms he offers; +such are the alternatives his kindness suggests. Might these have no other +motive than friendship?—might they not he the offspring of feelings +very different indeed? What benefit might he derive from Mark's +expatriation—that is the question? Does he anticipate easier terms +with the old man for the little remnant of property that still pertains to +him—or is it merely the leaven of the old hate that still rises in +his nature?—or”——and here his eye flashed with +brilliancy as a new thought crossed his brain——“or does he +suspect Mark of occupying a place in his cousin's affection, and is +rivalry the source of this mysterious good nature?” + </p> +<p> +This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than Sir Archy recalled to mind +all the circumstances of Hemsworth's recent behaviour—the endeavours +he had made to recommend himself to their favourable notice—all his +acts to ingratiate himself with Kate—the ample views he affected in +politics—the wide-spread generosity of his plans for the +amelioration of the people. That his conduct was unreal, that his +principles were but assumed for the occasion, the shrewd Scotchman had +long suspected; and this letter, so far from dispelling the doubts, +increased them tenfold. Besides this, there seemed some reason to fear +that Kate was not quite indifferent to him. The disparity of years was so +far in his favour, as she could not but feel flattered by the notice of +one so conversant with the world and its ways, who had travelled and seen +so much, and might in every respect be deemed a competent judge in matters +of taste. Any comparison of him with Mark must redound with great +advantage to the former. The accomplished scholar, the agreeable and +well-bred man of society, was a severe competitor for the half-educated +and slovenly youth, whose awkward and bashful manner seemed rather +ill-temper than mere diffidence. Mark was himself conscious of the +disadvantages he laboured under, and although Sir Archy had few fears that +such an admirer was likely to win favour with the gay and capricious girl, +whose foreign habits had taught her to value social qualities at the +highest price, still, there was a chance that Hemsworth might have thought +differently, and that jealousy was the secret of the whole scheme. Kate, +with her ten thousand pounds of a rent-charge, might be a very reasonable +object of Hemsworth's ambition; and when already he had absorbed so large +a portion of the family estates, this additional lien would nearly make +him master of the entire. It was, then, perfectly possible that this was +his game, and that in withdrawing Mark from the scene, he both calculated +on the gratitude his generosity would evoke, and more securely provided +for his own success. While Sir Archy thus pondered over Hemsworth's +motives, he did not neglect the more pressing consideration of Mark's +danger. It was evident that he had taken an active part in the +insurrectionary movement, and without the slightest precautions for his +personal safety. The first care, therefore, was to see and learn from him +the full extent of his danger, what proofs there existed against him, and +what evidence, either in writing or otherwise, might be adduced to his +disadvantage. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me, frankly and freely, Mark,” said he, aloud, as he arose and paced +the room; “tell me, openly, how you stand, who are your betrayers, what +your dangers, and I'll answer for it the peril may be averted.” + </p> +<p> +“I have come to do so, sir,” said a voice behind him—and Mark +O'Donoghue was standing at the door. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVIII. TAMPERING AND PLOTTING +</h2> +<p> +While they who meditated the invasion of Ireland were thoroughly informed +on the state of parties, and the condition of public opinion in that +kingdom, the English Government were satisfied with vague and insufficient +rumours of those intentions, derived from sources of questionable +accuracy, or communicated by persons in the pay of their opponents. +Certain it is, neither the magnitude of the peril was appreciated, nor its +nearness suspected. Many, in England, regarded the whole in the light of a +menace, and believed that the embarrassments of the French Directory were +quite sufficient to withdraw their thoughts from foreign aggression, to +troubles nearer home. Their great want of money, arms, and all the +munitions of war, was well known and trusted to as a guarantee of +security. Others supposed that a rash attempt might be made, but were +equally sure of its being defeated by our naval forces before a landing +could be effected; and many more believed that the pretence of foreign aid +was but a threat of the malcontents at home, to enforce compliance with +their demands. The event itself was to show how unfounded were all these +calculations, and how little reason we had to regard our security as +derived from our own measures of foresight and precaution. +</p> +<p> +Constituted as the French Government of the day was, nothing would have +been easier than to have ample knowledge of all the projects. The men in +high situations were newly elevated to power, from positions of very +humble pretension, with no habits of public business, no experience of the +mode of conducting difficult affairs, and many of them of very +questionable character for integrity; and yet, with these opportunities at +our disposal, a few scattered facts, ill-authenticated and vague, were all +that our Government attained to; and even these were unattended to, save +when they implicated the conduct of some suspected character nearer home; +then, indeed, party violence assumed an appearance of statesmanlike +vigilance, and crown prosecutions and ex-officio informations, seemed the +safeguard of the empire. +</p> +<p> +On occasions of this kind, the activity of the Government was most +remarkable, and while the great question of national security was +overlooked, no pains were spared to track out the narrow path where some +insignificant treason was plodding, and bring the plotter to the scaffold. +Large sums of money were spent in obtaining secret information, and the +whole science of government was reduced to a system of “espionage.” This +little-minded and narrow policy was, in a great measure, the consequence +of entrusting so much of the Government to the influence of the lawyers, +who, regarding everything through the light of their own profession, +placed the safety of the empire on the success of a crown prosecution. +</p> +<p> +It was at a moment when this favourite policy was in the ascendant, that +Hemsworth reached Dublin, little aware, indeed, how far events there, were +hastening forward the catastrophe for which he was interested. Lanty +Lawler, who for a long time had never communicated, save to Hemsworth, his +knowledge of the United Irish movement, had, at length, become alarmed for +his own safety; and putting but slight trust in Hemsworth's good faith, +should any calamity befall him, had come forward and revealed to Major +Sirr all that he knew of the plot, the names of several parties +implicated, and in particular the whole history of Mark O'Donoghue's +complicity. The information came well-timed. The crown lawyers were +desirous of exhibiting the parade of a state prosecution, and all the +ordinary measures were taken to secure its success. Lanty, now a prisoner +in Newgate, but, with the promise of a free pardon and a reward, had been +repeatedly examined by the Attorney and Solicitor-general, and his +statement found perfectly accurate and consistent. He narrated the various +interviews he had been present at among the Delegates in Dublin—the +messages he had conveyed from them to different individuals through the +country—the depots where pikes and muskets were stored, and the +several places of rendezvous agreed upon, whenever the rising should take +place. He also revealed many facts of the feeling prevalent among the +people, and exemplified the conflicting state of opinion then in the +country—how, that many were worn out and discouraged by delay, and +believed themselves betrayed by France—while others were full of +hope and confidence, eager for the time to come, and ready to incur any +peril. While, in all these disclosures he was most candid and explicit, he +never once betrayed the name of Mary M'Kelly, nor even alluded, in any +way, to her cabin, as the resort of the French spies, and the secret depot +of arms and ammunition, It might have been that in the blackness of his +treachery to others, this one spark of better feeling survived towards her—that +some lurking affection lingered in a heart dead to every other noble +sentiment, or perhaps the lesser motive swayed him, that in excepting her +from the general ruin, he was securing to himself one, who as a wife, +would bring him no small share of worldly wealth. Either may be the +explanation of his conduct, for strange as it may seem, the vilest actions +are sometimes conceived with a reserve of conscience, that shows what +casuistry guilt requires, and how much the spirit of evil lacks of +courage, when it has to borrow the energy to act from even the semblance +of something good. +</p> +<p> +It was not without reluctance, at first, that Lanty ventured on the +betrayal of Mark O'Donoghue; nor did he even consent to do so, until his +own safety had been threatened by Hemsworth, and also a solemn promise +given, that he should never be brought forward to give evidence against +him, nor exhibited before the world as an informer. This was the character +he most dreaded—it was the only reproach that had any terror for his +mind. Gradually, however, and by the frequency of his revelations to +Hemsworth, this dread diminished, and in proportion, the fears for his own +safety increased. Hemsworth's game was to make him believe that such +depended solely on him—that at any moment he could give information +of a character sufficient to convict him—and by this tie was he +bound to a man he detested with all his hatred. After much vacillation and +doubt it was, that Lanty determined, whatever the consequences to his +fame, to make a full disclosure to Government, and only bargain for his +own life. Hemsworth's absence from Dublin afforded the opportunity, and he +seized it at once. Such, then, was the position of affairs when Hemsworth +reached the capital, and learned that his agent, Lanty, was no longer at +his disposition, but at that very moment a prisoner in the gaol of +Newgate, strict orders being given that nobody was to be admitted to +converse with him without the special leave of the law officers of the +crown. Now, although Hemsworth had, personally, little to fear from any +disclosure Lanty might make, yet his information might thwart all the +plans he had so artfully devised regarding the O'Donoghues; the events +impending that family being, up to that moment, perfectly at his own +direction and disposal, to delay or precipitate which, constituted the +essence of his policy. Mark could not be brought to trial, he well knew, +without exhibiting himself in the light of an enemy and an accuser, he +being the person to whom Lanty originally communicated his informations. +This hostile part would form an impassible obstacle to any success with +Kate, and consequently to his great plan of obtaining the Glenflesk +estate. +</p> +<p> +Hemsworth lost not a moment, after his arrival in town, in his endeavours +to have an interview with Lanty; and, being on terms of old intimacy with +the sheriff, at length persuaded him to grant him a brief opportunity of +speaking to him; a permission, under the circumstances, most reluctantly +acceded. It was near nine o'clock—the latest hour at which a visit +to the gaol was practicable—when Hemsworth presented himself, with +the sheriff's order at the gate. A brief delay ensued, for even on such an +authority, the goaler scrupled to deviate from the directions given him, +and he was admitted. Following the turnkey for some minutes, through +passages and across courts, they reached an angle of the building +dedicated to the reception of those who were held over by the crown as +“approvers” against their former friends and associates. Many of these had +been in confinement several months, the time not having arrived when the +evidence, which they were to corroborate, was perfected; and not a few +preferring the security of a prison, to the dangers the character of an +informer would expose them, to without doors. A confused noise of voices +and coarse laughter was heard as they came near, and the turnkey, striking +his bunch of keys against a heavy door, called, “Be silent there, b——t +ye, there's more trouble with six of ye than we have with the whole +condemned ward,” then turning to Hemsworth, he added, in a lower voice, +“them chaps is awaitin' a passage over seas—they've given their +evidence long ago, and they're not wanted now. That one with the cracked +voice is Cope, the fellow that tracked Parson Jackson—but here, this +is your man's cell—we cannot give you more than a quarter of an +hour, and so, don't lose anymore time.” Hemsworth laid his hand on the +gaoler's arm as he extended it with the key. “One second—just wait +one second,” said he, as he pressed his fingers across his brow, and +seemed to reflect, then added, “Yes, that will do—open it now, and I +shall be ready to retire whenever you please.” + </p> +<p> +Whether the sound without had drowned the noise, or that his attention was +too much engaged to notice it, Lanty never stirred nor looked round, as +the heavy door was unbarred, and fastened again behind Hemsworth. Seated +in a recess of the window, and with his face pressed against the iron +bars, he was watching, with interest, the movement in the street below, +where a considerable number of people went past, their eyes directed +upwards, to the front of the building, but all view of which was +impossible to him. Hemsworth stood and looked at him for some minutes +without speaking—he was as if calculating the very thoughts of the +other's brain—then advancing gently, he laid his hand on Lawler's +shoulder, as he said— +</p> +<p> +“Ay, Lanty, that's the reward they get. Two of them are to be turned off +to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Two of whom, sir?” asked Lanty, as, starting at the voice, his face +became the colour of death. +</p> +<p> +“I thought you knew!” said he, affecting astonishment; “they are the +approvers against Bond. The Government has no use for the rascals now, and +it saves expense to hang them; and so, they tried them for a murder at +Sallins, in March last. I hear they were not there; but no matter, they've +enough to answer for, without that.” + </p> +<p> +“But, sure, Mr. Hemsworth, they'll never treat their own friends that +way?” + </p> +<p> +“Wouldn't they, Lanty! You don't know them as well as I do. They keep +little faith with scoundrels, and more fools the scoundrels for being +caught; but I mustn't lose time; it was that very thing brought me here. I +heard this evening the scrape you were in.” + </p> +<p> +“Me, in a scrape!” exclaimed Lanty, his eyes growing wider with terror. +</p> +<p> +“To be sure it is, and a devilish ugly scrape, too, my friend: havn't you +given information to the Attorney-general against the young O'Donoghue?” + </p> +<p> +Lanty nodded, and he went on— +</p> +<p> +“Havn't you confessed the whole of the plot, and told them everything?” + </p> +<p> +“Very nearly, faix!” said Lanty, dropping his head, and sighing. +</p> +<p> +“And what do you expect to gain by that, Master Lanty? Is it by showing +that you are of no use to them—that you've nothing more left in you—that +you hope for a reward. Is it for the sake of your family and friends, or +on account of your remarkable honesty, they're so fond of you?” Then +checking this sneering tone, he added, in a slow and solemn voice, “Are +you a fool, man?—or don't you see what you're bringing yourseif to? +What will be your claim when the trial of the young O'Donoghue is over? +The crown lawyers will have you up in the witness-box till they've drained +you dry. Devil a drop they'll leave in you; and when they say 'Go down,' +take my word for it, it's down you'll go in earnest; and all the world +wouldn't lift you up afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0020" id="linkimage-0020"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00378.jpg" width="100%" alt="378 " /> +</div> +<p> +Hemsworth permitted the words to sink into his heart for a few seconds in +silence, and then went on— +</p> +<p> +“So long as you trusted <i>me</i>, you were safe. I'd never expose you in +open court.” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir, nor the Attorney-general neither. He said that all they wanted +was my information on oath.” + </p> +<p> +“And you gave it!” exclaimed Hemsworth, in a voice of ill-dissembled +anxiety. +</p> +<p> +“Not all out, sir,” said Lanty, with a shrewd glance of malicious +intelligence. “I asked them for a copy, to read it over before I signed +it, and they gave me one”—here he produced a roll of paper from his +breast pocket, and showed it to Hemsworth—“and I'm to give it back +to-morrow, with my name to it.” + </p> +<p> +“They've played you off well, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, while, carelessly +opening the paper, he affected not to pay it any attention. “The lawyers +have got round you nicely; and, faith, I always thought you a clever +fellow before. Your evidence, so long as it was your own, was worth five +thousand pounds, and I wouldn't give five for your chance of escape, now, +that they know your secret.” + </p> +<p> +“What would you say if they didn't know it?” said Lanty, with a look of +impudent familiarity, he had never ventured on before. “What would you +say, now, if the best of my evidence was to come out yet?—that I +never told one word about the French clipper that landed the muskets in +Glengariff-bay, and left two pipes of wine at your own house the same +night?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! you'd try that game, would you?” said Hemsworth, with a smile of +deadly malice; “but I've thought of that part, my honest Lanty. I've +already given information on that very matter. You don't suppose that I +afforded those fellows my protection for the sake of the bribe. No, faith!—but +I made them pay for the very evidence that can any day convict them;—ay, +<i>them</i> and <i>you</i>; you, a paid spy of France, a sworn United +Irishman, who have administered the oaths to eighteen soldiers of the +Roscommon militia, and are at this moment under a signed and witnessed +contract, bound to furnish horses for a French cavalry force on their +landing here in Ireland. Are these truths, Mr. Lanty, or are they mere +matters of fancy?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm a crown witness,” said Lawler, sturdily, “and if I speak out all I +know, they're bound to protect me.” + </p> +<p> +“Who is to bind them?” said Hemsworth, jeeringly: “is it your friends, the +United Irishmen, that you betrayed?—is it they are to watch over +your precious life?—or do you think your claims are stronger with +the other party, that you only swore to massacre? Where's the sympathy and +protection to come from? Tell me that, for I'm curious on the point.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty turned a fierce look upon him—his eyeballs glared, and his +nether lip shook convulsively, while his hands were firmly clenched +together. Hemsworth watched these evidences of growing anger, but without +seeming to regard them, when the key grated roughly in the lock, the door +opened, and the gaoler called out, with a savage attempt at laughter— +</p> +<p> +“Time's up. I must turn you off, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“A short reprieve,” said Hemsworth, humouring the ruffian jest, and he +pitched his purse into the fellow's hand. +</p> +<p> +“To settle family matters, I suppose,” said the turnkey, with a grin, as +he retired, and closed the door once more. +</p> +<p> +The interruption seemed to offer a favourable opportunity to Hemsworth of +giving an amicable turn to the interview, for with a changed voice, and a +look of well-assumed friendship, he said— +</p> +<p> +“I have misspent my moments here sadly, Lanty. I came to befriend you, and +not to interchange words of angry meaning. If I had been in Dublin, I'm +certain you would never have fallen into this perilous position. Let us +see how best to escape from it. This information—I see it is all +confined to young O'Donoghue's business—is of no value whatever, +until signed by you. It is just as if it were never spoken. So that, if +you steadily determine not to sign it, you need give no reason whatever, +but simply refuse when asked. Do this, and all's safe.” + </p> +<p> +“Couldn't they transport me?” said Lanty, in a feeble voice, but whose +very accent betrayed the implicit trust he reposed in Hemsworth's answer. +</p> +<p> +“They'll threaten that, and worse, too; but never flinch; they've nothing +against you save, your own evidence. When the time comes—mark me, I +say, when the time comes—your evidence is worth five thousand +pounds; but, now, all it will do is convict young O'Donoghue, and warn all +the others not to go forward. I don't suppose you want that; the young +fellow never did you any harm.” + </p> +<p> +“Never,” said Lanty, dropping his head with shame, for even in such a +presence his conscience smote him. +</p> +<p> +“Very well—there's no use in bringing him to trouble. Keep your own +counsel, and all will be well.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm just thinking of a plan I've a notion in my head will do well,” said +Lanty, musingly. “I'm to see Father Kearney, the priest of Luke's Chapel, +to-morrow morning—he's coming over to confess me. Well, when the +Attorney-general and the others come for me to write my name, I'll just +say that I daren't do it. I'll not tell why nor wherefore—sorra word +more, but this, 'I dar'n't do it.' They'll think at once it's the priest +set me against it. I know well what they'll say. That Father Kearney put +me under a vow, and so they may. They'll scarcely get <i>him</i> to say +much about it, and I'll take care they won't make me.” + </p> +<p> +“That thought was worthy of you, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, laughing, “but +take care that you don't swerve from your determination. Remember that +there is no accusation against you—not a word nor a syllable of +testimony. Of course they'll threaten you with the worst consequences. +You'll be told of prosecutions for perjury, and all that. Never mind—wait +patiently your time. When the hour arrives, <i>I'll</i> make your bargain +for you, and it will not be merely the evidence against an individual, but +the disclosure of a great plot of rebellion, they must pay you for. +Cockayne got four thousand pounds and a free pardon. <i>Your</i> services +will rank far higher.” + </p> +<p> +“If they won't bring me up in open court,” said Lanty, timidly, “I'll do +whatever they please.” + </p> +<p> +“For that very reason you must adhere to my advice. There, now, I perceive +the fellow is about to lock up for the night, and I must leave this. You +may want some money from time to time. I'll take means of sending whatever +you stand in need of. For the present, ten pounds will, I suppose, be +sufficient.” + </p> +<p> +Lanty took the money with a mixture of humility and sullenness. He felt it +as a bribe rather than a gift, and he measured the services expected of +him by the consideration they were costing. The turnkey's presence did not +admit of further colloquy, and they parted in mutual suspicion and +distrust, each speculating how far self-interest might be worked upon as +the guiding principle to sway the other's actions. +</p> +<p> +“I'm scarcely sure of him yet,” said Hemsworth, as he slowly returned to +his hotel. “They'll stop at nothing to terrify him into signing the +informations, and if the prosecution goes on, and the young O'Donoghue is +convicted, the plot is blown up. The others will escape, and all my +long-projected disclosures to the Government become useless. Besides, I +fail where failure is of more consequence. It was to little moment that I +prevented a marriage between Travers and the girl, if I cannot make her my +own; but yet, that alliance should have been thwarted on every ground of +policy. It would have been to plant the Travers here on the very spot I +destine for myself. No, no. I must take care that they never see Ireland +more. Indeed this breaking off the marriage will prove a strong obstacle +to their returning.” Thus did he review his plans, sometimes +congratulating himself on the success of the past, sometimes fearing for +the future, but always relying with confidence on the skill of his own +negociations—an ingenuity that never yet had failed him in his +difficulties. +</p> +<p> +The next day was the time appointed for Lanty's final examination, and on +which he was to affix his name to the informations, and Hems-worth +loitered in one of the offices of the Castle, where the gossip of the +morning was discussed, in no common anxiety to hear how his “protege” had +acquitted himself. As the clerks and underlings conversed among themselves +on the dress or equipage of the officials who at intervals drove off +towards the Park, Hemsworth, who affected to be engaged in reading a +morning paper, overheard one remark to another— +</p> +<p> +“There's the devil to pay at the Council. That fellow they have in Newgate +against Coyle and M'Nevin, and the rest of them, it seems, now refuses to +confirm his informations. They have good reason to believe all he said was +true, but they can't go on without him.” + </p> +<p> +“What's the meaning of that? He was willing enough yesterday.” + </p> +<p> +“They say a priest from Luke's Chapel was with him this morning, and +forbid him, under any number of curses and anathemas in case of +disobedience, to reveal a syllable against the 'United party.'” + </p> +<p> +“They can compel him, however. Don't you remember Cockayne did the very +same thing about Jackson's business, and they brought him over to Lord +Clonmel's house, and made him sign there?” + </p> +<p> +“That they did, but they'll not try the same game twice. Curran brought it +out in the cross-examination, and made it appear that the witness was +terrified by the crown by a threat of consequences to himself as an +accomplice, and the point went very far with the jury in Jackson's +favour.” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth did not wait to hear more. The great fact that Lanty was firm, +was all that he cared for, and, after a few casual remarks on the morning +news, he strolled forth, with all the lazy indifference of an idle man. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIX. THE BROTHERS +</h2> +<p> +Among the unexplained phenomena of the period is one very remarkable and, +doubtless, pregnant circumstance—the species of lull or calm in the +movements of the United Irish party, which was conspicuous throughout the +entire of the summer and autumn of 1796. The spring opened on them with +hopes high, and expectations confident. Tone's letters from Paris breathed +encouragement; the embarrassments of England promised favourably for their +cause; and many who wavered before, were found now willing to embrace the +enterprize. To this state of ardent feeling succeeded an interval of doubt +and uneasiness; conflicting statements were circulated, and mens' minds +were shaken, without any apparent cause. A vague fear of betrayal and +treachery gained ground; yet no one was able to trace this dread to any +definite source. The result, however, was evident in the greater caution +of all concerned in the scheme—a reserve, which seemed to threaten a +total abandonment of the undertaking; such, at least, it appeared to those +who, like Mark O'Donoghue, having few or no opportunities of intercourse +with the leaders, were disposed to take their impressions from the surface +of events. As for him, his correspondence had ceased with Lanty's +treachery. He neither knew the real names nor addresses of those to whom +he had formerly written, and had not a single acquaintance to whom he +could look for advice and assistance. +</p> +<p> +All Sir Archy's endeavours to win his confidence had failed, not from any +distrust either in his judgment or his good faith, but because Mark +regarded his secret as a sacred depository, in which the honour of others +was concerned; and however disposed to seek advice for himself, he would +not compromise their safety for the sake of his own advantage. Unable to +extort a confidence by entreaty, and well aware how little efficiency +there lay in menace, Sir Archy abandoned the attempt, and satisfied +himself by placing in Mark's hands Hemsworth's letter, significantly +hinting his own doubts of the writer's integrity. +</p> +<p> +Mark sat himself down in the garden, to study the epistle; and however +artfully conceived, the experience his own career opened, displayed the +dishonesty of the writer at every line. +</p> +<p> +“I am the obstacle to his plans—my presence here is somehow a +thwarting influence against him,” said he, as he folded up the paper. “I +must remain at every hazard; nor is there much, so long as I bound my +wanderings by these great mountains—he will be a bolder than +Hemsworth who captures me here.” + </p> +<p> +Guided by this one determination, and trusting that time might clear up +some of the mysteries that surrounded him, Mark waited, as men wait for an +event that shall call upon their faculties or their courage for some +unusual effort. The same reverses of fortune that had taught him distrust, +had also inculcated the lesson of patience; but it was the patience of the +Indian warrior, who will lie crouching in concealment for days long, till +the moment of his vengeance has arrived. And thus, while to others he +seemed an altered character, less swayed by rash impulses, and less +carried away by anger, the curbed up passions became only more +concentrated by repression. He mixed little with the others, rarely +appearing save at meal times, and then, seldom taking any part in the +conversation around. He did not absent himself from home, as before, for +whole days or weeks long, but spent his time mostly in his own chamber, +where he read and wrote for hours—strange and unusual habits for one +who had never sought or found amusement save in the fatigues of the +hunting-field. His manner, too, was no longer the same. Calmer and more +self-possessed than before, he neither seemed to feel momentary bursts of +high spirits or depression. The tone of his mind was indeed sad, but it +was the sadness that indicated strength and constancy to endure, fully as +much as it betrayed the pain of suffering. The altered features of his +character impressed themselves on every thing he did; and there was an air +of quiet gentleness in his demeanour, quite foreign to his former rough +and abrupt manner. Upon none did these things make so great an impression +as on Kate: her woman's tact enabled her to see them differently, and more +correctly than the rest. She saw that a mighty change had come over him: +that no mere check of disappointment, no baffled ambition, could have done +this: neither could she attribute it to any feeling towards herself, for +he was never more coolly distant than now. She guessed, then, rightly, +that it was the first step towards freedom, of a mind enthralled by its +own strong passions. It was the struggling energy to be free, of a bold +and daring spirit, that learned at length to feel the lowering influences +of ill-directed ambition. How ardently she wished that some career were +open to him, now—some great path in life: she did not fear its +dangers or its trials—his nature suggested any thing save fear! How +sad to think, that energy like his should be suffered to wane, and +flicker, and die out, for want of the occasion to display its blaze. She +could not avoid communicating these thoughts to Sir Archy, who for some +time past had watched the growing change in the youth's manner. The old +man listened attentively as she spoke, and his glistening eye and +heightened colour showed how her girlish enthusiasm moved him; and while +some reminiscence of the past seemed to float before him, his voice +trembled as he said— +</p> +<p> +“Alas! my sweet child, the world offers few opportunities like those you +speak of, and our political condition rejects them totally. The country +that would be safe, must give little encouragement to the darings of +youthful energy. His rewards are higher here, who seeks out some path well +trod and beaten, and tries by industry and superior skill to pass by those +who follow it also. The talents men prize are those available for some +purpose of every-day life. Gifts that make mankind wiser and happier, +these, bring fame and honour; while the meteor brilliancy of mere heroism +can attract but passing wonder and astonishment.” + </p> +<p> +“You mistake Mark, my dear uncle—you undervalue the change that is +worked in his character. He is not deficient in ability, if he but suffer +himself to rely upon it, rather than on the casual accidents of fortune. +If Herbert were but here——” + </p> +<p> +“Herbert comes home to-night. I had thought to keep my secret for a +surprise, but you have wrested it from me.” + </p> +<p> +“Herbert coming home! Oh, how happy you have made me! The brothers once +more together, how much each may benefit the other. Nay, uncle, you must +not smile thus. Superior as Herbert is in the advantages that training and +study impart, Mark has gifts of determination and resolve, as certain to +win success. But, here he comes—may I not tell him of Herbert's +coming?” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy smiled and nodded, and the happy girl was the next moment at +Mark's side, relating with delight her pleasant news. +</p> +<p> +Mark listened with pleasure to the intelligence. Any little jealousy he +once felt for acquirements and attainments above his own, had long since +given way to a better and more brotherly feeling; and he ardently desired +to meet and converse with him again. +</p> +<p> +“And yet, Kate, how altered may he be from what we knew him, who is to say +the changes time may not have wrought in him?” + </p> +<p> +“Such are not always for the worse, Mark,” said Kate, timidly, for she +felt how the allusion might be taken. +</p> +<p> +A slight tinge of red coloured Mark's cheek, and his eye was lighted with +a look of pleasure. He felt the flattery in all its force, but did not +dare to trust himself with a reply. +</p> +<p> +“I wonder,” said he, after a lengthened pause—“I wonder how Herbert +may feel on seeing, once more, our wild glen. Will these giant rocks and +bold ravines appeal to his heart with the same sympathies as ever; or will +the habits of the life he has left, cling to him still, and make him think +this grandeur only desolation?” + </p> +<p> +“You did not feel so, surely, Mark?” said Kate, as she turned upon him a +look of affectionate interest. +</p> +<p> +“Me?—I think so? No! This valley was to me a place of rest—a +long sought-for haven. I came not here from the gay and brilliant world, +rich in fascinations and pleasures. I had not lived among the great and +learned, to hear the humble estimate they have of our poor land. I came +back here like the mariner whose bark puts back shattered by the storm, +and baffled by the winds, unable to stem the tide that leads to fortune. +Yes, shipwrecked in every thing.” “Herbert, Herbert,” cried Kate. +</p> +<p> +At the same moment a chaise, advancing at full gallop, turned from the +road into the avenue towards the house. The boy caught sight of the +figures in the garden, flung open the door, and springing out, rushed +towards them. +</p> +<p> +“My dear, dear Kate,” was his first exclamation, as he kissed her +affectionately; his next, in a tone of unqualified surprise, was—“What +a fine fellow you have grown, Mark!” and the two brothers were locked in +each other's arms. +</p> +<p> +The sentiment which thus burst from him in the first moment of surprise, +was the very counterpart of Mark's own feeling on beholding Herbert. Time +had worked favourably for both. On the elder brother, the stamp of manhood +more firmly impressed, had given an elevation to the expression of his +features, and a character of composure to his air; while with Herbert, his +career of study alternating with a life passed among cultivated and +polished circles, had converted the unformed stripling into a youth of +graceful and elegant demeanour. The change was even greater in him than in +his brother. In the one case it was, as it were, but the growth and +development of original traits of character; in the other, new and very +different features were distinguishable. His thoughts, his expressions, +his very accent was changed; yet through this his old nature beamed forth, +bright, joyous, and affectionate as ever. It was the same spirit, although +its flights were bolder and more daring—the same mind, but its +workings more powerful and more free. The one had placed his ambition so +high, he scarcely dared to hope; the other had already tasted some of the +enjoyments of success—life had even already shed around him some of +its fascinations, and quickened the ardour of his temper. A winner in the +race of intellect, he experienced that thrilling ecstasy which +acknowledged superiority confers; he knew what it was to feel the mastery +over others, and, even now, the flame of ambition was lighted in his +heart, and its warm glow tingled in his veins and throbbed in every pulse. +In vain should they who knew him once, seek for the timid, bashful boy, +that scarcely dared to make an effort from very dread of failure. His +flashing eye and haughty brow told of victory; still around his handsome +mouth the laughing smile of happy youth showed that no ungenerous feeling, +no unworthy pride, had yet mingled with his nature. +</p> +<p> +“They tell me you have swept the University of its prizes, Herbert—is +not this so?” said Mark, as he leaned his arm affectionately on his +shoulder. +</p> +<p> +“You would think but poorly of my triumphs, Mark,” replied Herbert, with a +smile. “The lists I fight in, peril not life or limb.” + </p> +<p> +“Still, there is honour in the game,” said Mark. “Wherever there is +success on one side, and failure on the other—wherever there is hope +to win, and dread to lose—there, the ambition is never unworthy.” + </p> +<p> +“But what of you, Mark? Tell me of yourself. Have you left a buck in the +glen, or is there a stray grouse on the mountain? What have you been doing +since we met?” + </p> +<p> +Mark coloured and looked confused, when Kate, coming to the rescue, +replied— +</p> +<p> +“How can you ask such a question, Herbert? What variety does life afford +in this quiet valley? Is it not the very test of our happiness, that we +can take no note of time? But here comes my uncle.” + </p> +<p> +Herbert turned at the words, and rushed to meet the old man. +</p> +<p> +“Have you won baith, Herbert,” cried he—“baith premiums? Then I must +gie you twa hands, my dear boy,” said he, pressing him in a fond embrace. +“Were the competitors able ones? Was the victory a hard one? Tell me all, +every thing about it.” + </p> +<p> +And the youth, with bent down head and rapid utterance, related, in a low +voice, the event of his examination. +</p> +<p> +“Go on, go on,” said Sir Archy M'Nab, aloud—“tell me what followed.” + </p> +<p> +And Herbert resumed in the same tone as before. +</p> +<p> +“Ha!” cried Sir Archy, in an accent of irrepressible delight, “so they +said your Latin smacked of Scotland. They scented Aberdeen in it. Well, +boy, we beat them—they canna deny that. The prize is ours—the +better that it was hardly fought for.” + </p> +<p> +And thus they continued for some time to talk, as they walked side by side +through the garden; the old man's firm step and joyous look telling of the +pride that filled his heart, while Herbert poured forth in happy +confidence the long-treasured thoughts that crowded his brain; nor did +they cease their converse, till Kerry came to summon the youth to his +father's room. +</p> +<p> +“He's awake now,” said Kerry, gazing with undisguised rapture on the tall +and handsome youth; “and it's a proud man he ought to be this day, that +has the pair like ye.” + </p> +<p> +The young men smiled at the flattery, and arm in arm took then-way towards +the house. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XL. THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. +</h2> +<p> +Once again assembled beneath that old roof, the various members of the +family seemed more than ever disposed to make present happiness atone for +any troubles of the past. Never was the old O'Donoghue so contented;—never +did Sir Archy feel a lighter heart. Herbert's spirits were buoyant and +high as present success and hope could make them; and Kate, whatever +doubts might secretly have weighed upon her mind, did her utmost to +contribute to the general joy;—while Mark, over whose temperament a +calmer and less variable habit of thought prevailed, seemed at least more +reconciled to his fortunes. +</p> +<p> +The influences of tranquillity that prevailed over the land appeared to +have breathed their soothing sway over that humble dwelling, where life +rolled on like an unruflled stream, each day happy with that monotony of +enjoyment, so delicious to all whose minds have ever been tortured by the +conflicting cares of the world. +</p> +<p> +For many a year long the O'Donoghue had not been so free from troubles. +The loan he had contracted on Kate's fortune had relieved him from his +most pressing embarrassments, and left him money enough to keep other +creditors at bay. Sir Archy felt already he had received the earnest of +that success he so ardently desired for Herbert, and in the calm of +political life, hoped that the rash scheme in which Mark had em-. barked +was even now becoming forgotten; and that the time was not far remote when +no memory of it would be treasured against him. His own experience taught +him, that sage lessons may be gathered from the failures and checks of +youthful ambition, and in the changed features of Mark's character he +augured most favourably for the future. But of all those on whom happier +prospects shone, none revelled in the enjoyment so much as Herbert. The +fascinations of that new world, of which he had only caught a glimpse, +hung over him like a dream. Life opened for him at a moment when he +himself had won distinction, while a new passion stirred his heart, and +stimulated hope to the utmost. Kate, his companion throughout every day, +was not slow to perceive the lurking secret of his thoughts, and soon led +him to confide them to her. Herbert had never heard of Frederick Travers's +attachment to his cousin, still less, suspected he had made a proposal of +marriage to her. The studied avoidance of their names among his own family +was a mystery he could not solve, and he referred to Kate for the +explanation. +</p> +<p> +“How strange, Kate,” said he, one day, as they wandered along the glen +somewhat further than usual, “how singular is this silence respecting the +Travers's! I can make nothing of it. If I speak of them, no one speaks +again—if I allude to them, the conversation suddenly stops. Tell me, +if you know it, the secret of all this.” + </p> +<p> +Kate blushed deeply, and muttered something about old and half-remembered +grudges, but he interrupted her quickly, saying— +</p> +<p> +“This can scarcely be the reason;—at least their feelings show +nothing of the kind towards us. Sybella talks of you as a sister nearest +to her heart. Sir Marmaduke never spoke of you, but with the warmest terms +of affection, and if the gay Guardsman did not express himself on the +subject, perhaps it was because he felt the more deeply.” + </p> +<p> +Kate's cheek grew deeper scarlet, and her breathing more hurried, but she +made no reply. +</p> +<p> +“<i>My</i> explanation,” continued Herbert, more occupied with his own +thoughts than attentive to his companion, “is this;—and, to be sure, +it is a very sorry explanation which elucidates nothing;—that +Hemsworth is somehow at the bottom of it all. Sybella told me what +persuasions he employed to prevent her father returning to Glenflesk; and +when every thing like argument failed, that he actually, under pretence of +enlarging the house, rendered the existing part uninhabitable.” + </p> +<p> +“But what object could he have in this?” said Kate, who felt that Herbert +was merely nourishing the old prejudices of his family against Hemsworth. +“He is anxious for the peace and welfare of this country—he grieves +for the poverty and privations of the people, and whether he be correct or +not, deems the remedy, the residence amongst them of a cultivated and +wealthy proprietary, with intelligence to perceive, and ability to redress +their grievances.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true, Kate,” replied Herbert; “but don't you see that in these very +requisites of a resident gentry, he does not point at the Travers family, +whose ignorance of Ireland he often exposed when affecting to eulogise +their knowledge. The qualities he recommends he believes to be his own.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Herbert, you wrong him there,” said she, warmly; “he told me himself +the unceasing regret he suffered, that, in his humble sphere, all efforts +for the people's good were ineffectual—that, wanting the influence +which property confers, benefits from his hands became suspected, and +measures of mere justice were regarded as acts of cruelty and oppression.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I only know that such is Frederick Travers's opinion of him,” said +Herbert, not a little piqued at Kate's unexpected defence of their ancient +enemy. “Frederick told me himself that he would never cease until his +father promised to withdraw the agency from him. Indeed, he is only +prevented from pressing the point, because Hemsworth has got a long lease +of part of the estate, which they desire to have back again on any terms. +The land was let at a nominal rent, as being almost valueless. The best +part of the valley it turns out to be!—the very approach to 'the +Lodge' passes through it—so that, as Frederick says, they could not +reach their hall-door without a trespass, if Hemsworth pleased to turn +sulky.” + </p> +<p> +Kate felt there might be another and more correct explanation of +Frederick's dislike, but she did not dare to hint at it. +</p> +<p> +“You are too favourable in your opinion of Hemsworth, Kate. Sy-bella said +as much to me herself.” + </p> +<p> +“Sybella said so?” said Kate, as a flush, half of shame, half of +displeasure, mantled her cheek. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” cried Herbert, for he felt that he was in a difficulty, and there +was no way out save the bold one, of right through it; “yes, she saw what +you did not, that Hemsworth had dared to lift his eyes to you——that +all his displays of patriotic sentiment were got up to attract your +favourable notice, and that in his arguments with Frederick about Ireland, +his whole aim was to expose the Guardsman's ignorance, and throw ridicule +upon it, neither seeking to convey sound notions, nor combat erroneous +impressions.” + </p> +<p> +“Captain Travers was but too easy a mark for such weapons,” said Kate, +angrily, “It was his pleasure to make Ireland the object of his sarcasm.” + </p> +<p> +“So Hemsworth contrived it!” cried Herbert, eagerly, for it was a subject +of which he had long been anxious to speak, and one he had heard much of +from Sybella. “I know well the game he played, and how successfully too.” + </p> +<p> +Kate blushed deeply; for a moment she believed that her own secret was +known to Herbert, but the next instant she was reassured that all was +safe. +</p> +<p> +“Sybella told me how he actually lay in wait for opportunities to entice +Frederick into discussion before you, well knowing the themes that would +irritate him, and calculating how far petty refutations, and +half-suppressed sneers would embarrass and annoy him—the more, +because Frederick saw how much more favourably you regarded Hemsworth's +sentiments than his own; and, indeed, sometimes I fancied, Kate, it was a +point the Guardsman was very tender about;—nay, sweet cousin, I +would not say a word to offend you.” + </p> +<p> +“Then, do not speak of this again, Herbert,” said she, in a low voice. +</p> +<p> +“It is a luckless land,” said Herbert, sighing. “They who know it well are +satisfied with the cheap patriotism of declaiming on its wrongs. They who +feel most acutely for its sorrows, are, for the most part, too ignorant to +alleviate them. I begin to think my uncle is quite right—that the +best thing we could do would be to make a truce—to draw the game—for +some twenty or thirty years, and try if the new generation might not prove +wiser in expedients than their fathers.” + </p> +<p> +“A luckless land, indeed!” said Mark, who, coming up at the moment, had +overheard the last words. “You were right to call it so—where the +son of an O'Donoghue sees no more glorious path to follow than that of a +hollow compromise!” + </p> +<p> +Kate and Herbert started as he spoke, and while her face flashed with an +emotion of mingled pride and shame, Herbert looked abashed, and almost +angry at the reproach. +</p> +<p> +“Forgive me, Herbert,” said Mark, in a voice of deep melancholy. “Not even +this theme should sow a difference between us. I came to bid you +good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“Good-bye, Mark?” cried Kate, starting with terrified surprise. +</p> +<p> +“Going to leave us, Mark!” exclaimed Herbert, in an accent of true sorrow. +</p> +<p> +“It is but for a few days—at least I hope that it will be no more,” + said Mark. “But I have received intelligence that makes it necessary for +me to remain in concealment for a short time. You see, Herbert,” said he, +laughing, “that your theory has the advantage on the score of prudence. +Had I followed it, the chances are, I should not have occupied the +attention of his Majesty's Privy Council.” + </p> +<p> +“The Privy Council! I don't understand this, Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps this is the easiest mode of explaining it,” said Mark, as he +unfolded a printed paper, headed “Treason—Reward for the +apprehension of Mark O'Donoghue, Esq., or such information as may lead to +his capture.” “Is that enough? Come, come—I have no time for long +stories just now. If you want to hear mine about the matter, you must +visit me at my retreat—the low shealing at the west of Hungry +Mountain. At least, for the present I shall remain there.” + </p> +<p> +“But is this necessary, Mark? Are you certain that any thing more is meant +than to threaten?” said Kate. +</p> +<p> +“I believe that Carrig-na-curra will be searched by a military force +to-night, or to-morrow at farthest—that the bribe has tempted three +or four—none of our people—don't mistake me—to set on my +track. If my remaining would spare my father's house the indignity of a +search—or if the country had any better cause at heart than that of +one so valueless as I am, I would stay, Kate——” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, Mark. This were but madness, unworthy of you, unjust to all who +love you.” + </p> +<p> +The last few words were uttered so faintly, as only to be heard by him +alone; and as she spoke them a heavy tear rolled down her cheek, now pale +as marble. +</p> +<p> +“But surely, Mark,” said Herbert, who never suspected any thing of his +brother's intrigues, “this must proceed on mere falsehood. There is no +charge against you—you, whose life of quiet retirement here can defy +any calumny.” + </p> +<p> +“But not deny the truth,” said Mark, with a sorrowful smile. “Once for +all, I cannot speak of these things now. My time is running fast; and +already my guide, yonder, looks impatient at my delay. Remember the +shealing at the foot of the mountain. If there be any mist about, you have +but to whistle.” + </p> +<p> +“Is poor Terry your guide, then?” said Kate, affecting to smile with some +semblance of tranquillity. +</p> +<p> +“My guide and my host both,” said Mark, gaily, “It's the only invitation I +have received for Christmas, and I accept it most willingly, I assure +you.” + </p> +<p> +An impatient gesture of Terry's hand, as he stood on a small pinnacle of +rock, about fifty feet above the road, attracted Mark's attention, and he +called out— +</p> +<p> +“Well!—what is it?” + </p> +<p> +“The dragoons!” shouted Terry, in a terrified voice. “They're crossing the +ford at Caher-mohill, two miles off—eight, nine, ten—ay, +there's twelve now, over; and the fellow in the dark coat, he's another. +Wait! they're asking the way: that's it, I'm sure. Well done!—my +blessing be an ye this day, whoever ye are. May I never! if he's not +sending them wrong! They're down the glen towards Killarney;” and as he +finished speaking he sprang from the height, and hastened down the +precipice at a rate that seemed to threaten destruction at every step. +</p> +<p> +“Even so, Terry. We have not more time than we need. It's a long journey +to the west of the mountain; and so, good-bye, my dear cousin. Good-bye, +Herbert. A short absence it will be, I trust;” and, tearing himself away +hurriedly, lest any evidence of emotion might be seen, the young man +ascended the steep pathway after Terry; nor did he turn his head round, +until distance enabled him to look down unnoticed, when again he cried out +“Farewell! Remember the west side of Hungry!” and waving his cap, +disappeared, while Herbert and his cousin wended their sorrowful way +homeward. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLI. A DISCOVERY +</h2> +<p> +When Kate arrived at home, she found a note awaiting her, in Hemsworth's +hand-writing, and marked “haste.” Guessing at once to what it must refer, +she broke the seal, with an anxious heart, and read:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“My dear Madam, + +“I have been unable to retard any longer the course of +proceedings against your cousin. It would seem that the +charges against him are far more grave and menacing than +either of us anticipated, at least so far as I can collect +from the information before me. The Privy Council has +determined on arresting him at once. Orders to support the +warrant by a military force have been transmitted to +officers commanding parties in different towns of the south, +and there is no longer a question of the intentions of the +crown regarding him. But one, of two, chances is now open to +him—to surrender and take his trial—or, should he, as he +may, without any imputation on his courage, dread this, to +make his escape to the coast, near Kenmare, where a lugger +will lie off, on Wednesday night. By this means he will be +able to reach some port in France or Flanders; or, +probably, should the wind change, obtain protection from +some of the American vessels, which are reported as cruising +to the westward. + +“In making this communication to you, I need scarcely +observe the implicit faith I repose in the use you make of +it. It is intended to be the means of providing for your +cousin's safety—but should it, by any accident, fall under +other eyes than yours, it would prove the inevitable ruin of +your very devoted servant, + +“Wm. Hemsworth.” + </pre> +<p> +“And they will not believe this man's integrity?” exclaimed Kate, as she +finished reading the note. “He who jeopardies his own station and +character for the sake of one actually his enemy! Well, <i>their</i> +injustice shall not involve <i>my</i> honor.” “Was it you brought this +letter?” said she to Wylie, who stood, hat in hand, at the door. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, my lady, and I was told there might, perhaps, be an answer.” + </p> +<p> +“No—there is none; say 'very well'—that I have read it. Where +is Mr. Hemsworth?” + </p> +<p> +“At Macroom. There was a meeting of magistrates there, which delayed him, +and he wrote this note, and sent me on, instead of coming himself.” + </p> +<p> +“Say, that I shall be happy to see him—that's enough,” said Kate, +hurriedly, and turned back again into the house. +</p> +<p> +Through all the difficulties that beset her path hitherto, she had found +Sir Archy an able and a willing adviser; but now, the time was come, when +not only must she act independently of his aid, but, perhaps, in actual +opposition to his views—taking for her guidance one distrusted by +almost every member of her family. Yet what alternative remained—how +betray Hemsworth's conduct in a case which, if known, must exhibit him as +false to the Government, and acting secretly against the very orders that +were given to him? This, she could not think of, and thus by the force of +circumstances, was constrained to accept of Hemsworth as an ally. Her +anxious deliberations on this score were suddenly interrupted by the sound +of horses galloping on the road, and as she looked out, the individual in +question rode up the causeway, followed by his groom. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue was alone in the drawing-room, musing over the sad events +which necessitated Mark's concealment, when Hemsworth entered, heated by a +long and fast ride. +</p> +<p> +“Is your son at home, sir—your eldest son?” said he, as soon as a +very brief greeting was over. +</p> +<p> +“If you'll kindly ring that bell, which my gout won't permit me to reach, +we'll inquire,” said the old man, with a well-affected indifference. +</p> +<p> +“I must not create any suspicion among the servants,” said Hemsworth, +cautiously, “I have reason to believe that some danger is impending over +him, and that he had better leave this house for a day or two.” + </p> +<p> +The apparent frankness of the tone in which he spoke, threw the O'Donoghue +completely off his guard, and taking Hemsworth's hand, he said— +</p> +<p> +“Thank you sincerely for this, the poor boy got wind of it this morning, +and I trust before now, has reached some place of safety for the present—but +what steps can we take? is there anything you can advise us to do?—I'm +really so bewildered by all I hear, and so doubtful of what is true and +what false, that I'm incapable of an opinion. Here comes the only clear +head amongst us. Kate, my sweet child, Mr. Hemsworth, like a kind friend, +has come over about this affair of Mark's—will you and Sir Archy +talk it over with him?” + </p> +<p> +“I beg your pardon for the interruption, sir, but I must recall to your +memory that I am a magistrate, charged with your son's arrest, and if by +an unguarded expression,” here he smiled significantly, “I have betrayed +my instructions—I rely on your honour not to expose me to the +consequences.” + </p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue listened, without thoroughly comprehending the distinction +the other aimed at, and then, as if disliking the trouble of a thought +that puzzled him—he shook his head and muttered, “Aye, very well—be +it so—my niece knows these matters better than I do.” + </p> +<p> +“I agree with that opinion, perfectly,” said Hemsworth, in an undertone, +“and if Miss O'Donoghue will favor me with her company for a few minutes +in the garden, I may be able to assist her to a clear understanding of the +case.” Kate smiled assentingly, and Hemsworth moved towards the door and +opened it; and then, as if after a momentary struggle with his own +diffidence, he offered her his arm; this Kate declined, and they walked +along, side by side. +</p> +<p> +They had nearly reached the middle of the garden before Hemsworth broke +silence. At last he said, with a deep sigh—“I fear we are too late +Miss O'Donoghue. The zeal, real or affected, of the country magistrates, +has stimulated them to the utmost. There are spies over the whole country—he +will inevitably be taken.” + </p> +<p> +Rate re-echoed the last words in an accent of deep anguish, and was +silent. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” resumed he, “escape is all but impossible—for even if he +should get to sea, there are two cruisers on the look-out for any +suspicious sail. +</p> +<p> +“And what if he were to surrender and stand his trial,” said Kate, boldly. +</p> +<p> +Hemsworth shook his head sorrowfully, but never spoke. “What object can it +be with any Government to hunt down a rash, inexperienced youth, whose +unguarded boldness has led him to ruin? On whom would such an example +tell, or where would the lesson spread terror, save beneath that old roof +yonder, where sorrows are rife enough already?” + </p> +<p> +“The correspondence with France—that's his danger. The intercourse +with the disturbed party at home might be palliated by his youth—the +foreign conspiracy admits of little apology.” “And what evidence have they +of this?” + </p> +<p> +“Alas! but too much—the table of the Privy Council was actually +covered with copies of letters and documents—some, written by +himself—almost all, referring to him as a confidential and trusty +agent of the cause. This cannot be forgiven him! When I heard a member of +the Council say, 'Jackson's blood is dried up already,' I guessed the +dreadful result of this young man's capture.” + </p> +<p> +Kate shuddered at these words, which were uttered in a faint tone, +tremulous through emotion. “Oh, God,” she cried, “do not let this calamity +fall upon us. Poverty, destitution, banishment, anything, save the death +of a felon!” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, and looked away, as the +young girl, with upturned face, muttered a brief but fervent prayer to +heaven. +</p> +<p> +“But you, so gifted and experienced in the world's ways,” cried she, +turning on him a glance of imploring meaning—“can you not think of +anything? Is there no means, however difficult and dangerous, by which he +might be saved? Could not the honor of an ancient house plead for him? Is +there no pledge for the future could avail him.” + </p> +<p> +“There is but one such pledge—and that”—here he stopped and +blushed deeply, and then, as if by an effort, resumed—“Do not, I +beseech you, tempt me to utter what, if once spoken, decides the destiny +of my life?” + </p> +<p> +He ceased, and she bent on him a look of wondering astonishment. She +thought she had not heard him aright, and amid her fears of some vague +kind, a faint hope struggled, that a chance of saving Mark yet remained. +Perhaps, the mere expression of doubt her features assumed, was more +chilling than even a look of displeasure, for Hemsworth's self possession, +for several minutes, seemed to have deserted him; when, at last recovering +himself, he said— +</p> +<p> +“Pray, think no more of my words, I spoke them rashly. I know of no means +of befriending this young man. He rejected my counsels when they might +have served him. I find how impossible it is to win confidence from those +whose prejudices have been fostered in adverse circumstances. Now, I am +too late—my humble task is merely to offer you some advice, which +the day of calamity may recall to your memory. The Government intends to +make a severe example of his case. I heard so much, by accident, from the +Under Secretary. They will proceed, in the event of his conviction—of +which there cannot be a doubt—to measures of confiscation regarding +his property—timely intervention might be of service here.” + </p> +<p> +This additional threat of misfortune did not seem to present so many +terrors to Kate's mind as he calculated on its producing. She stood silent +and motionless, and appeared scarcely to notice his words. +</p> +<p> +“I feel how barbarous such cruelty is to an old and inoffensive parent,” + said Hemsworth, “whose heart is rent by the recent loss of a son.” + </p> +<p> +“He must not die,” said Kate, with a hollow voice, and her pale cheek +trembled with a convulsive motion. “Mark must be saved. What was the +pledge you hinted at?” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth's eyes flashed, and his lip curled with an expression of +triumph. The moment, long sought, long hoped for, had at length arrived, +which should gratify both his vengeance and his ambition. The emotion +passed rapidly away, and his features assumed a look of subdued sorrow. +</p> +<p> +“I fear, Miss O'Donoghue,” said he, “that my hope was but like the straw +which the drowning hand will grasp at; but, tortured as my mind has been +by expedients, which more mature thought has ever discovered to be +impracticable, I suffered myself to believe that possible, which my own +heart forbids me to hope for.” + </p> +<p> +He waited a few seconds to give her an opportunity of speaking, but she +was silent, and he went on— +</p> +<p> +“The guarantee I alluded to would be the pledge of one, whose loyalty to +the Government stands above suspicion; one, whose services have met no +requital, but whose reward only awaits the moment of demanding it; such a +one as this might make his own character and fortune the recognizance for +this young man's conduct, and truck the payment of his own services for a +free pardon.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is there thus highly placed, and willing to befriend us.” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth laid his hand upon his heart, and bowing with deep humility, +uttered, in a low, faint voice— +</p> +<p> +“He who now stands before you!” + </p> +<p> +“You,” cried Kate, as clasping her hands in an ecstacy, she fixed her +tearful eyes upon him. “You would do this?” Then growing suddenly pale, as +a sick shudder came over her, she said, in a deep and broken voice, “At +what price, sir?” + </p> +<p> +The steady gaze she fixed upon him seemed to awe and abash him, and it was +with unfeigned agitation that he now spoke. +</p> +<p> +“A price which the devotion of a life long could not repay. Alas! a price +I dare no more aspire to, than hope for.” + </p> +<p> +“Speak plainly, sir,” said Kate, in a firm, collected tone, “this is not a +moment for misconception. What part have I to play in this compact, for by +your manner I suppose you include me in it?” + </p> +<p> +“Forgive me, young lady, I have not courage to place the whole fortunes of +my life upon one cast; already I feel the heaviness of heart that heralds +in misfortune. I would rather live on with even this faint glimmer of hope +than with the darkness of despair for ever.” His hands dropped powerless +at his side, his head fell forward on his bosom, and as if without an +effort of his will, almost unconsciously his lips muttered the words, “I +love you.” + </p> +<p> +Had the accents been the sting of an adder they could not have called up +an expression of more painful meaning than flashed over Kate's features. +</p> +<p> +“And this, then, is the price you hinted at—this was to be the +compact.” + </p> +<p> +The proud look of scorn she threw upon him evoked no angry feeling in his +breast, he seemed overwhelmed by sorrow, and did not dare even to look up. +</p> +<p> +“You judge me hardly, unfairly too; I never meant my intercession should +be purchased—humble as I am, I should he still more unworthy, had I +harhoured such a thought; my hope was this, to make my intervention +available, I should show myself linked with the fortunes of that house I +tried to save—it should be a case, where, personally, my own +interest was at stake, and where my fortune, all I possessed in the world +was in the scale, if you consented”—here he hesitated, faltered, and +finally became silent, then passing his hands across his eyes, resumed +more rapidly—“but I must not speak of this; alas! that my tongue +should have ever betrayed it; you have forced my secret from me, and with +it my happiness for ever—forget this, I beseech you forget that, +even in a moment so unguarded, I dared to lift my eyes to the shrine my +heart has worshipped. I ask no pledge, no compact, I will do my utmost to +save this youth; I will spare no exertion or influence I possess with the +Government; I will make his pardon the recompense due to myself, but if +that be impossible, I will endeavour to obtain connivance at his escape, +and all the price I ask for this is, your forgiveness of my presumption.” + </p> +<p> +Kate held out her hand towards him, while a smile of bewitching loveliness +played over her features; “this is to be a friend indeed,” said she. +</p> +<p> +Hemsworth bent down his head till his lips rested on her fingers, and as +he did so, the hot tears trickled on her hand, then suddenly starting up, +he said, “I must lose no time; where shall I find your cousin?—in +what part of the country has he sought shelter?” + </p> +<p> +“The shealing at the foot of Hungry mountain, he mentioned to Herbert as +the rendezvous for the present.” + </p> +<p> +“Is he alone—has he no companion?” + </p> +<p> +“None, save, perhaps, the idiot boy who acts as his guide in the +mountains.” + </p> +<p> +“Farewell then,” said Hemsworth, “you shall soon hear what success attends +my efforts; farewell”—and, without waiting for more, he hastened +from the spot, and was soon heard descending the causeway at a rapid pace. +</p> +<p> +Kate stood for a few moments lost in thought, and as the sound of the +retreating hoofs aroused her, she looked up, and muttering to herself, “It +was nobly done,” returned with slow steps to the house. +</p> +<p> +As Hemsworth spurred his horse, and urged him to his fastest speed, +expressions of mingled triumph and vengeance burst from him at intervals—“Mine +at last,” cried he—“mine in spite of every obstacle,—-Fortune +is seldom so kind as this—vengeance and ambition both gratified +together—me, whom they dispised for my poverty, and my low birth—that +it should be my destiny to crush them to the dust!” These words were +scarcely uttered, when his horse, pressed beyond his strength, stumbled +over a rut in the road, and fell heavily to the ground, throwing his rider +under him. +</p> +<p> +For a long time no semblance of consciousness returned, and the groom, +fearing to leave him, had to wait for hours until a country car should +pass, in which his wounded master might be laid. There came one by at +last, and on this Hemsworth was laid, and brought back to “the Lodge.” + Before he reached home, however, sense had so far returned, as, that he +felt his accident was attended with no serious injury; the shock of the +fall was the only circumstance of any gravity. +</p> +<p> +The medical man of Macroom was soon with him, and partly confirmed his own +first impressions, but strictly enjoining rest and quiet, as in the event +of any unusual excitement, the worst consequences might ensue. Hemsworth +bore up under the injunction with all the seeming fortitude he could +muster, but in his heart he cursed the misfortune that thus delayed the +hour of his long-sought vengeance. +</p> +<p> +“This may continue a week, then?” cried he, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +The doctor nodded an assent. +</p> +<p> +“Two—three weeks, perhaps?” + </p> +<p> +“It will be a month, at least, before I can pronounce you out of danger,” + said the physician, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“A month! Great Heaven!—a month! And what are the dangers you +apprehend, in the event of my not submitting?” + </p> +<p> +“There are several, and very serious ones—-inflammation of the +brain, fever, derangement even.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, and are you sure this confinement will not drive me mad?” cried he, +passionately; “will you engage that my brain will hold out against the +agonizing thoughts that will not cease to torture me all this while?—or +can you promise that events shall stand still for the moment when I can +resume my place once more among men?” + </p> +<p> +The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only a more certain +evidence of the truth of the medical fears; and, without venturing on any +direct reply, the doctor gave some directions for his treatment, and +withdrew. +</p> +<p> +The physician's apprehensions were well founded. The first few hours after +the accident seemed to threaten nothing serious, but as night fell, +violent headache and fever set in, and before day-break, he was quite +delirious. +</p> +<p> +No sooner did the news reach Carrig-na-curra, than Kerry was dispatched to +bring back tidings of his state; for, however different the estimation in +which he was held by each, one universal feeling pervaded all—of +sorrow for his disaster, Day after day, Sir Archy or Herbert went over to +inquire after him; but some chronic feature of his malady seemed to have +succeeded, and he lay in one unvarying condition of lethargic +unconsciousness. +</p> +<p> +In this way, week after week glided over, and the condition of the country +seemed like that of the sick man—one of slumbering apathy. The +pursuit of Mark, so eagerly begun, had, as it were, died out. The +proclamations of reward, torn down by the country people on their first +appearance, were never renewed, and the military party, after an +ineffectual search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards +towards Tralee, and soon after returned to head-quarters. Still, with all +these signs of security, Mark, whose short experience of life, had taught +him caution, rarely ventured near Carrig-na-curra, and never passed more +than a few moments beneath his father's roof. +</p> +<p> +While each had a foreboding that this calm was but the lull that preludes +a storm, their apprehensions took very different and opposing courses, +Kate's anxieties increased with each day of Hemsworth's illness; she saw +the time gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, and yet knew not +how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, coupling the activity with +which Mark's pursuit was first undertaken, with the sudden visit of +Hemsworth to the country, and the abandonment of all endeavours to capture +him, which followed on Hemsworth's accident, felt strong suspicion that +the agent was the prime mover in the whole affair, and that his former +doubts, were well founded regarding him; while Herbert, less informed than +either on the true state of matters, formed opinions, which changed and +vacillated with each day's experience. +</p> +<p> +In this condition of events, Sir Archy had gone over one morning alone, to +inquire after Hemsworth, whose case, for some days preceding, was more +than usually threatening—symptoms of violent delirium having +succeeded to the dead lethargy in which he was sunk. Buried deeply in his +conjectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, and how far +his motives tallied with honourable intentions, the old man plodded +wearily on, weighing every word he could remember that bore upon events, +and carefully endeavouring to divest his mind of every thing like a +prejudice. Musing thus, he accidentally diverged from the regular +approach, and turned off into a narrow path, which led to the back of “the +Lodge;” nor was he aware of his mistake, till he saw, at the end of the +walk, the large window of a room he remembered as belonging to the former +building.. The sash was open, but the curtains, were drawn closely, so as +to intercept any view from within or without. He observed these things, as +fatigued by an unaccustomed exertion, he seated himself, for some moments' +rest, on a bench beneath the trees. +</p> +<p> +A continuous, low, moaning sound soon caught his ear; he listened, and +could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of a sick man, accompanied as it +was by long-drawn sighs. There were voices, also, of persons speaking +cautiously together, and the words, “He is asleep at last,” were plainly +audible, after which the door closed, and all was still. +</p> +<p> +The solemn awe which great illness inspires was felt in all its force by +the old man, as he sat like one spell-bound, and unable to depart. The +labouring respiration that seemed to bode the ebb of life, made his own +strong heart tremble, for he thought how, in his last hours, he might have +wronged him. “Oh! if I have been unjust—if I have followed him to +the last with ungenerous doubt—forgive me, Heaven; even now my own +heart is half my accuser;” and his lips murmured a deep and fervent +prayer, for that merciful benevolence, which, in his frail nature, he +denied to another. He arose from his knees with a spirit calmed, and a +courage stronger, and was about to retire, when a sudden cry from the sick +room arrested his steps. It was followed by another more shrill and +piercing still, and then a horrid burst of frantic laughter: dreadful as +the anguish-wrung notes of suffering—how little do they seem in +comparison, with the sounds of mirth from the lips of madness! +</p> +<p> +“There—there,” cried a voice, he at once knew as Hemsworth's—“that's +him, that's your prisoner—make sure of him now; remember your +orders, men!—do you hear; if they attempt a rescue, load with ball, +and fire low—mind that, fire low. Ah! you are pale enough now;” and +again the savage laughter rung out. “Yes, madam,” continued he, in a tone +of insolent sarcasm, “every respect shall be shown him—a chair in +the dock—a carpet on the gallows. You shall wear mourning for him—all +the honeymoon, if you fancy it. Yes,” screamed he, in a wild and frantic +voice, “this is like revenge! You struck me once—you called me +coarse plebeian, too! We shall be able to see the blood you are proud of—aye, +the blood! the blood!”—and then, as if worn out by exhaustion, he +heaved a heavy sigh, and fell into deep moaning as before. +</p> +<p> +Sir Archy, who felt in the scene a direct acknowledgment of his appeal to +Heaven, drew closer to the window, and listened. Gradually, and like one +awaking from a heavy slumber, the sick man stretched his limbs, and drew a +long sigh, whose groaning accent spoke of great debility and then, +starting up in his bed, shouted— “It is, it is the King's warrant—who +dares to oppose it. Ride in faster, men—faster; keep together here, +the west side of the mountain. There—there, yonder, near the beach. +Who was that spoke of pardon? Never; if he resists, cut him down. Ride for +it, men, ride;” and in his mad excitement, he arose from his bed, and +gained the floor. “There—that's him yonder; he has taken to the +mountains; five hundred guineas to the hand that grasps him first,” and he +tottered to the window, and tearing aside the curtain, looked out. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0021" id="linkimage-0021"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00404.jpg" width="100%" alt="404 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Worn and wasted, with beard unshaven for weeks long, and eyes glistening +with the lustre of insanity, the expression of his features actually +chilled the heart's blood of the old man, as he stood almost at his side, +and unable to move away. For a second or two Hemsworth gazed on the other, +as if some struggling effort of recognition was labouring in his brain; +and then, with a mad struggle he exclaimed— +</p> +<p> +“They were too late; the Council gave but eight days. I suppressed the +proclamation in the south. Eight days—after that, no pardon—in +this world at least”—and a fearful grin of malice convulsed his +features; then with an altered accent, and a faint smile, from which +sickness tore its oft-assumed dissimulation, he said, “I did every thing +to persuade him to surrender—to accept the gracious favour of the +crown; but he would not—no, he would not!”—and, with another +burst of laughter, he staggered back into the room, and fell helpless on +the floor. Sir Archy was in no compassionate mood at the moment, and +without bestowing a thought on the sufferer, he hastened down the path, +and with all the speed of which he was capable, returned to +Carrig-na-curra. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLII. THE SHEALING +</h2> +<p> +Sir Archy's manner, so precise and measured in every occasion of life, had +undergone a very marked change before he arrived at Carrig-na-curra; +exclamations broke from him at every moment, mingled with fervently +expressed hopes, that he might not be yet too late to rescue Mark from his +peril. The agitation of his mind and the fatigue of his exertions +completely overcame him; and when he reached the house, he threw himself +down upon a seat, utterly exhausted. +</p> +<p> +“Are you unwell, my dear uncle?” broke from Kate and Herbert together, as +they stood at either side of his chair. +</p> +<p> +“Tired, wearied, heated, my dear children; nothing more. Send me Kerry +here; I want to speak to him.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry soon entered, and Sir Archy, beckoning him to his side, whispered a +few words rapidly into his ear. Kerry made no reply, but hastened from the +room, and was soon after seen hurrying down the causeway. +</p> +<p> +“I see, my dear uncle,” whispered Kate, with a tremulous accent—“I +see you have bad tidings for us this morning—he is worse.” + </p> +<p> +“Waur he canna be,” muttered Sir Archy, with a significance that gave the +words a very equivocal meaning. +</p> +<p> +“But there is still hope. They told us yesterday that to-morrow would be +the crisis of the malady—the twentieth day since his relapse.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes!” said the old man, who, not noticing her remark, pursued aloud +the track of his own reflections. “Entrapped—ensnared—I see it +all now. And only eight days given!—and even of these to be kept in +ignorance. Poor fellow, how you have been duped.” + </p> +<p> +“But this delirium may pass away, uncle,” said Kate, who, puzzled at his +vague expressions, sought to bring him again to the theme of Hemsworth's +illness. +</p> +<p> +“Then comes the penalty, lassie,” cried he, energetically. “The Government +canna forgie a rebel, as parents do naughty children, by the promise of +doing better next time. When a daring scheme—but wait a bit, here's +Kerry. Come to the window, man; come over here,” and he called him towards +him. +</p> +<p> +Whatever were the tidings Kerry brought, Sir Archy seemed overjoyed by +them; and taking Herbert's arm, he hurried from the room, leaving the +O'Donoghue and Kate in a state of utter bewilderment. +</p> +<p> +“I'm afraid, my sweet niece, that Hemsworth's disease is a catching one. +Archy has a devilish wild, queer look about him to-day,” said the +O'Donoghue, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I hope he has heard no bad news, sir. He is seldom so agitated as this. +But what can this mean? Here comes a chaise up the road. See, it has +stopped at the gate, and there is Kerry hastening down with a portmantua.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Archy entered as she spoke, dressed for the road, and approaching his +brother-in-law's chair, whispered a few words in his ear. +</p> +<p> +“Great heaven protect us!” exclaimed the O'Donoghue, falling back, half +unconscious, into his seat. While, turning to Kate, Sir Archy took her +hand in both of his, and said— +</p> +<p> +“My ain dear bairn, I have no secrets from you; but time is too short to +say much now. Enough, if I tell you Mark is in danger—the greatest +and most imminent. I must hasten up to Dublin and see the Secretary, and, +if possible, the Lord Lieutenant. It may be necessary, perhaps, for me to +proceed to London. Herbert is already off to the mountains, to warn Mark +of his peril. If he can escape till I return, all may go well yet. Above +all things, however, let no rumour of my journey escape. I'm only going to +Macroom, or Cork, mind that, and to be back to-morrow evening, or next +day.” + </p> +<p> +A gesture from Kerry, who stood on the rock above the road, warned him +that all was ready; and, with an affectionate but hurried adieu, he left +the room, and gaining the high road, was soon proceeding towards Dublin, +at the fastest speed of the posters. +</p> +<p> +“Them's the bastes can do it,” said Kerry, as he watched them, with the +admiration of a connoisseur; “and the little one wid the rat-tail isn't +the worst either.” + </p> +<p> +“Where did that chaise come from, Kerry?” cried the O'Donoghue, who could +not account for the promptitude of Sir Archy's movements. +</p> +<p> +“'Twas with Doctor Dillon from Macroom it came, sir; and it was to bring +him back there again; but Sir Archibald told me to give the boy a pound +note, to make a mistake, and come over here for himself. That's the way of +it.” + </p> +<p> +While we leave the O'Donoghue and his niece to the interchange of their +fears and conjectures regarding the danger which they both concurred in +believing had been communicated to Sir Archy by Hemsworth, we must follow +Herbert, who was now on his way to the mountains, to apprize Mark that his +place of concealment was already discovered, and that measures for his +capture were taken in a spirit that indicated a purpose of personal +animosity. +</p> +<p> +Herbert knew little more than this, for it was no part of Sir Archy's plan +to impart to any one his discovery of Hemsworth's treachery, lest, in the +event of his recovery, their manner towards him would lead him to a change +of tactique. Hemsworth was too cunning an adversary to concede any +advantage to. Indeed, the only chance of success against him lay in taking +the opportunity of his present illness, to anticipate his movements. Sir +Archy, therefore, left the family at Carrig-na-curra in ignorance of this +man's villainy, as a means of lulling him into security. The expressions +that fell from him, half unconsciously, in the drawing-room, fortunately +contributed to this end, and induced both the O'Donoghue and Kate to +believe that, whatever the nature of the tidings Sir Archy had learned, +their source was no other than Hemsworth himself, of whose good intentions +towards Mark no suspicion existed. +</p> +<p> +Herbert's part was limited to the mere warning of Mark, that he should +seek some more secure resting-place; but what kind the danger was, from +whom or whence it came, the youth knew nothing. He was not, indeed, +unaware of Mark's political feelings, nor did he undervalue the effect his +principles might produce upon his actions. He knew him to be intrepid, +fearless, and determined; and he also knew how the want of some regular +pursuit or object in life had served farther to unsettle his notions and +increase the discontent he felt with his condition. If Herbert did not +look up to Mark with respect for the superior qualities of mind, there +were traits in his nature that inspired the sentiment fully as strongly. +The bold rapidity with which he anticipated and met a danger, the fertile +resources he evinced at moments when most men stand appalled and +terror-struck, the calmness of his spirit when great peril was at hand, +showed that the passionate and wayward nature was the struggle which petty +events create, and not the real germ of his disposition. +</p> +<p> +Herbert foresaw that such a character had but to find the fitting sphere +for its exercise, to win an upward way; but he was well aware of the risks +to which it exposed its possessor. On this theme his thoughts dwelt the +entire day, as he trod the solitary path among the mountains; nor did he +meet with one human thing along that lonely road. At last, as evening was +falling, he drew near the glen which wound along the base of the mountain, +and as he was endeavouring to decide on the path, a low whistle attracted +him. This, remembering it was the signal, he replied to, and the moment +after Terry crept from a thick cover of brushwood, and came towards him. +</p> +<p> +“I thought I'd make sure of you before I let you pass, Master Herbert,” + cried he, “for I couldn't see your face, the way your head was hanging +down. Take the little path to the left, and never turn till you come to +the white-thorn tree—then straight up the mountain for a quarter of +a mile or so, till you reach three stones, one over another. From that +spot you'll see the shealing down beneath you.” + </p> +<p> +“My brother is there now?” said Herbert, enquiringly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; he never leaves it long now; and he got a bit of a fright the other +evening, when the French schooner came into the bay.” + </p> +<p> +“A French schooner here, in the bay?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, just so; but with an English flag flying. She landed ten men at the +point, and then got out to sea as fast as she could. She was out of sight +before dark.” + </p> +<p> +“And the men—what became of them?” + </p> +<p> +“They staid an hour or more with Master Mark. One of them was an old +friend, I think; for I never saw such delight as he was in to see your +brother. He gave him two books, and some paper, and a bundle—I don't +know what was in it—and then they struck off towards Kenmare Bay, by +a road very few know in these parts.” + </p> +<p> +All these particulars surprised and interested Herbert not a little;—for +although far from implicitly believing the correctness of Terry's tidings, +as to the vessel being a French one, yet the event seemed not +insignificant as showing that Mark had friends, who were aware of his +present place of concealment. Without wasting further time, however, he +bade Terry good-bye, and started along the path down the glen. +</p> +<p> +Following Terry's directions, Herbert found the path, which, in many +places was concealed by loose furze bushes, evidently to prevent detection +by strangers, and at last, having gained the ridge of the mountain, +perceived the little shealing at a distance of some hundred feet beneath +him. It was merely a few young trees, covered over with loose sods, which, +abutting against the slope of the hill, opened towards the sea, from +whence the view extended along thirty miles of coast on either hand. +</p> +<p> +At any other moment, the glorious landscape before him would have +engrossed Herbert's entire attention. The calm sea, over which night was +slowly stealing—the jutting promontories of rock, over whose sides +the white foam was splashing—the tall dark cliffs, pierced by many +a' cave, through which the sea roared like thunder—all these caught +his thoughts but for a second, and already with bounding steps he hurried +down the steep, where the next moment a scene revealed itself, of far +deeper interest to his heart. +</p> +<p> +Through the roof of the shealing, from which, in many places, the dry sods +had fallen, he discovered his brother, stretched upon the earthen floor of +the hut, intently gazing on a large map, which lay widespread before him. +The figure was indeed Mark's. The massive head, on either side of which, +in flowing waves, the long and locky hair descended, there was no +mistaking. But the costume was one Herbert saw for the first time. It was +a simple uniform of blue and white, with a single silver epaulette, and a +sword, hilted with the same metal. The shako was of dark fur, and +ornamented with a large bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, whose gay and +flaunting colours streamed with a strange contrast along the dark earthen +floor. Amid all his terror for what these emblems might portend, his heart +bounded with pride at the martial and handsome figure, as, leaning on one +elbow, he traced with the other hand the lines upon the map. Unable to +control his impatience longer, he cried out— +</p> +<p> +“Mark, my brother!” and the next moment they were in each other's arms. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0022" id="linkimage-0022"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00411.jpg" width="100%" alt="411 " /> +</div> +<p> +“You passed Terry on the mountain? He was at his post, I trust?” said +Mark, anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but for his directions I could never have discovered the path.” + </p> +<p> +“All's well, then. Until I hear a certain signal from him, I fear nothing. +The fellow seems neither to eat nor sleep. At least since I've been here, +he has kept watch night and day in the mountains.” + </p> +<p> +“He always loved you, Mark.” + </p> +<p> +“He did so; but now it is not me he thinks of. His whole heart is in the +cause—higher and nobler than a mere worthless life like mine.”; +</p> +<p> +“Poor fellow! he is but half-witted at best,” said Herbert. +</p> +<p> +“The more reason for his fidelity now,” said Mark, bitterly. “The men of +sense are traitors to their oaths, and false to their friends. The +enterprise cannot reckon, save on the fool or the madman. I know the taunt +you hint at, as——” + </p> +<p> +“My dearest brother,” cried Herbert, with streaming eyes. +</p> +<p> +“My own dear Herbert, forgive me,” said Mark, as he flung his arm round +his neck. “These bursts of passion come over me after long and weary +thoughts. I am tired to-day. Tell me, how are they all at +Carrig-na-curra?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and, I would say, happy, Mark, were it not for their anxieties +about you. My uncle heard some news to-day so threatening in its nature, +that he has set out for Dublin post haste, and merely wrote these few +lines, which he gave me for you before he started.” + </p> +<p> +Mark read the paper twice over, and then tearing it, threw the fragments +at his feet, while he muttered— +</p> +<p> +“I cannot, I must not leave this.” + </p> +<p> +“But your safety depends on it, Mark—so, my uncle pressed upon me. +The danger is imminent, and, he said, fatal.” + </p> +<p> +“So would it be, were I to leave my post. I cannot tell you, Herbert—I +dare not reveal to you what our oath forbids me:—but here I must +remain.” + </p> +<p> +“And this dress, Mark—why increase the risk you run by a uniform +which actually designates treason?” + </p> +<p> +“Who will dare to tell me so?” cried Mark, impetuously. “The uniform is +that of a French grenadier—the service whose toil is glory, and +whose cause is liberty. It is enough that I do not wear it without +authority. You can satisfy yourself on that head soon. Read this,” and he +unfolded a paper, which, bearing the arms and seal of the French Republic, +purported to be a commission as Lieutenant in Hoche's own regiment of +grenadiers, conferred on Mark O'Donoghue in testimony of esteem for his +fidelity to the cause of Irish independence. “You are surprised that I can +read the language, Herbert,” said he, smiling; “but I have laboured hard +this summer, and, with Kate's good aid, have made some progress.” + </p> +<p> +“And is your dream of Irish independence brought so low as this, Mark—that +the freedom you speak of must be won by an alien's valour?” + </p> +<p> +“They are no aliens, whose hearts beat alike for liberty. Language, +country, seas may divide us, but we are brothers in the glorious cause of +humanity. Their swords are with us now, as would be ours for them, did the +occasion demand them. Besides, we must teach the traitors, boy, that we +can do without them—that if her own sons are false, Ireland has +friends as true; and then, woe to them who have betrayed her. Oh, my +brother, the brother of my heart, how would I kneel in thankfulness to +heaven, if the same hopes that stirred within me were yours also. If the +genius you possess were enlisted in the dear cause of your own country—if +we could go forth together, hand in hand, and meet danger side by side, as +now we stand.” + </p> +<p> +“My love for you would make the sacrifice, Mark,” said Herbert, as the +tears rolled heavily along his cheek; “but my convictions, my reason, my +religion, alike forbid it.” + </p> +<p> +“Your religion, Herbert?—did I hear you aright?” + </p> +<p> +“You did. I am a Protestant.” + </p> +<p> +Mark fell back as his brother spoke; a cold leaden tinge spread over his +features, and he seemed like one labouring against the sickness of an +ague. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, is it not time!” cried he, as he clasped his hands above his head, +and shook them in an agony of emotion—“is it not time to strike the +blow, ere every tie that bound us to the land should be rent asunder; +rank, place, wealth, and power they have despoiled us of; our faith +degraded, our lineage scoffed, and now the very links of blood divided—We +have not brothers left us!” + </p> +<p> +Herbert bent down his head upon his knees, and wept bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“Who will tell me I have not been tried, now?” continued Mark, in a strain +of impassioned sorrow—“deceived on every hand—robbed of my +heritage—my friends all false—my father”—he stopped +short, for at the moment Herbert looked up, and their eyes met. +</p> +<p> +“What of our father, Mark?” + </p> +<p> +“My brain was wandering then,” said Mark, in a broken voice. “Once more I +ask forgiveness: we are brothers still; if we be but true of heart to Him +who knows all hearts, He will not suffer us to be divided. Can you remain +a while with me, Herbert?—I know you don't mind a rough bivouac.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Mark, I'll not leave you. All is well at home, and they will guess +what cause detained me.” So saying, the two brothers sat down side by +side, and with hands clasped firmly in each other, remained sunk in silent +thought. +</p> +<p> +The whole night through they talked together. It was the first moment, for +many a long year, since they had unburdened their hearts like brothers, +and in the fulness of their affection the most secret thoughts were +revealed, save one topic only, of which neither dared to speak, and while +each incident of the past was recalled, and friends were mentioned, Mark +never once alluded to Kate, nor did Herbert utter the name of Sybella +Travers. +</p> +<p> +Of his plans for the future, Mark made no secret; he had accepted a +commission in the French army, on the understanding that an invasion of +Ireland was determined on, in the event of which, his services would be of +some value. He hoped to reach France by the schooner, which, after landing +her cargo near the mouth of the Shannon, was to return at once to +Cherbourg; once there, he was to enter the service, and learn its +discipline. +</p> +<p> +“I have made my bargain with them; my face is never to turn from England, +till Ireland be free; after that I am theirs, to march on the Rhine or the +Danube—where they will. Personal ambition I have none!—to +serve as a simple grenadier in the ranks of that army, that shall first +plant the standard of liberty here; such is my only compact. Speak to me +of defeat or disaster, if you will; but do not endeavour to persuade me +against an enterprise I have resolved to go through with, nor try to argue +with me, where my impulses are stronger than my reason.” + </p> +<p> +In this strain Mark spoke, and while Herbert listened in sorrow, he knew +too well his brother's nature, to offer a word of remonstrance in +opposition to his determination. +</p> +<p> +Mark, on his side, led his brother to talk of many of his own plans for +the future, where another and a very different ambition was displayed. +</p> +<p> +Herbert had entered the lists where intellect and genius are the weapons, +and in his early triumphs had conceived that passion for success, which +once indulged, only dies with life itself. The day broke upon them, thus +conversing, and already the sunlight was streaming over the western ocean, +as they lay down side by side, and slept. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIII. THE CONFEDERATES. +</h2> +<p> +The paroxysm which Sir Archibald had witnessed, formed the crisis of +Hemsworth's malady; and on the evening of the same day, his disease had so +far abated of its violence, that his delirium had left him, and excessive +debility was now the only symptom of great danger remaining. With the +return of his faculties, came back his memory, clear and unclouded, of +every incident up to the very moment of his accident; and as he lay, weak +and wasted on his bed, his mind reverted to the plans and projects of +which his illness had interrupted the accomplishment. The excitement of +the theme seemed rather to serve than be hurtful to him; and the +consciousness of returning health gave a spring to his recovery; fatigue +of thought induced deep sleep, and he awoke on the following day refreshed +and recruited. +</p> +<p> +The lapse of time in illness is, probably, one of the most painful +thoughts that await upon recovery. The lethargy in which we have been +steeped simulates death; while the march of events around us show how +insignificant our existence is, and how independently of us the work of +life goes on. +</p> +<p> +When Wylie was summoned to his master's bed-side, the first question put +to him was, what day of the month it was? and his astonishment was, +indeed, great, as he heard it was the 16th of December, and that he had +been above two months on a sickbed. +</p> +<p> +“Two months here!” cried he; “and what has happened since?” + </p> +<p> +“Scarcely anything, sir,” said Wylie, well knowing the meaning of the +question. “The country is quiet—the people tranquil. Too much so, +perhaps, to last. The young O'Donoghue has not been seen up the glen for +several weeks past; but his brother passes frequently from Carrig-na-curra +to the coast, and back again, so that there is little doubt of his still +being in his old hiding-place. Talbot—Barrington I mean—has +been here again, too.” + </p> +<p> +“Barrington!—-what brings him back? I thought he was in France.” + </p> +<p> +“The story goes that he landed at Bantry with a French agent. One thing is +certain, the fellow had the impudence to call here and leave his card for +you, one day I was at Macroom.” + </p> +<p> +“That piece of boldness bodes us no good,” said Hemsworth. “What of the +others? Who has called here from Carrig-na-curra?” + </p> +<p> +“A messenger every day; sometimes twice in the same day.” + </p> +<p> +“A messenger!—not one of the family?” + </p> +<p> +“For several weeks they have had no one to come. Sir Archy and the younger +brother are both from home.” + </p> +<p> +“Where, then, is Sir Archy?” said Hemsworth, anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“That would seem a secret to every one. He left this one morning at a +moment's notice, taking the chaise that brought the doctor here. The +post-boy pretended he was discharged; but I say that the excuse was made +up, and that the fellow was bribed. On reaching Macroom, the old man got +fresh horses, and started for Cork.” + </p> +<p> +“And what's the report in the country, Wylie?” + </p> +<p> +“There are two stories. One, that he heard some rumours of an accusation +against himself, for intriguing with the United people, and thought best +to get over to Scotland for a while.” + </p> +<p> +“That's folly; what is the other rumour?” + </p> +<p> +“A more likely one,” said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd glance beneath his +half-closed eye-lids. “They say that he determined to go up to Dublin, and +see the Lord Lieutenant, and ask him for a free pardon for Mark.” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth sprung up in the bed at these words, as if he had been stung. +</p> +<p> +“And who says this, Wylie?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I was the first that said so myself,” said Wylie, affecting +modesty; “when Kerry told me, that the old man packed up a court dress and +a sword.” + </p> +<p> +“You're right, Sam; there's not a doubt of it. How long is this ago?” + </p> +<p> +“Five weeks on Tuesday last.” + </p> +<p> +“Five weeks!—five weeks lost already! And have you heard what has +been done by him?—what success he's met with?” + </p> +<p> +“No, sir; but you can soon know something about it yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean?—I don't understand you.” + </p> +<p> +“These are the only two letters he has written as yet. This, one came on +Saturday. I always went down in the mornings to Mary M'Kelly's, before the +bag came in, and as she could not read over well, I sorted the letters for +her myself, and slipped in these among your own.” + </p> +<p> +Hemsworth and his companion exchanged looks. Probably never did glances +more rapidly reveal the sentiments of two hearts. Each, well knew the +villainy of the ether; but Hemsworth for the first time saw himself in +another's power, and hesitated how far the advantage of the discovery was +worth the heavy price he should pay for it; besides that the habits of his +life made him regard the breach of confidence, incurred in reading another +man's letter, in a very different light from his underbred associate, and +he made no gesture to take them from his hand. +</p> +<p> +“This has an English post-mark,” said Wylie, purposely occupying himself +with the letter, to avoid noticing Hemsworth's hesitation. +</p> +<p> +“You have not broken the seals, I hope,” said Hemsworth, faintly. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; I knew better than that,” replied Wylie, with well-assumed +caution. “I knew your honour had a right to it, if you suspected the +correspondence was treasonable, because you're in the Commission, and it's +your duty; but I could'nt venture it, of myself.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm afraid your law is not very correct, Master Wylie,” said Hemsworth, +who felt by no means certain as to the sincerity of the opinion. +</p> +<p> +“It's good enough for Glenflesk, anyhow,” said the fellow, boldly; for he +saw that in Hemsworth's present nervous condition, audacity might succeed +where subserviency would not. +</p> +<p> +“By which you mean that we have the case in our own hands, Wylie; well, +you're not far wrong in that; still, I cannot break open a letter. +</p> +<p> +“Well, then, I'm not so scrupulous when my master's interests are +concerned;” and so saying, he tore open each in turn, and threw them on +the bed. “There, sir, you can transport me for the offence whenever you +like.” + </p> +<p> +“You are a strange fellow, Sam,” said Hemsworth, whose nerves were too +much shaken by illness, to enable him to act with his ordinary decision, +and he took up one of the letters, and perused it slowly. “This is merely +an announcement of his arrival in Dublin; he has waited upon, but not seen +the Secretary—-finds it difficult to obtain an audience—press +of parliamentary business for the new session—no excitement about +the United party. What tidings has the other? Ha!—. what's this?”—-and +his thin and haggard face flushed scarlet. “Leave me, Sam; I must have a +little time to consider this. Come back to me in an hour.” + </p> +<p> +Wylie said not a word, but moved towards the door; while in his sallow +features a savage smile of malicious triumph shone. +</p> +<p> +As Hemsworth flattened out the letter before him on the bed, his eyes +glistened and sparkled with the fire of aroused intelligence: the +faculties which, during his long illness, had lain in abeyance, as if +refreshed and invigorated by rest, were once more excited to their +accustomed exercise; and over that face, pale and haggard by sickness, a +flush of conscious power stole, lighting up every lineament and feature, +and displaying the ascendancy of mental effort over mere bodily infirmity. +</p> +<p> +“And so this Scotchman dares to enter the list with <i>me</i>,” said he, +with a smile of contemptuous meaning; “let him try it.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIV. THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE. +</h2> +<p> +A little lower down the valley than the post occupied by Terry as his +look-out, was a small stream, passable by stepping-stones; this was the +usual parting place of the two brothers, whenever Herbert returned home +for a day or so, and this limit Mark rarely or never transgressed, +regarding it as the frontier of his little dominion. Beside this rivulet, +as night was falling, Mark sat, awaiting with some impatience his +brother's coming, for already the third evening had passed in which +Herbert promised to be back, and yet he had not come. +</p> +<p> +Alternately stooping to listen, or straining his eyes to see, he waited +anxiously; and while canvassing in his mind every possible casualty he +could think of to account for his absence, he half resolved on pushing +forward down the glen, and, if necessary, venturing even the whole way to +Carrig-na-curra. Just then a sound caught his ear—he listened, and +at once recognized Terry's voice, as, singing some rude verse, he came +hastening down the glen at his full speed. +</p> +<p> +“Ha! I thought you'd be here,” cried he, with delight in his countenance; +“I knew you'd be just sitting there on that rock.” + </p> +<p> +“What has happened, then, Terry, that you wanted me?” + </p> +<p> +“It was a message a man in sailor's clothes gave me for your honour this +morning, and, somehow, I forgot to tell you of it when you passed, though +he charged me not to forget it.” + </p> +<p> +“What is it, Terry?” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, then, that's what I misremember, and I had it all right this morning. +Let me think a bit.” + </p> +<p> +Mark repelled every symptom of impatience, for he well knew how the +slightest evidences of dissatisfaction on his part would destroy every +chance of the poor fellow regaining his memory, and he waited silently for +several minutes. At last, thinking to aid his recollection, he said— +</p> +<p> +“The man was a smuggler, Terry?” + </p> +<p> +“He was, but I never saw him before. He came across from Kinsale, over the +mountains. Botheration to him, why didn't he say more, and I wouldn't +forget it now.” “Have patience, you'll think of it all by-and-by.” + </p> +<p> +“Maybe so. He was a droll-looking fellow, with a short cutlash at his +side, and a hairy cap on his head; and he seemed to know yer honour well, +for he said— +</p> +<p> +“'How is the O'Donoghues—don't they live hereabouts?” + </p> +<p> +“'Yes,' says I, 'a few miles down that way.' +</p> +<p> +“'Is the eldest boy at home,” says he. +</p> +<p> +“'Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't,' says I, for I wouldn't tell him where +you were. +</p> +<p> +“'Could you give him a message,' says he, from a friend?' +</p> +<p> +“'Av it was a friend,' says I. +</p> +<p> +“'A real friend,' says he. 'Tell him—just tell him——' +</p> +<p> +“There it is now—divil a one o' me knows what he said.” + </p> +<p> +Mark suffered no sign of anger to escape him, but sat without speaking a +word, while Terry recapitulated every sentence in a muttering voice, to +assist him in remembering what followed. +</p> +<p> +“I have it now,” said he at last; and clapping his hands with glee, he +cried out, “them's the very words he said— +</p> +<p> +“'Tell Mr. Mark, it's a fine sight to see the sun rising from the top of +Hungry Mountain; and if the wind last, it will be worth seeing tomorrow.'” + </p> +<p> +“Were those his words?” asked Mark eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Them, and no other—I have it all in my head now.” + </p> +<p> +“Which way did he take when he left you?” + </p> +<p> +“He turned up the glen, towards Googawn Barra, and I seen him crossing the +mountain afterwards; but here comes Master Herbert;” and at the same +instant he was seen coming up the valley at a fast pace. +</p> +<p> +When the first greetings were over, Herbert informed Mark that a certain +stir and movement in the glen and its neighbourhood far the last few days +had obliged him to greater caution; that several strangers had been seen +lurking about Carrig-na-curra; and that in addition to the military posted +at Mary's, a sergeant's guard had that morning arrived at “the Lodge,” and +taken up their quarters there. All these signs of vigilance combined to +make Herbert more guarded, and induced him to delay for a day or two his +return to the shealing. +</p> +<p> +“Hemsworth has been twice over at our house,” continued Herbert, “and +seems most anxious about you; he cannot understand why we have not heard +from my uncle. It appears to me, Mark, as if difficulties were thickening +around us; and yet this fear may only be the apprehension which springs +from mystery. I cannot see my way through this dark and clouded +atmosphere.” + </p> +<p> +“Never fret about the dangers that come like shadows, Herbert. Come up the +mountain with me to-morrow at sunrise, and let us take counsel from the +free and bracing air of the peak of old Hungry.” + </p> +<p> +Herbert was but too happy to find his own gloomy thoughts so well +combatted, and in mutual converse they each grew lighter in heart; and +when at last, wearied out, they lay down upon the heather of the shealing, +they slept without a dream. +</p> +<p> +It was still dark as midnight when Mark awoke and looked at his watch—it +wanted a quarter of four. The night was a wild and gusty one, with +occasional showers of thin sleet, and along the shore the sea beat +heavily, as though a storm was brewing at a distance off. +</p> +<p> +The message of the smuggler was his first thought on waking, but could he +venture sufficient trust in Terry's version to draw any inference from it? +Still, he resolved to ascend the mountain, little favourable as the +weather promised for such an undertaking. It was not without reluctance +that Herbert found himself called upon to accompany his brother. The black +and dreary night, the swooping wind, the wet spray, drifting up to the +very shealing, were but sorry inducements to stir abroad; and he did his +utmost to persuade him to defer the excursion to a more favourable moment. +</p> +<p> +“We shall be wet through, and see nothing for our pains, Mark,” said he, +half sulkily, as the other overruled each objection in turn. +</p> +<p> +“Wet we may possibly be,” said Mark; “but with the wind, northing by west, +the mist will clear away, and by sunrise the coast will be glorious; it is +a spring-tide, too, and there will be a sea running mountains high.” + </p> +<p> +“I know well we shall find ourselves in a cloud on the top of the +mountain; it is but one day in a whole year any thing can be seen +favourably.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is to say this is not that day? It is my birth-day, Herbert—a +most auspicious event, when we talk of fortunate occurrences.” + </p> +<p> +The tone of sarcasm he spoke these words in, silenced Herbert's scruples, +and without further objection he prepared to follow Mark's guidance. +</p> +<p> +The drifting rain, and the spongy heavy ground in which at each moment the +feet sank to the very instep, made the way toilsome and weary, and the two +brothers seldom spoke as they plodded along the steep ascent. +</p> +<p> +Mark's deep pre-occupation of mind took away all thought of the dreary +road; but Herbert followed with reluctant steps, half angry with himself +for compliance with what he regarded as an absurd caprice. The way was not +without its perils, and Mark halted from time to time to warn his brother +of the danger of some precipice, or the necessity to guard against the +slippery surface of the heather. Except at these times, he rarely spoke, +but strode on with firm step, lost in his own reflections. +</p> +<p> +“We are now twelve hundred feet above the lake, Herbert,” said he, after a +long silence on both sides, “and the mountain at this side is like a wall. +This same island of ours has noble bulwarks for defence.” + </p> +<p> +Herbert made no reply; the swooping clouds that hurried past, heavily +charged with vapour, shut out every object; and to him the rugged path was +a dark and cheerless way. Once more they continued their ascent, which +here became steeper and more difficult at every step; and although Mark +was familiar with each turn and winding of the narrow track, more than +once he was obliged to stop, and consider the course before him. Herbert, +to whom these interruptions were fresh sources of irritation, at length +exclaimed— +</p> +<p> +“My dear Mark, have we not gone far enough yet, to convince you that there +is no use in going farther. It is dark as midnight this moment—you +yourself are scarcely certain of the way—there are precipices and +gulleys on every side—and grant that we do reach the top for +sunrise, what shall we be able to see amid the immense masses of cloud +around us?” + </p> +<p> +“No, Herbert, that same turning back policy it is, which thwarts success +in life. Had you yourself followed such an impulse, you had not gained the +honours that are yours. Onward, is the word of hope to all. And what if +the day should not break clearly, it is a fine thing to sit on the peak of +old Hungry, with the circling clouds wheeling madly below you, to hear the +deep thundering of the sea far, far away, and the cry of the curlew +mingling with the wailing wind—to feel yourself high above the busy +world, in the dreary region of mist and shadow. If at such times as this +the eye ranges not over leagues of coast and sea, long winding valleys and +wide plains, the prophetic spirit fostered by such agencies looks out on +life, and images of the future flit past in cloudy shapes and changing +forms. There, see that black mass that slowly moves along, and seems to +beckon us with giant arm. You'd not reject an augury so plain.” + </p> +<p> +“I see nothing, and if I go on much farther this way, I shall feel nothing +either, I am so benumbed with cold and rain already.” + </p> +<p> +“Here, then, taste this—I had determined to give you nothing until +we reached the summit.” + </p> +<p> +Herbert drained the little measure of whiskey, and resumed his way more +cheerily. +</p> +<p> +“There is a bay down here beneath where we stand—a lovely little +nook in summer, with a shore like gold, and waves bright as the greenest +emerald. It is a wild and stormy spot to-day—no boat could live a +moment there; and so steep is the cliff, this stone will find its way to +the bottom within a minute.” + </p> +<p> +And as Mark spoke he detached a fragment of rock from the mountain, and +sent it bounding over the edge of the precipice, while Herbert, awe-struck +at the nearness of the peril, recoiled instinctively from the brink of the +cliff. +</p> +<p> +“There was a ship of the Spanish Armada wrecked in that little bay—they +show you still some mounds of earth upon the shore they call the +Spaniards' graves,” said Mark, as he stood peering through the misty +darkness into the depth below. “The peasantry had lighted a fire on this +rock, and the vessel, a three-decker, decoyed by the signal, held on her +course, in shore, and was lost. Good heavens!” cried he, after a brief +pause, “why has this fatality ever been our lot? Why have we welcomed our +foes with smiles, and our friends with hatred and destruction? These same +Spaniards were our brethren and our kindred, and the bitter enemies of our +enslavers; and even yet we can perpetuate the memory of their ruin, as a +thing of pride and triumph. Are we for ever to be thus, or is a better day +to dawn upon us?” + </p> +<p> +Herbert, who by experience knew how much more excited Mark became by even +the slightest opposition, forbore to speak, and again they pursued their +way. +</p> +<p> +They had continued for some time thus, when Mark, taking Herbert's arm, +pointed to a dark mass which seemed to loom straight above their heads, +where, towering to a considerable height, it terminated in a sharp +pinnacle. +</p> +<p> +“Yonder is the summit, Herbert—courage for a quarter of an hour +more, and the breach is won.” + </p> +<p> +The youth heaved a heavy sigh, and muttered— +</p> +<p> +“Would it were so.” + </p> +<p> +If Herbert became dispirited and worn out by the dark and dreary way, +where no sight nor sound relieved the dull monotony of fatigue, Mark's +spirit seemed to grow lighter with every step he went. As if he had left +his load of care with the nether world, his light and bounding movement, +and his joyous voice, spoke of a heart which, throwing off its weight of +sorrow, revelled once more in youthful ecstasy. +</p> +<p> +“You who are a poet, Herbert, tell me if you have faith in those +instinctive fancies which seem to shadow forth events.” + </p> +<p> +“If you mean to ask me whether, from my present sensations, I anticipate a +heavy cold, or a fit of rheumatism, I say, most certainly,” replied +Herbert, half doggedly. +</p> +<p> +Mark smiled, and continued— +</p> +<p> +“No, those are among the common course of events. What I asked for was an +explanation of my own feelings at this moment. Why, here upon this lone +and gloomy mountain, a secret whispering at my heart tells me to hope—that +my days and nights of disaster are nigh oyer—and that the turning +point of my life is at hand, eyen as that bold peak above us.” + </p> +<p> +“I must confess, Mark, this is a strange time and place for such +rose-coloured visions,” said Herbert, as he shook the rain from his soaked +garments; “<i>my</i> imagination cannot carry me to such a lofty flight.” + </p> +<p> +Mark was too intent upon his own thoughts to bestow much attention on the +tone and spirit of Herbert's remark, and he pressed forward towards the +summit with every effort of his strength. After a brief but toilsome +exertion he reached the top, and seated himself on a little pile of stones +that marked the point of the mountain. The darkness was still great; faint +outlines of the lesser mountains beneath could only be traced through the +masses of heavy cloud that hung, as it were, suspended above the earth; +while over the sea an unusual blackness was spread. The wind blew with +terrific force around the lofty peak where Mark sat, and in the distant +valleys he could hear the sound of crashing branches as the storm swept +through the wood; from the sea itself, too, alow booming noise arose, as +the caves along the shore re-echoed to the swelling clangour of the waves. +</p> +<p> +Herbert at last reached the spot, but so exhausted by the unaccustomed +fatigue, that he threw himself down at Mark's feet, and with a wearied +sigh exclaimed— +</p> +<p> +“Thank heaven, there is no more of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Day will not break for half an hour yet,” said Mark, pointing westward; +“the grey dawn always shows over the sea. I have seen the whole surface +like gold, before the dull mountains had one touch of light.” + </p> +<p> +The heavy breathing of the youth, as he lay with his head on Mark's knees, +attracted him; he looked down, and perceived that Herbert had fallen into +a calm and tranquil sleep. +</p> +<p> +“Poor fellow,” cried Mark, as he smoothed the hair upon his brow, “this +toil has been too much for him.” + </p> +<p> +Placing himself in such a position as best to shelter his brother from the +storm, Mark sat awaiting the breaking dawn. The hopes that in the active +ascent of the mountain were high in his heart, already began to fail; +exertion had called them forth, and now, at he sat silently amid the +dreary waste of darkness, his spirit fell with every moment. One by one +the bright visions he had conjured up faded away, his head fell heavily on +his bosom, and thoughts gloomy and dark as the dreary morning crowded on +his brain. +</p> +<p> +As he remained thus deep sunk in sad musings, the grey dawn broke over the +sea, and gradually a pinkish hue stained the sky eastward. The rain, which +up to this time drifted in heavy masses, ceased to fall; and instead of +the gusty storm, blowing in fitful blasts, a gentle breese rolled the +mists along the valleys, as if taking away the drapery of Night at the +call of Morning. At first the mountain peaks appeared through the dense +clouds; and then, by degrees, their steep sides, begirt with rock, and +fissured with many a torrent. At length the deep valleys and glens began +to open to the eye, and the rude cabins of the peasants, marked out by the +thin blue wreath of smoke that rose into the air, ere it was scattered by +the fresh breeze of morning. Over the sea the sunlight glittered, tipping +the glad waves that danced and sported towards the shore, and making the +white foam upon the breakers look fairer than snow itself. Mark looked +upon the scene thus suddenly changed, and shaking his brother's arm, he +called out— +</p> +<p> +“Awake, Herbert! see what a glorious day is breaking. Look, that is +Sugarloaf, piercing the white cloud; and yonder is Castletown. See how the +shore is marked out in every jutting point and cliff. I can see the +Kenmare river as it opens to the sea.” + </p> +<p> +“It is indeed beautiful,” exclaimed Herbert, all fatigue forgotten in the +ecstasy of the moment. “Is not that Garran Thual, Mark, that rears its +head above the others?” + </p> +<p> +But Mark's eyes were turned in a different direction, and he paid no +attention to the question. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” cried Herbert, still gazing intently towards, the land, “and that +must be Mangerton. Am I right, Mark?” + </p> +<p> +“What can that mean?” said Mark, seizing Herbert's arm, and pointing to a +distant point across Bantry Bay. “There, you saw it then.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, a bright flash of flame. See, it burns steadily now.” “Ay, and +there's another below Beerhaven, and another yonder at the Smuggler's +Rock.” + </p> +<p> +And while he was yet speaking, the three fires blazed out, and continued +to burn brilliantly in the grey light of the morning. The dark mist that +moved over the sea gave way before the strong breeze, and the tall spars +of a large ship were seen as a vessel rounded the point, and held on her +course up Bantry Bay. Even at the distance Mark's experienced eye could +detect that she was a ship of war—her ports, on which the sun threw +a passing gleam, bristled with guns, and her whole trim and bearing +bespoke a frigate. +</p> +<p> +“She's a King's ship, Mark, in pursuit of some smuggler,” said Herbert; +“and the fires we have seen were signals to the other. How beautifully she +sails along; and see, is not that another?” + </p> +<p> +Mark made no reply, but pointed straight out to sea, where now seven sail +could be distinctly reckoned, standing towards the Bay with all their +canvas set. The report of a cannon turned their eyes towards the frigate, +and they perceived that already she was abreast of Whitty Island, where +she was about to anchor. +</p> +<p> +“That gun was fired by her: and see, there goes her ensign. What does that +mean, Mark?” + </p> +<p> +“It means Liberty, my boy!” screamed Mark, with a yell that sounded like +madness. “France has come to the rescue! See, there they are—eight—nine +of them!—and the glorious tricolor floating at every mast! Oh, great +heaven! in whose keeping the destinies of men and kingdoms lie, look +favourably upon our struggle now. Yes, my brother, I was right—a +brighter hour is about to shine upon our country! Look there—think +of those gallant fellows that have left home and country to bring freedom +across the seas, and say, if you will be less warm in the cause than the +alien and the stranger. How nobly they come along! Herbert, be with us—be +of us, now!” + </p> +<p> +“Whatever be our ills, here,” said Herbert sternly, “I know of no sympathy +to bind us to France; nor would I accept a boon at such hands, infidel and +blood-stained as she is.” + </p> +<p> +“Stop, Herbert; let us not here, where we may meet for the last time, +interchange aught that should darken memory hereafter. My course is +yonder.” + </p> +<p> +“Farewell, then, Mark; I will not vainly endeavour to turn you from your +rash project. The reasons that seemed cold and valueless in the hour of +tranquil thought, have few chances of success in the moment of your +seeming triumph.” + </p> +<p> +“Seeming triumph!” exclaimed Mark, as a slight change coloured his cheek. +“And will you not credit what your eyes reveal before you? Are these +visions? Was that loud shot a trick of the imagination? Oh! Herbert, if +the loyalty you boast of, have no better foundation than these fancies, be +with your country—stand by her in the day of her peril.” + </p> +<p> +“I will do so, Mark, and with no failing spirit either,” said Herbert, as +he turned away, sad and sorrow-struck. +</p> +<p> +“You would not betray us,” cried Mark, as he saw his brother preparing to +descend the mountain. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, Mark, you should not have said this.” + </p> +<p> +And in a torrent of tears he threw himself upon his brother's bosom. For +some minutes they remained close locked in each other's arms, and then +Herbert, tearing himself away, clasped Mark's hand in both of his, and +kissed it. The last “Good-bye” broke from each lip together, and they +parted. +</p> +<p> +Mark remained on the spot where his brother had left him, his eyes fixedly +directed towards the Bay, where already a second ship had arrived—a +large three-decker, with an admiral's pennon flying from the mast-head. +The first burst of wild enthusiasm over, he began to reflect on what was +next to be done. Of course he should lose no time in presenting himself to +the officers in command of the expedition, and making known to them his +name, and the place he occupied in the confidence of his countrymen. His +great doubt was, whether he should not precede this act by measures for +assembling and rallying the people, who evidently would be as much taken +by surprise as himself at the sudden arrival of the French. +</p> +<p> +The embarrassment of the position was great; for although deeply +implicated in the danger of the plot, he never had enjoyed either intimacy +or intercourse with its leaders. How then should he satisfy the French +that his position was such as entitled him to their confidence? The only +possible escape to this difficulty was by marshalling around him a +considerable body of the peasantry, ready and willing to join the arms and +follow the fortunes of the invaders. +</p> +<p> +“They cannot long distrust me with a force of three hundred men at my +back,” exclaimed Mark aloud, as he descended the mountain with rapid +strides. “I know every road through these valleys—every place where +a stand could be made, or an escape effected. We will surprise the party +of soldiers at Mary M'Kelly's, and there, there are arms enough for all +the peasantry of the country.” + </p> +<p> +Thus saying, and repeating to himself the names of the different farmers +whom he remembered as true to the cause, and on whose courage and +readiness he depended at this moment, he hastened on. +</p> +<p> +“Holt at the cross-roads promised eighteen, all armed with fire-locks. +M'Sweeny has six sons, and stout fellows they are, every man of them +ready. Then, there are the O'Learys, but there's a split amongst them—confound +their petty feuds, this is no time to indulge them. They shall come out, +and they must—ah! hand in hand, too, though they have been enemies +this twelvemonth. Black O'Sullivan numbers nigh eighty—pike-men +every one of them. Our French friends may smile at their ragged garments, +but our enemies will scarce join in the laugh. Carrig-na-curra must be +occupied, it is the key of the glen. 'The Lodge' we'll burn to the ground: +but no, we must not visit the sin of the servant on the master. Young +Travers behaved nobly to me there is a wild time coming, and let us, at +least, begin our work in a better spirit, for bloodshed soon teaches +cruelty.” + </p> +<p> +Now, muttering these short and broken sentences, now, wondering what +strength the French force might be—how armed—how disposed for +the enterprise—what spirit prevailed among the officers, and what +hopes of success animated the chiefs—Mark moved along, eager for the +hour to come when the green flag should be displayed, and the war-cry of +Ireland ring in her native valleys. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLV. THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY +</h2> +<p> +Leaving, for the present, Mark O'Donoghue to the duties he imposed on +himself of rallying the people around the French standard, we shall turn +to the old Castle of Carrig-na-curra, where life seemed to move on in the +same unbroken tranquillity. For several days past, Hemsworth, still weak +from his recent illness, had been a frequent visitor, and although +professing that the great object of his solicitude was the safety of young +O'Donoghue, he found time and opportunity to suggest to Kate, that a more +tender feeling influenced him: so artfully had he played his part, and so +blended were his attentions with traits of deference and respect, that +however little she might be disposed to encourage his addresses, the +difficulty of repelling them without offence was great indeed. This +delicacy on her part was either mistaken by Hemsworth, or taken as a +ground of advantage. All his experiences in life pointed to the fact, that +success is ever attainable by him who plays well his game; that the +accidents of fortune, instead of being obstacles and interruptions, are in +reality, to one of quick intelligence, but so many aids and allies. His +illness alone had disconcerted his plans; but now once more well, and able +to conduct his schemes, he had no fears for the result. Up to this moment, +every thing promised success. It was more than doubtful that the Travers' +would ever return to Ireland. Frederick would be unwilling to visit the +neighbourhood where his affections had met so severe a shock. The +disturbed state of the country, and the events which Hemsworth well knew +must soon occur, would in all likelihood deter Sir Marmaduke from any wish +to revisit his Irish property. This was one step gained: already he was in +possession of a large portion of the Glenflesk estate, of which he was +well aware the title was defective, for he had made it a ground of +considerable abatement in the purchase money to the O'Donoghue, that his +son was in reality under age at the time of sale. Mark's fate was, +however, in his hands, and he had little fear that the secret was known by +any other. Nothing, then, remained incomplete to the accomplishment of his +wishes, except his views regarding Kate. Were she to become his wife, the +small remnant of the property that pertained to them would fall into his +hands, and he become the lord of the soil. His ambitions were higher than +this. Through the instrumentality of Lanty Lawler, he had made himself +master of the conspiracy in all its details. He knew the names of the +several chiefs, the parts assigned them, the places of rendezvous, their +hopes, their fears, and their difficulties. He was aware of the views of +France, and had in his possession copies of several letters which passed +between members of the French executive and the leaders of the United +party in Ireland. Far from communicating this information to the +Government, he treasured it as the source of his own future elevation. +From time to time, it is true, he made known certain facts regarding +individuals whom he either dreaded for their power, or suspected that they +might themselves prove false to their party and betray the plot; but, save +in these few instances, he revealed nothing of what he knew, determining, +at the proper moment, to make this knowledge the ground-work of his +fortune. +</p> +<p> +“Twenty-four hours of rebellion,” said he, “one day and night of massacre +and bloodshed will make me a Peer of the realm. I know well what terror +will pervade the land, when the first rumour of a French landing gains +currency. I can picture to myself the affrighted looks of the Council; the +alarm depicted in every face, when the post brings the intelligence, that +a force is on its march towards the capital; and then—then, when I +can lay my hand on each rebel of them all, and say, this man is a traitor, +and that, a rebel—when I can show where arms are collected and +ammunition stored—when I can tell the plan of their operation, their +numbers, their organization, and their means—I have but to name the +price of my reward.” + </p> +<p> +Such were the speculations that occupied the slow hours of his recovery, +and such the thoughts which engrossed the first days of his returning +health. +</p> +<p> +The latest letters he had seen from France announced that the expedition +would not sail till January, and then, in the event of escaping the +English force in the Channel, would proceed to land fifteen thousand men +on the banks of the Shannon. The causes which accelerated the sailing of +the French fleet before the time originally determined on were unknown to +Hemsworth, and on the very morning when the vessels anchored in Bantry +Bay, he was himself a visitor beneath the roof of Carrig-na-curra, where +he had passed the preceding night, the severity of the weather having +detained him there. He, therefore, knew nothing of what had happened, and +was calmly deliberating on the progress of his own plans, when events were +occurring which were destined to disconcert and destroy them. +</p> +<p> +The family was seated at breakfast, and Hemsworth, whose letters had been +brought over from “the Lodge,” was reading aloud such portions of news as +could interest or amuse the O'Donoghue and Kate, when he was informed that +Wylie was without, and most anxious to see him for a few minutes. There +was no communication which, at the moment, he deemed could be of much +importance, and he desired him to wait. Wylie again requested a brief +interview—one minute would be enough—that his tidings were of +the deepest consequence. +</p> +<p> +“This is his way ever,” said Hemsworth, rising from the table; “if a +tenant has broken down a neighbour's ditch, or a heifer is impounded, he +always comes with this same pressing urgency;” and, augry at the +interruption, he left the room to hear the intelligence. +</p> +<p> +“Still, no letter from Archy, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue, when they were +alone; “once more the post is come, and nothing for us. I am growing more +and more uneasy about Mark; these delays will harass the poor boy, and +drive him perhaps to some rash step.” + </p> +<p> +“Mr. Hemsworth is doing everything, however, in his power,” said Kate, far +more desirous of offering consolation to her uncle, than satisfied in her +own mind as to the state of matters. “He is in constant correspondence +with Government; the only difficulty is, they demand disclosures my cousin +neither can, nor ought to make. A pardon is no grace, when it commutes +death for dishonour. This will, I hope, be got over soon.” + </p> +<p> +While she was yet speaking, the door softly opened, and Kerry, with a +noiseless step, slipped in, and approaching the table unseen and unheard, +was beside the O'Donoghue's chair before he was perceived. +</p> +<p> +“Whisht, master dear—whisht, Miss Kate,” said he, with a gesture of +warning towards the door. “There's great news without. The French is +landed—twenty-eight ships is down in Bantry Bay. Bony himself is +with them. I heard it all, as Sam Wylie was telling Hems-worth; I was +inside the pantry door.” + </p> +<p> +“The French landed!” cried the O'Donoghue, in whom amazement overcame all +sensation of joy or sorrow. +</p> +<p> +“The French here in Ireland!” cried Kate, her eyes sparkling with +enthusiastic delight; but before she could add a word, Hemsworth +reentered. Whether his efforts to seem calm and unmoved were in reality +well-devised, or that, as is more probable, Hemsworth's own pre-occupation +prevented his strict observance of the others, he never remarked that the +O'Donoghue and his niece exhibited any traits of anxiety or impatience; +while Kerry, after performing a variety of very unnecessary acts and +attentions about the table, at last left the room, with a sigh over his +inability to protract his departure. +</p> +<p> +Hemsworth eye wandered to the door to see if it was closed before he +spoke; and then leaning forward, said, in a low, cautious voice— +</p> +<p> +“I have just heard some news that may prove very important. A number of +the people have assembled in arms in the glen, your son Mark at their +head. What their precise intentions, or whither they are about to direct +their steps, I know not; but I see clearly that young Mr. O'Donoghue will +fatally compromise himself, if this rash step become known. The Government +never could forgive such a proceeding on his part. I need not tell you +that this daring must be a mere hopeless exploit; such enterprises have +but one termination—the scaffold.” + </p> +<p> +The old man and his niece exchanged glances—rapid, but full of +intelligence. Each seemed to ask the other, “Is this man false? Is he +suppressing a part of the truth at this moment, or is this all invention? +Why has he not spoken of the great event—the arrival of the French?” + </p> +<p> +Kate was the first to venture to sound him, as she asked— +</p> +<p> +“And is the rising some mere sudden ebullition of discontent, or have they +concerted any movement with others at a distance?” + </p> +<p> +“A mere isolated outbreak—the rash folly of hair-brained boys, +without plan or project.” + </p> +<p> +“What is to become of poor Mark?” cried the O'Donoghue, all suspicions of +treachery forgotten in the anxiety of his son's safety. +</p> +<p> +“I have thought of that,” said Hemsworth, hastily. “The movement must be +put down at once. As a magistrate, and in the full confidence of the +Government, I have no second course open to me, and therefore I have +ordered up the military from Macroom. There are four troops of cavalry and +an infantry regiment there. With them in front, this ill-disciplined +rabble will never dare to advance, but soon scatter and disband themselves +in the mountains—the leaders only will incur any danger. But as +regards your son, you have only to write a few lines to him, and dispatch +them by some trusty messenger, saying that you are aware of what has +happened—know everything—and without wishing to interfere or +thwart his designs, you desire to see and speak with him, here, at once. +This he will not refuse. Once here safe, and within these walls, I'll +hasten the pursuit of these foolish country fellows; and even should any +of them be taken, your son will not be of the number. You must take care, +however, when he is here, that he does not leave this until I return.” + </p> +<p> +“And are these brave fellows, misguided though they be, to be kidnapped +thus, and by our contrivance, too?” said Kate, on whom, for the first +time, a dread of Hemsworth's duplicity was fast breaking. +</p> +<p> +“I did not know Miss O'Donoghue's interest took so wide a range, or that +her sympathies were so Catholic,” said Hemsworth, with a smile of double +meaning. “If she would save her cousin, however, she must adopt my plan, +or at least suggest a better one.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes, Kate, Mr. Hemsworth is right,” said the O'Donoghue, in whom +selfishness was always predominant; “we must contrive to get Mark here, +and to keep him when we have him.” + </p> +<p> +“And you may rely upon it, Miss O'Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, in a whisper, +“that my pursuit of the others will not boast of any excessive zeal in the +cause of loyalty. Such fellows may be suffered to escape, and neither King +nor Constitution have any ground of complaint for it.” + </p> +<p> +Kate smiled gratefully in return, and felt angry with herself for even a +momentary injustice to the honourable nature of Hemsworth's motives. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Hemsworth's horses is at the door,” said Kerry, at the same moment. +</p> +<p> +“It is, then, agreed upon, that you will write this letter at once,” said +Hemsworth, leaning over the old man's chair, as he whispered the words +into his ear. +</p> +<p> +The O'Donoghue nodded an assent. +</p> +<p> +“Without knowing that,” continued Hemsworth, “I should be uncertain how to +proceed. I must not let the Government suppose me either ignorant or +lukewarm. Lose no time, therefore; send off the letter, and leave the rest +to me.” + </p> +<p> +“You are not going to ride, I hope,” said Kate, as she looked out of the +window down the glen, where already the rain was falling in torrents, and +the wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Hemsworth muttered a few words in a +low tone, at which Kate coloured, and looked away. +</p> +<p> +“Nay, Miss O'Donoghue,” said he, still whispering, “I am not one of those +who make a bargain for esteem; if I cannot win regard, I will never buy +it.” + </p> +<p> +There was a sadness in his words, and an air of self-respect about him, as +he spoke them, that touched Kate far more than ever she had been before by +any expression of his feelings. When she saw him leave the room, her first +thought was, “It is downright meanness to suspect him.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it not strange, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue, as he took her hand in +his, “he never mentioned the French landing to us? What can this mean?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I can understand it, sir,” said Kate, musingly; for already she +had settled in her mind, that while Hemsworth would neglect no measures +for the safety of Carrig-na-curra, he scrupled to announce tidings which +might overwhelm them with alarm and terror. “But let us think of the +letter; Kerry, I suppose, is the best person to send with it.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Kerry can take it; and as the way does not lead past Mary's door, +there's a chance of his delivering it without a delay of three hours on +the road.” + </p> +<p> +“There, sir, will that do?” said Kate, as she handed him a paper, on which +hastily a few lines were written. +</p> +<p> +“Perfectly—nothing better; only, my sweet Kate, when a note begins +'my dear son,' it should scarcely be signed 'your own affectionate Kate +O'Donoghue.'” + </p> +<p> +Kate blushed deeply, as she tore the paper in fragments, and without A +word reseated herself at the table. +</p> +<p> +“I have done better this time,” said she, as she folded the note and +sealed it; while the old man, with an energy quite unusual for him, arose +and rung the bell for Kerry. +</p> +<p> +“Did I ever think I could have done this,” said Kate to herself, as a tear +slowly coursed along her cheek and fell on the letter; “that I could dare +to recall him, when both honour and country demand his services; that I +could plot for life, when all that makes life worth having is in the +opposite scale?” + </p> +<p> +“You must find out master Mark, Kerry,” said the O'Donoghue, “and give him +this letter; there is no time to be lost about it.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra fear; I'll put it into his hand this day.” + </p> +<p> +“This day!” cried Kate, impatiently. “It must reach him within three hours +time. Away at once—the foot of Hungry Mountain—the shealing—Bantry +Bay—you cannot have any difficulty in finding him now.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry waited not for further bidding, and though not by any means +determined to make any unusual exertion, left the room with such rapidity +as augured well for the future. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said Mrs. Branagan, whose anxiety for news had led her to the head +of the kitchen stairs, an excursion which, at no previous moment of her +life, had she been known to take, “well, Kerry, what's going on now?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, then, I'll tell ye, ma'am,” said he, sighing; “'tis myself they're +wanting to kill. Here am I setting out wid a letter, and where to, do you +think? the top of Hungry Mountain, in the Bay of Bantry, that's the +address—divil a lie in it.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is it for?” said Mrs. Branagan, who, affecting to bestow a +critical examination on the document, was inspecting the superscription +wrong side up. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis for Master Mark; I heard it all outside the door; they don't want +him to go with the boys, now that the French is landed, and we're going to +have the country to ourselves. 'Tis a dhroll day when an O'Donoghue +would'nt have a fight for his father's acres.” + </p> +<p> +“Bad cess to the weak-hearted, wherever they are,” exclaimed Mrs. +Branagan; “don't give him the letter, Kerry avich; lie quiet in the glen +till evening, and say you couldn't find him, by any manner of means. Do +that, now, and it will be a good sarvice to your country this day.” + </p> +<p> +“I was just thinking that same myself,” said Kerry, whose resolution +wanted little prompting; “after I cross the river, I'll turn into the +Priests' Glen, and never stir out till evening.” + </p> +<p> +With these honest intentions regarding his mission, Kerry set out, and if +any apology could be made for his breach of faith, the storm might plead +for him; it had now reached its greatest violence; the wind blowing iu +short and frequent gusts, snapped the large branches like mere twigs, and +covered the road with fragments of timber; the mountain rivulets, too, +were swollen, and dashed madly down the rocky cliffs with a deafening +clamour, while the rain, swooping past in torrents, concealed the sky, and +covered the earth with darkness. Muttering in no favourable spirit over +the waywardness of that sex, to whose peculiar interposition he ascribed +his present excursion, Kerry plodded along, turning, as he went, a +despairing look at the barren and bleak prospect around him. To seek for +shelter in the glen, he knew was out of the question, and so he at once +determined to gain the priest's cottage, where a comfortable turf fire and +a rasher of bacon were certain to welcome him. +</p> +<p> +Dreadful as the weather was, Kerry wondered that he met no one on the +road. He expected to have seen groups of people, and all the signs of that +excitement the arrival of the French might be supposed to call forth; but, +on the contrary, everything was desolate as usual, not a human being +appeared, nor could he hear a signal nor a sound, that betokened a +gathering. +</p> +<p> +“I wouldn't wonder now if it was a lie of Sam Wylie's, and the French +wasn't here at all,” said he to himself; “'tis often I heerd that +Hemsworth could have the rebellion brake out whenever he liked it, and +sorra bit but that may be it now, just to pretend the French was here, to +get the boys out, and let the army at them.” + </p> +<p> +This reflection of Kerry's was scarcely conceived, when it was +strengthened by a boy who was coming from Glengariff with a turf-car, and +who told him that the ships that came in with the morning's tide had all +weighed anchor, and sailed out of the Bay before twelve o'clock, and that +nobody knew anything about them, what they were, and whence from. “We +thought they were the French,” said the boy, “till we seen them sailing +away; but then we knew it wasn't them, and some said it was the King's +ships coming in to guard Bantry.” + </p> +<p> +“And they are not there now?” said Kerry. +</p> +<p> +“Not one of them; they're out to say, and out of sight, this hour back.” + </p> +<p> +Kerry hesitated for a second or two, whether this intelligence might not +entitle him to turn homeward; but a second thought—the priest's +kitchen—seemed to have the advantage, and thither he bent his steps +accordingly. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE. +</h2> +<p> +When Mark and Herbert separated on the mountain, each took a different +path downward. Mark, bent on assembling the people at once, and +proclaiming the arrival of their friends, held his course towards +Glengariff and the coast, where the fishermen were, to a man, engaged in +the plot. Herbert, uncertain how to proceed, was yet equally anxious to +lose no time, but could form no definite resolve what course to adopt amid +his difficulties To give notice of the French landing, to apprise the +magistrates of the approaching outbreak, was, of course, his duty; but in +doing this, might he not be the means of Mark's ruin;—while, on the +other hand, to conceal his knowledge would be an act of disloyalty to his +sovereign, a forfeiture of the principles he held dear, and the source, +perhaps, of the most dreadful evils to his country. Where, too, should he +seek for counsel or advice—his father, he well knew, would only +regard the means of his brother's safety, reckless of all other +consequences; Kate's opinions, vague and undefined as they were, would be +in direct opposition to his own. Hems-worth he dared not confide in—what +then remained! There was but one for miles round, in whose judgment and +honour together he had trust; but from him latterly he had kept studiously +aloof. This was his old tutor, Father Rourke. Unwilling to inflict pain +upon the old man, and still unable to reconcile himself to anything like +duplicity in the matter, Herbert had avoided the occasion of meeting him, +and of avowing that change in his religious belief, which, although +secretly working for many a year, had only reached its accomplishment when +absent from home. He was aware how such a disclosure would afflict his old +friend—how impossible would be the effort to persuade him that such +a change had its origin in conviction, and not in schemes of worldly +ambition; and to save himself the indignity of defence from such an +accusation, and the pain of an interview, where the matter should be +discussed, he had preferred leaving to time and accident, the disclosure, +which from his own lips would have been a painful sacrifice to both +parties. These considerations, important enough as they regarded his own +happiness, had little weight with him now. The graver questions had +swallowed up all others—the safety of the country—his +brother's fate. It was true the priest's sympathies would be exclusively +with one party; he would not view with Herbert's eye the coming struggle; +but still might he not regard with him the results?—might he not, +and with prescience stronger from his age, anticipate the dreadful +miseries of a land devastated by civil war?—was it not possible that +he might judge unfavourably of success, and prefer to endure what he +regarded as evils, rather than incur the horrors of a rebellion, and the +re-enactment of penalties it would call down? +</p> +<p> +The hopes such calculations suggested were higher, because Mark had +himself often avowed, that the French would only consent to the +enterprize, on the strict understanding of being seconded by the almost +unanimous voice of the nation. Their expression was, “We are ready and +willing to meet England in arms, provided not one Irishman be in the +ranks.” Should Father Rourke, then, either from motives of policy or +prudence, think unfavourably of the scheme, his influence, unbounded over +the people, would throw a damper on the rising, and either deter the +French from any forward movement, or at least delay it, and afford time +for the Government to take measures of defence. This alone might have its +effect on Mark, and perhaps be the means of saving him. +</p> +<p> +Whether because he caught at this one chance of succour, when all around +seemed hopeless, or that the mind: fertilizes the fields of its own +discovery, Herbert grew more confident each moment that this plan would +prove successful, and turned with an eager heart towards the valley where +the priest lived. In his eagerness to press forward, however, he diverged +from the path, and at last reached a part of the mountain where a +tremendous precipice intervened, and stopped all further progress. The +storm increasing every minute made the way slow and perilous, for around +the different peaks the wind swept with a force that carried all before +it. Vexed at his mistake, he resolved, if possible, to discover some new +way down the mountain; but in the endeavour he only wandered still further +from his course, and finally found himself in front of the sea once more. +</p> +<p> +The heavy rain and the dense drift shut out for some minutes the view; but +when at last he saw the Bay what was his surprise to perceive that the +French fleet was no longer there; he turned his eyes on every side, but +the storm-lashed water bore no vessel on its surface, and save some +fishing craft at anchor in the little nooks and bays of the coast, not a +mast could be seen. +</p> +<p> +Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses, he knelt down on the +cliff, and bent his gaze steadily on the Bay; and when at length +re-assured and certain that no deception existed, he began to doubt +whether the whole had not been unreal, and that the excitement of his +interview with Mark had conjured the images his wishes suggested, The +faint flickering embers of an almost extinguished fire on the Smuggler's +Rock decided the question, and he knew at once that all had actually +happened. +</p> +<p> +He did not wait long to speculate on the reasons of this sudden flight—enough +for him that the most pressing danger was past, and time afforded to +rescue Mark from peril; and without a thought upon that armament, whose +menace had already filled him with apprehension, he sped down the mountain +in reckless haste, and never halted till he reached the glen beneath. The +violence of the storm—the beating rain, seemed to excite him to +higher efforts of strength and endurance, and his courage appeared to rise +as difficulties thickened around him. It was late in the day, however, +before he came in sight of the priest's cottage, and where, as the gloom +was falling, a twinkliug light now shone. +</p> +<p> +It was with a last effort of strength, almost exhausted by fatigue and +hunger, that Herbert gained the door; this lay, as usual, wide open, and +entering, he fell overcome upon a seat. The energy that had sustained him +hitherto seemed suddenly to have given way, and he lay back scarcely +conscious, and unable to stir. The confusion of sense, so general after +severe fatigue, prevented him for some time from hearing voices in the +little parlour beside him; but after a brief space he became aware of this +vicinity, when suddenly the well-known accents of Mark struck upon his +ear; he was speaking louder than was his wont, and evidently with an +effort to control his rising temper, while the priest, in a low, calm +voice, seemed endeavouring to dissuade and turn him from some purpose. +</p> +<p> +A brief silence ensued, during which Mark paced the room with slow and +heavy steps, then ceasing suddenly he said— +</p> +<p> +“Why was it, then, that we never heard of these scruples before, sir?—why +were we not told that unbelieving France was no fitting ally for saintly +Ireland? But why do I ask: had the whole fleet arrived in safety—were +there not thirteen missing vessels, we should hear less of such Christian +doubts.” + </p> +<p> +“You are unjust, Mark,” said the priest, calmly; “you know me too well and +too long, to put any faith in your reproaches. I refuse to address the +people, because I would not see them fall, or even conquer, in an unjust +cause. Raise the banner of the Church——” + </p> +<p> +“The banner of the Church!” said Mark, with a mocking laugh. +</p> +<p> +“What does he say?” whispered a third voice, in French, as a new speaker +mingled in the dialogue. +</p> +<p> +“He talks of the banner of the Church!” said Mark, scoffingly. +</p> +<p> +“'Oui, parbleu,' if he likes it,” replied the Frenchman, laughing; “it +smacks somewhat of the middle ages; but the old proverb is right, 'a bad +etiquette never spoiled good wine.'” + </p> +<p> +“Is it then in full canonicals, and with the smoke of censers, we are to +march against the Saxon?” said Mark, with a taunting sneer. +</p> +<p> +“Hear me out, Mark,” interrupted the priest; “I didn't say that we were +yet prepared even for this; there is much to be done, far more indeed than +you wot of. Every expedition insufficiently planned and badly supported, +must be a failure; every failure retards the accomplishment of our hopes; +such must this enterprise be, if now——' +</p> +<p> +“Now or never,” interposed Mark, as he struck the table violently with his +clenched hand—“now, or never, for me at least. You have shown me to +these Frenchman, as a fool or worse. One with influence, and yet without a +man to back me—with courage, and you tell me to desert them—with +the confidence of my countrymen, and I come alone, unaccompanied, +unaccredited, to tell my own tale amongst them. What other indignities +have you in store for me, or in what other light am I next to figure? But +for that, and perhaps you would dare to go further, and say I am not an +O'Donoghue;” and in his passion Mark tore open a pocket-book, and held +before the old man's eyes the certificate of his baptism, written in the +priest's hand. “Yes, you have forced me to speak, of what I ever meant to +have buried in my own heart. There it is, read it, and bethink you, how it +becomes him who helped to rob me of my inheritance, to despoil me of my +honour also.” + </p> +<p> +“You must unsay these words, sir,” said the priest in an accent as stern +and commanding as Mark's own; “I was never a party to any fraud, nor was I +in this country when your father sold his estates.” + </p> +<p> +“I care not how it happened,” cried Mark, passionately. “When my own +father could do this thing, it matters little to me who were his +accomplices;” and he tore the paper in fragments, and scattered them over +the floor. “Another and a very different cause brought me here. The French +fleet has arrived.” + </p> +<p> +The priest here muttered something in a low tone, to which Mark quietly +replied— +</p> +<p> +“And if they have, it is because their anchors were dragging; you would +not have the vessels go ashore on the rocks; the next tide they'll stand +up the Bay again. The people that should have been ready to welcome them, +hold back. The whole country round is become suddenly craven; of the +hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seventeen appeared this +morning, and they were wretches more eager for pillage than the field of +honourable warfare. It is come then to this, you either come forth, at +once, to harangue the people, and recall them to their sworn allegiance, +or the expedition goes on without you—go on it shall.” + </p> +<p> +Here he turned sharply round, and said a few words in French, to which the +person addressed replied— +</p> +<p> +“Certainly; the French Republic does not send a force like this for the +benefit of a sea voyage.” + </p> +<p> +“Desert the cause, then,” continued Mark, in a tone of denunciation; +“desert us, and by G—d, your fate will be worse than that of our +more open enemies. To-night the force will land; to-morrow we march all +day, aye and all night too: the blazing chapels shall light the way.” + </p> +<p> +“Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of outraged heaven is more +terrible than you think of. Whatever be the crime and guilt of others, +remember that you are an Irishman; that what the alien may do in +recklessness, is sacrilege in him who is the son of the soil.” + </p> +<p> +“Save me, then, from this guilt—save me from myself,” cried Mark, in +an accent of tender emotion. “I cannot desert this cause, and oh, do not +make it one of dishonour to me.” + </p> +<p> +The old man seemed overcome by this sudden appeal to his affections, and +made no reply, and the deep breathing of Mark, as his chest heaved in +strong emotion, was the only sound in the stillness. Herbert, who had +hitherto listened with that vague half consciousness of reality excessive +fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the eventful moment was come, +when, should the priest falter or hesitate, Mark might succeed in his +request, and all hope of rescuing him be lost for ever. With the energy of +a desperate resolve he sprang forward, and entered the room just as the +priest was about to reply. +</p> +<p> +“No, Father, no,” cried he, wildly; “be firm, be resolute; if this unhappy +land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found in +opposing ranks.” + </p> +<p> +“This from you, Herbert!” said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a cold, +stern gaze upon his brother. +</p> +<p> +“And why not from him,” said the priest, hastily. “Is he not an Irishman +in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as to us?” + </p> +<p> +“I give you joy upon the alliance, Father,” said Mark, with a scornful +laugh. “Herbert is a Protestant.” + </p> +<p> +“What!—did I hear aright?” said the old man, as with a face pale as +death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth by either arm. “Is this +true, Herbert? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so.” + </p> +<p> +“It is true, sir, most true; and if I have hitherto spared you the pain it +might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the avowal might +cost <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a livid hue +spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew glassy and lustreless. +</p> +<p> +“We may well be wretched and miserable,” exclaimed he with a faint sigh, +“when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to each +other.” + </p> +<p> +The French officer—for such he was—muttered some words into +Mark's ear, who replied—“I cannot blame you for feeing impatient; +this is no time for fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, +we'll meet again soon;” and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from +the room with his companion. +</p> +<p> +Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to say something, +yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the old man's chair, he +said— +</p> +<p> +“There is yet time to avert the danger; the people are irresolute—many +actually averse to the rising; my brother will fall by his rashness.” + </p> +<p> +“Better to do so than survive in dishonour,” said the priest, snatching +rudely away his hand from Herbert's grasp. “Leave me, young man—go; +this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it sheltered the +apostate.” + </p> +<p> +“I never thought I should hear these words, here,” said Herbert, mildly; +“but I cannot part from you in anger.” + </p> +<p> +“There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, Herbert,” + said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke; “kneel now, my +child.” + </p> +<p> +Herbert knelt at the priest's feet, when placing his hand on the young +man's head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, as he concluded— +</p> +<p> +“And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and bring you +back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth.” + </p> +<p> +He kissed the young man's forehead, and then covering his eyes with his +hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts. +</p> +<p> +At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice without; he +stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little porch, found +Kerry O'Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had reached the cottage, +after several hours' endeavour to cross the watercourses, swollen into +torrents by the rain. +</p> +<p> +“A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir,” said Kerry; for heartily sick of his +excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to which +brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his +unpleasant mission. +</p> +<p> +The note began, “My dear son;” and, without the mention of a name, simply +entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert felt both duty and +inclination called him, and without a moment's delay left the cottage, +and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra. +</p> +<p> +The night was dark and starless, as they plodded onward, and as the rain +ceased, the wind grew stronger, while for miles inland the roaring of the +sea could be heard like deep continuous thunder. Herbert, too much +occupied with his own thoughts, seldom spoke, nor did Kerry, exhausted as +he felt himself, often break silence as they went. As they drew near the +castle, however, a figure crossed the road, and advancing towards them +said— +</p> +<p> +“Good night.” + </p> +<p> +“Who could that be, Kerry?” said Herbert, as the stranger passed on. +</p> +<p> +“I know the voice well,” said Kerry, “though he thought to disguise it. +That's Sam Wylie, and it's not for any thing good he's here.” + </p> +<p> +Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang down upon and +seized them. +</p> +<p> +“This is our man,” said one of the party, as he held Herbert by the +collar, with a grasp there was no resisting; “but secure the other also.” + </p> +<p> +Herbert's resistance was vain, although spiritedly made, and stifling his +cries for aid, they carried him along for some little distance to a spot, +where a chaise was standing with four mounted dragoons on either side. +Into this he was forced, and seated between two men in plain clothes, the +word was given to start. +</p> +<p> +“You know your orders if a rescue be attempted,” said a voice, Herbert at +once knew to be Hemsworth's. +</p> +<p> +The answer was lost in the noise of the wheels; for already the horses +were away at the top of their speed, giving the escort all they could do +to keep up beside them. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVII. THE DAY OF RECKONING +</h2> +<p> +Never had the O'Donoghue and Kate passed a day of more painful anxiety, +walking from window to window, whenever a view of the glen might be +obtained, or listening to catch among the sounds of the storm for +something that should announce Mark's return; their fears increased as the +hours stole by, and yet no sign of his coming appeared. +</p> +<p> +The old castle shook to its very foundations, as the terrific gale tore +along the glen, and the occasional crash of some old fragment of masonry, +would be heard high above the roaring wind—while in the road beneath +were scattered branches of trees, slates, and tiles, all evidencing the +violence of the hurricane. Under shelter of the great rock, a shivering +flock of mountain sheep were gathered, with here and there amidst them a +heifer or a wild pony, all differences of habit merged in the common +instinct of safety. Within doors every thing looked sad and gloomy; the +kitchen, where several country people, returning from the market, had +assembled, waiting in the vain hope of a favourable moment to proceed +homeward, did not present any of its ordinary signs of gaiety. There was +no pleasant sound of happy voices; no laughter, no indulgence in the +hundred little narratives of personal adventure by which the peasant can +beguile the weary time. They all sat around the turf fire, either silent, +or conversing in low cautious whispers, while Mrs. Branagan herself smoked +her pipe in a state of moody dignity, that added its shade of awe to the +solemnity of the scene. +</p> +<p> +It was a strange feature of the converse, nor would it be worth to mention +here, save as typifying the wonderful caution and reserve of the people in +times of difficulty; but no one spoke of the “rising,” nor did any allude, +except distantly, to the important military preparations going forward at +Macroom. The fear of treachery was at the moment universal; the dread that +informers were scattered widely through the land, prevailed everywhere, +and the appearance of a stranger, or of a man from a distant part of the +country, was always enough to silence all free and confidential +intercourse. So it was now—none spoke of anything but the dreadful +storm—the injury it might do the country—how the floods would +carry away a bridge here, or a mill there, what roads would be impassable—what +rivers would no longer be ford-able—some had not yet drawn home +their turf from the bog, and were now in despair of ever reaching it—another +had left his hay in a low callow, and never expected to see it again—while +a few, whose speculations took a wider field ventured to expatiate on the +terrible consequences of the gale at sea, a topic which when suggested led +to many a sorrowful tale of shipwreck on the coast. +</p> +<p> +It was while they were thus, in low and muttering voices, talking over +these sad themes, that Kate, unable any longer to endure the suspense of +silent watching, descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen, to try and +learn there some tidings of events. The people stood up respectfully as +she came forward, and while each made his or her humble obeisance, a +muttered sound ran through them, in Irish, of wonder and astonishment at +her grace and beauty; for, whatever be the privations of the Irish +peasant, however poor and humble his lot in life, two faculties pertain to +him like instincts—a relish for drollery, and an admiration for +beauty—these are claims that ever find acknowledgment from him, and +in his enjoyment of either, he can forget himself, and all the miseries of +his condition. The men gazed on her as something more than mortal, the +character of her features heightened by costume strange to their eyes, +seemed to astonish almost as much as it captivated them—while the +women, with more critical discernment, examined her more composedly, but, +perhaps, with not less admiration; Mrs. Branagan, at the same time +throwing a proud glance around, as though to say, “You didn't think to see +the likes of that, in these parts.” + </p> +<p> +Kate happened on this occasion to look more than usually handsome. With a +coquetry it is not necessary to explain, she had dressed herself most +becomingly, and in that style which distinctly marks a French woman—the +only time in his life Mark had ever remarked her costume was when she wore +this dress, and she had not forgotten the criticism. +</p> +<p> +“I didn't mean to disturb you,” said Kate, with her slightly foreign +accent; “pray sit down again—well, then, I must leave you, if you +won't—every one let's me have my own way—is it not true, Mrs. +Branagan?” + </p> +<p> +Mrs. Branagan's reply was quite lost in the general chorus of the others, +as she said— +</p> +<p> +“And why wouldn't you, God bless you for a raal beauty!” while a powerful +looking fellow, with dark beard and whiskers, struck his stick violently +against the ground, and cried out in his enthusiasm— +</p> +<p> +“Let me see the man that would say agin it—that's all.” + </p> +<p> +Kate smiled at the speaker, not all ungrateful for such rude chivalry, and +went on—“I wanted to hear if you have any news from the town—was +there any stir among the troops, or anything extraordinary going forward +there?” + </p> +<p> +Each looked at the other as if unwilling to take the reply upon himself, +when at last an old man, with a head as white as snow, answered— +</p> +<p> +“Yes, my lady, the soldiers is all under arms since nine o'clock, then +came news that the French was in the Bay, and the army was sent for to +Cork.” + </p> +<p> +“No, 'tis Limerick I heerd say,” cried another. +</p> +<p> +“Limerick indeed! sorra bit, 'tis from Dublin they're comin wid cannons; +but it's no use, for the French is sailed off again as quick as they +come.” + </p> +<p> +“The French fleet gone!—left the Bay—surely you must mistake,” + said Kate, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, I won't be sure, my lady; but here's Tom McCarthy seen them going +away, a little after twelve o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +The man thus appealed to, seemed in nowise satisfied with the allusions to +him, and threw a quick distrustful look around, as though far from feeling +content with the party before whom he should explain, a feeling that +increased considerably as every eye was now turned towards him. +</p> +<p> +Kate, with a ready tact that never failed her, saw his difficulty, and +approaching close to where he stood, said, in a voice only audible by +himself—— +</p> +<p> +“Tell me what you saw in the Bay, do not have any fear of <i>me</i>.” + </p> +<p> +M'Carthy, who was dressed in the coarse blue jacket of a fisherman! +possessed that sharp intelligence so often found among those of his +calling, and seemed at once to have his mind relieved by this mark of +confidence. +</p> +<p> +“I was in the boat, my lady,” said he, “that rowed Master Mark out to the +French frigate, and waited for him alongside to bring him back. He was +more than an hour on board talking with the officers, sometimes down in +the cabin, and more times up on the quarter-deck, where there was a +fierce-looking man, with a blue uniform, lying on a white skin—a +white bear, Master Mark tould me it was. The officer was wounded in the +leg before he left France, and the sea voyage made it bad again, but, for +all that, he laughed and joked away like the others.” + </p> +<p> +“And they were laughing then, and in good spirits?” said Kate. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis that you may call it. I never heerd such pleasant gentlemen before, +and the sailors too was just the same—sorra bit would sarve them, +but making us drink a bottle of rum apiece, for luck, I suppose—devil +a one had a sorrowful face on him but Master Mark, whatever was the matter +with him, he wouldn' eat anything either, and the only glass of wine he +drank, you'd think it was poison, the face he made at it—more by +token he flung the glass overboard when he finished it. And to be sure the +Frenchmen weren't in fault, they treated him like a brother—one +would be shaking hands wid him—another wid his arm round his +shoulders, and”—here Tom blushed and stammered, and at last stopped +dead short. +</p> +<p> +“Well, go on, what were you going to say?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, I'm ashamed then—but 'tis true enough—saving your +presence, I saw two of them kiss him.” + </p> +<p> +Kate could not help laughing at Tom's astonishment at this specimen of +French greeting—while for the first time, perhaps, did the feeling +of the peasant occur to herself, and the practice she had often witnessed +abroad, without remark, became suddenly repugnant to her delicacy. +</p> +<p> +“And did Master Mark come back alone,” asked she, after a minute's +hesitation. +</p> +<p> +“No, my lady, there was a little dark man wid gould epaulettes, and a +sword on him, that came too. I heerd them call him, Mr. Morris, but sorra +word of English or Irish he had.” + </p> +<p> +“And where did they land, and which way did they take afterwards?” + </p> +<p> +“I put them ashore at Glengariff, and they had horses there to take them +up the country. I heerd they were going first to Father Rourke's in the +glen.” + </p> +<p> +“And then, after that?” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra a one of me knows. I never set eyes on them since—I was +trying to get a warp out for one of the French ships, for the anchors was +dragging—they came to the wrong side of the island, and got into the +north channel, and that was the reason they had to cut their cables and +stand out to sea till the gale is over, but there's not much chance of +that for some time.” + </p> +<p> +Kate did not speak for several minutes, and at length said— +</p> +<p> +“The people, tell me of them, were they in great numbers along the coast, +were there a great many of them with Mr. Mark when he came down to the +shore?” + </p> +<p> +“I'll tell you no He, my lady; there was not—there was some boys +from Castletown, and down thereabouts, but the O'Learys and the Sullivans, +the McCarthys—my own people—and the Neals wasn't there; and +sure enough it was no wonder if Master Mark was angry, when he looked +about and saw the fellows was following him. 'Be off,' says he, 'away wid +ye, 'tis for pillage and robbery the likes of ye comes down here—if +the men that should have heart and courage in the cause won't come +forward, I'll never head ruffians like you to replace them.' Them's the +words he said, and hard words they were.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor fellow,” said Kate, as she wiped away a tear from her eye, “none +stand by him, not one, and why is this the case,” asked she, eagerly, +“have the people grown faint-hearted—are there cowards amongst +them?” + </p> +<p> +“There's as bad,” said M'Carthy, in a low, cautious whisper—. +“there's traitors, that would rather earn blood money, than live honestly—there's +many a one among them scheming to catch Master Mark himself, and he is +lucky if he escapes at last.” + </p> +<p> +“There's horses now, coming up the road, and fast they're coming too,” + said one of the country people, and the quick clattering of a gallop could +be heard along the plashy road. +</p> +<p> +Kate's heart beat almost audibly, and she bounded from the spot, and up +the stairs. The noise of the approaching horses came nearer, and at last +stopped before the door. +</p> +<p> +“It is him—it is Mark,” said she to herself, in an ecstasy of +delight, and with trembling fingers withdrew the heavy bolt, and undid the +chain, while, with an effort of strength the emergency alone conferred, +she threw wide the massive door, clasped and framed with iron. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, how I have watched for you,” exclaimed she, as a figure, dismounting +hastily, advanced towards her, and the same instant the roice revealed +Hemsworth, as he said— +</p> +<p> +“If I could think this greeting were indeed meant for me, Miss O'Donoghue, +I should call this moment the happiest of my life.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought it was my cousin,” said Kate, as almost fainting, she fell back +into a seat, “but you may have tidings of him, can you tell if he is +safe?” + </p> +<p> +“I expected to have heard this intelligence from you,” said he, as +recovering from the chagrin of his disappointment, he resumed his habitual +deference of tone; “has he not returned?” + </p> +<p> +“No, we have not seen him, nor has the messenger yet come back. Herbert +also is away, and we are here alone.” + </p> +<p> +As Hemsworth offered her his arm to return to the drawing-room, he +endeavoured to reassure her on the score of Mark's safety, while he hinted +that the French, who that morning had entered Bantry Bay with eleven +vessels, unprepared for the active reception his measures had provided, +had set sail again, either to await the remainder of the fleet, or perhaps +return to France; “I would not wish to throw blame on those whose +misfortune is already heavy, but I must tell you, Miss O'Donoghue, that +every step of this business has been marked by duplicity and cowardice. I, +of course, need not say, that in either of these, your friends stand +guiltless, but your cousin has been a dupe throughout; the dupe of every +one who thought it worth his while to trick and deceive him—he +believed himself in the confidence of the leaders of the expedition—they +actually never heard of his name. He thought himself in a position of +trust and influence—he is not recognized by any—unnoticed by +his own party, and unacknowledged by the French, his only notoriety will +be the equivocal one of martyrdom.” + </p> +<p> +Every word of this speech, uttered in a voice of sad, regretful meaning, +as though the speaker were sorrowing over the mistaken opinions of a dear +friend, cut deeply into Kate's heart—she knew not well at the +instant, whether she should not better have faced actual danger for her +cousin, than have seen him thus deceived and played upon. Hemsworth saw +the effect his words created, and went on— +</p> +<p> +“Would that the danger rested here, and that the fate of one rash, but +high-spirited boy, was all that hung on the crisis”—as he spoke he +threw a cautious look around the roomy apartment to see that they were, +indeed, alone. +</p> +<p> +“Great Heaven! there is not surely worse than this in store for us,” cried +Kate, in a voice of heartrending affliction. +</p> +<p> +“There is far worse, Miss O'Donoghue; the ruin that threatens is that of a +whole house—a noble and honoured name—your uncle is unhappily +no stranger to these mischievous intentions—I was slow to put faith +in the assertion.” + </p> +<p> +“It is false—I know it is false,” said Kate, passionately—“My +poor dear uncle, overwhelmed with many calamities, has borne up patiently +and nobly, but of any participation in schemes of danger or enterprize he +is incapable—think of his age—his infirmity.” + </p> +<p> +“I am aware of both, young lady, but I am also aware that for years past, +his pecuniary difficulties have been such that he would hesitate at +nothing which should promise the chance of extrication. Many have imagined +like him, that even a temporary triumph over England would lead to some +new settlement between the two countries, concessions of one kind or +other, laws revoked and repealed, and confiscations withdrawn; nor were +the expectations, perhaps, altogether unfounded. Little has ever been +accorded to Ireland as a grace—much has been obtained by her by +menace.” + </p> +<p> +“He never calculated on such an issue to the struggle, sir; depend upon +it, no unworthy prospect of personal gain ever induced an O'Donoghue to +adopt a cause like this. You have convinced me, now, that he is +unconnected with this plot.” + </p> +<p> +“I sincerely wish my own convictions could follow yours, madam, but it is +an ungrateful office I have undertaken. Would to heaven I knew how to +discharge it more fittingly. To be plain, Miss O'Donoghue, the statute of +high treason, which will involve the confiscation of your uncle's estate, +will, if measures be not speedily taken, rob you of your fortune; to +prevent this— +</p> +<p> +“Stay, sir, I may save you some trouble on my account. I have no fortune, +nor any claim upon my uncle's estate.” + </p> +<p> +“Pardon me, young lady, but the circumstance of my position has made me +acquainted with matters connected with your family; your claim extends to +a very considerable, and a very valuable property.” + </p> +<p> +“Once more, sir, I must interrupt you—I have none.” + </p> +<p> +“If I dare contradict you I would say——” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, sir,” cried she, blushing, partly from shame, and partly from +anger—“this must cease, I know not what right you have to press the +avowal from me. The property you speak of is no longer mine; my uncle did +me the honour to accept it from me, would that the gift could express the +thousandth part of the love I bear him.” + </p> +<p> +“You gave over your claim to your uncle!” said Hemsworth, leaving a pause +between every word of the sentence, while a look of malignant anger +settled on his brow. +</p> +<p> +“Who dares to question me on such a subject,” said Kate, for the insulting +expression so suddenly assumed by Hemsworth, roused all her indignation. +</p> +<p> +“Is this, then, really so,” said Hemsworth, who, so unaccustomed as he +ever was to be overreached, felt all the poignancy of a deception in his +disappointment. +</p> +<p> +Kate made no answer, but moved towards the door, while Hemsworth sprang +forward before her, and placed his back against it. +</p> +<p> +“What means this, or how comes it, that you dare to treat me thus beneath +my uncle's roof?” + </p> +<p> +“One word only, Miss O'Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, with an effort to assume +his habitual tone of deference; “May I ask was this transfer of property +made legally and formally.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir,” said Kate, as drawing herself up, she stared full at him, without +another word of reply. +</p> +<p> +“I see it all,” said Hemsworth, rapidly, and as if thinking, aloud. “This +was the money that paid off Hickson—in this way the mortgage was +redeemed, and the bond for two thousand also recovered—duped and +cheated at every step. And so, madam,”—here he turned a look of +insulting menace towards her—“I have been the fool in your hands all +this time; and not content with thwarting my views, you have endeavoured +to sap the source of my fortune. Yes, you need not affect ignorance; I +know of Sir Archibald's kind interference in my behalf: Sir Marmaduke +Travers has withdrawn his agency from me; he might have paused to inquire +where was the property from which he has removed me—how much of it +owns him the master, or me. This was your uncle's doing. I have it under +his own hand, and the letter addressed to yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“And you dared, sir, to break the seal of my letter!” + </p> +<p> +“I did more, madam—I sent a copy of it to the Secretary of State, +whose warrant I possess: the young officials of the Home Office will, +doubtless, thank me for the amusement I have afforded them in its +contents. The match-making talents of Sir Archy and his niece's +fascinations have, however, failed for once. The Guardsman seems to have +got over his short-lived passion.” + </p> +<p> +“Stand back, sir, and let me pass.” + </p> +<p> +“One moment more, madam; if I have suffered some injuries from your +family, I have at least one debt of gratitude to acknowledge—but for +your note, written by your own hand, I should scarcely have succeeded in +capturing a rebel, whose treason will not long await its penalty—but +for your able assistance, your cousin might have escaped—indeed, it +may be worth while to inform you that Sir Archibald had good hopes of +obtaining his pardon, a circumstance which will, doubtless, be +satisfactory to the surviving members of the family.” + </p> +<p> +“My cousin Mark taken!” cried Kate, as she clasped her hands to either +side of her head in a paroxysm of agony. +</p> +<p> +“Taken, and on his way to Dublin, under a military escort; on Wednesday he +will be tried by court-martial: I hope and trust on Thursday—but +perhaps it would be cruel to tell you of Thursday's proceedings.” + </p> +<p> +Kate reeled, and endeavoured to support herself by a chair; but a sickness +like death crept over her, and with a faint low sigh she sank lifeless on +the floor; at the same instant the door was burst open by a tremendous +effort, and Hemsworth sent forward into the room. It was Mark, splashed +and dripping, his face flushed with violent exertion, that entered. With +one glance at Hemsworth, and another at the fainting form before him, he +seemed to divine all. +</p> +<p> +“Our day of reckoning is come at last, sir,” said he, in a low distinct +voice; “it has been somewhat tardy, however.” + </p> +<p> +“If you have any claim on me, Mr. O'Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, with a +forced calmness, “I am ready, at the proper time and place, to offer you +every satisfaction.” + </p> +<p> +“That time and place is here, sir,” said Mark, as without the slightest +sign of passion he bolted the door, and drew a heavy table across it. +“Here, in this room, from which both of us shall never walk forth alive.” + </p> +<p> +“Take care, sir, what you do; I am armed,” said Hemsworth, as he threw a +quick glance around, to see if any hope of escape should present itself. +</p> +<p> +“And so am I,” said Mark, coolly, who still busied himself in removing +every object from the middle of the room, while gently lifting Kate, he +laid her, still unconscious as she was, upon a sofa. +</p> +<p> +“We have neither of us much time to throw away, I fancy,” said he, with a +bitter laugh; “choose your place now, sir, and fire when you please—mine +is yonder;” and as he spoke he turned half round to walk towards the spot +indicated. With the quickness of lightning, Hemsworth seized the moment, +and drawing a pistol from his bosom, aimed and fired; the ball grazed +Mark's shoulder, and made him stagger forwards; but in a second he +recovered himself: the casualty saved him; for while falling, a second +bullet whizzed after the first. With a cry of vengeance that made the old +walls ring again, Mark sprang at him; it was the deadly leap of a tiger on +his prey; the impulse was such, that as he caught him in his arms, both +rolled over together on the floor. The struggle was but brief; Mark, +superior in youth, strength, and activity, soon got him under, and with +his knee upon his chest, pinioned him down to the ground. There was a +pause, the only sounds being the quick-drawn breathings of both, as with +looks of hate they gazed at each other;—while with one hand he +grasped Hemsworth by the throat, with the other he felt for his pistol: +slowly he drew forth the weapon, and cocked it; then laying the cold +muzzle upon the other's forehead, he pressed the trigger; the cock +snapped, but the priming burned. He flung the weapon from him in passion, +and drew another; but ere he could adjust it, Hemsworth ceased to breathe; +a cold livid colour spread over his features, and a clammy sweat bedewed +his forehead—he had fainted. +</p> +<p> +Mark dropped the uplifted weapon, as he muttered—“It was a fitting +fate—the death of a coward.” Then standing up, he approached the +window that overlooked the road, and threw it wide open. The storm still +blew with all its force, and in a second extinguished the lights in the +room, leaving all in darkness. With cautious steps, Mark moved towards +where the body lay, and lifting it in his powerful arms, carried it +towards the window; with one vigorous effort he hurled the lifeless form +from him, and the heavy mass was heard as it fell crashing among the +brushwood that covered the precipice. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0023" id="linkimage-0023"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" alt="Frontispiece " /> +</div> +<p> +Mark gazed for a few seconds into the black abyss beneath, and then +withdrawing, he closed the window, and barred it. By the aid of his pistol +he struck a light, and relighted the candles, and then approached the sofa +where Kate lay. +</p> +<p> +“Have I been ill, Mark?” said she, as she touched his band—“have I +been ill, and dreaming a horrid dream? I thought Hems-worth was here, and +that—that—but he was here—I know it now—you met +him here. Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, what has happened—where is he?” + </p> +<p> +Mark pointed to the window, but never spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Is he killed—did you kill him?” cried she, as her eyes grew wild +with the expression of terror. “Oh, merciful heaven, who has visited us so +heavily, why will reason remain when madness would be mercy! You have +killed him!” + </p> +<p> +“He did not die by my hand, though he well deserved to have done so,” said +Mark, sternly; “but are our hours to be so many now, that we can waste +them on such a theme. The French are in the Bay—at least a portion +of the fleet—sixteen vessels, nine of which are ships of the line, +are holding by their anchors beneath our cliffs; twenty more are at sea, +or wrecked or captured by the English, for who can tell the extent of our +disasters. All is against us; but against all we might succeed, if we had +not traitors amongst us.” + </p> +<p> +“The Government is aware of the plot, Mark—knows every man engaged +in it, and is fully prepared to meet your advance.” + </p> +<p> +“Such is the rumour; but there's no truth in it: the people hold back, and +give this as the excuse for their cowardice. The priests will not harangue +them, and the panic spreads every moment wider, of treachery and betrayal. +Lanty Lawler, the fellow who should have supplied horses for the +artillery, is an informer; so are half the others. There's nothing for it +but a bold plunge—something to put every neck in the halter, and +then will come the spirit to meet all difficulties—so thinks Tone, +and he's a noble-hearted fellow, and ready for any peril.” + </p> +<p> +A loud knocking at the door of the tower now broke in upon the converse, +and Kerry O'Leary called aloud— +</p> +<p> +“Open the door, Master Mark; be quick, the soldiers is comin'.” + </p> +<p> +Mark speedily withdrew the heavy table from its place across the door, and +opened it. Kerry, his clothes reduced to rags, and his face and hands +bleeding, stood before him, terror in every feature. “They took me +prisoner at the gate there, but I contrived to slip away, and took to the +mountain, and a fine chase they gave me for the last hour——” + </p> +<p> +“But the soldiers—where are they, and in what place?” + </p> +<p> +“There's two troops of horse about a mile below Mary's in the glen, +waiting for Hemsworth's orders to advance.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on,” said Mark, with a stern smile; “they're not likely to move for +some time.” + </p> +<p> +“I do not know that, then,” said Kerry, “for I saw Hemsworth pass up the +road, with two men holding him on his horse; he seemed to have got a bad +fall, for the blood was running down his face, and his cheeks was as pale +as a corpse.” + </p> +<p> +“You saw Hemsworth, and he was living!” + </p> +<p> +“Faix he was, and no doubt of it; there never was the man in these parts +could curse and swear the way he does, barrin' himself, and I heerd him +blasphaming away as he went along what he wouldn't do down here.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, fly, Mark; don't lose a second, for heaven's sake.——” + </p> +<p> +“And leave you here to the mercy of this scoundrel and his bloodhounds.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; we are safe here; he dare not wreak his vengeance on us; but you +are his greatest enemy.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis thrue she's sayin',” cried Kerry, eagerly; “I heerd Hemsworth say to +Sam Wylie, that Captain Travers is up at Macroom with his regiment, and +was coming down to guard the castle here; but that there was plenty of +time to take you before he came, and there was a tree standing to hang +you, besides.” + </p> +<p> +“I leave you, then, in safe keeping,” said Mark, with a touch of sarcasm +in his voice; “one word of good-bye to my father, and I am gone.” + </p> +<p> +It was some moments before the O'Donoghue could rally from the deep stupor +grief and anxiety induced, and recognize Mark as he leaned over his chair; +and then as he felt his hands and clutched his arms, he seemed +endeavouring to persuade himself that it was not some passing dream he +laboured under. +</p> +<p> +“The pursuit is too hot, father,” said Mark, after two or three efforts to +arouse his mind to what was going forward, “and I must be off. Hemsworth +has a strong party in the glen; but fear nothing; he cannot molest you; +and, besides, his time is brief now.” + </p> +<p> +“And will you leave me, Mark; will you desert me now?” said the old man, +with all the selfishness of age, forgetting every thing, save his own +feelings. +</p> +<p> +“Not if you wish me to remain; if you think there is more honour in my +being taken prisoner under your own roof, I'm just as willing.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, no, uncle,” cried Kate, rushing forward; “do not keep him; say +good-bye, and speedily; the dragoons are advancing already.” + </p> +<p> +“There goes a shot! that was a cannon,” cried Mark, in ecstasy, as he +lifted his hand to catch the sound—“another! another! they're +landing—they're coming—you'll see me again before day-break, +father,” said he, embracing the old man tenderly, while he turned to bid +Kate adieu. She stood with her hands before her eyes, her bosom heaving +violently. Mark gazed at her for a moment, and pressing his lips to her +cheek, merely whispered one word, and was gone. +</p> +<p> +Hemsworth's horse, which Kerry had found in the stable, stood ready +awaiting Mark, and without a moment's loss of time, he sprung on the +animal's back, and dashed down the road at full speed. Meanwhile the loud +firing of cannon continued at intervals towards the Bay, and more than one +rocket was seen to throw its bright glare through the blackness of the +night. +</p> +<p> +“They're landing at last,” cried Mark, as every report set his heart +bounding with eager hope, and forward he rode through the storm. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVIII. THE GLEN AND THE BAY +</h2> +<p> +Kerry O'Leary's intelligence was correct in every particular. Hems-worth +was not only living, but, save some bruises, and a cut upon his forehead, +was little the worse for his adventure. The brushwood had caught him in +his descent, and broken the fall; and although the height was +considerable, when he reached the ground he was merely stunned, and not +seriously injured. After a little time he was able to walk, and had +succeeded in advancing about half a mile up the glen, when he was met by +Wylie and a party of his followers, returning after escorting the chaise +some miles on the road. +</p> +<p> +Neither our space nor our inclination permit us to dwell on the scene that +followed, where Hemsworth, outwitted and duped as he believed himself, +gave way to the most violent passion, accusing every one in turn of +treachery, and vowing a deep and bloody vengeance on the whole House of +O'Donoghue. +</p> +<p> +Seated on Wylie's horse, and supported on each side by two men—for +at first his weakness increased, as he found himself in the saddle—he +went along at a foot's pace. He would not listen to Wylie's proposal of +returning to the “Lodge,” but constantly called out—“To Keim-an-eigh +as fast as possible—to the dragoons!” and at last passion had so far +supplied energy, that he was able to press on faster, when suddenly a +twinkling light through the gloom apprised him that he was near the little +way-side inn. +</p> +<p> +“Get me some wine, Wylie, and be quick!” cried he, as they reached the +door. +</p> +<p> +“You had better get off, and rest a few moments, sir,” said the other. +</p> +<p> +“Rest!—I'll never rest,” shouted he, with an infamous oath, “till I +see that fellow waving from the gallows! Some wine this instant!” + </p> +<p> +To the loud summons of Wylie no answer was returned, and the light that +shone so brightly a moment before was now extinguished. +</p> +<p> +“Break open the door! B——t you! what do you delay about?” + shouted Hemsworth. “There are some rebel tricks at work here.” + </p> +<p> +At the same instant the light re-appeared, and Mary's voice was heard from +within— +</p> +<p> +“Who's that, at this hour of the night, making such a noise?” + </p> +<p> +“Open the door, and be d——-d to you!” cried Hemsworth, who, +having got off his horse, was now endeavouring with his foot to force the +strong door. +</p> +<p> +“It will take a better man than you to stave that pannel in,” said Mary, +who, although recognizing the voice, affected not to know the speaker. And +she said truly, the door once made part of the rudder of an Indiaman, and +was strong oak belted with iron. +</p> +<p> +“Put a light in the thatch! Snap your pistol, Wylie, and set fire to it!” + cried Hemsworth, savagely; for any opposition to him at this moment called +forth all the malignity of his nature. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, is it you, captain?” said Mary, with a voice of well-affected +respect; “the Lord pardon me for keeping you out in the cold!” and with +that she opened the door, and with many a low curtsey saluted her guest. +</p> +<p> +Rudely pushing her aside, and muttering an oath, Hemsworth entered the +cabin, followed by the others. +</p> +<p> +“Why was the light put out,” said he, “when you heard us knocking at the +door?” + </p> +<p> +“I did not hear the knocking,” said Mary. “I was in the little room there, +and goin' to bed. The saints be good to me!—since the soldiers were +here, the hearing is knocked out of me—the noise and the +ballyragging they went on with, from mornin' till night!—and now +that they are gone—thanks to your honour, that ordered them away two +days ago up to 'the Lodge'—I do be thinking, they are here still.” + </p> +<p> +“Bring us some wine,” said Hemsworth, “and the best in your house. You +need not spare the tap to-night, for it's the last you will ever draw +beneath this roof. There;—don't look surprised and innocent;—you +know well what I mean. This is a rebel den, but I will leave it a heap of +ashes before I quit the spot.” + </p> +<p> +“You'll not burn my little place down, captain?” said Mary, with a look, +in which a shrewd observer might have read a very different expression +than that of fear. “You'll not take away the means I have of earning my +bread?” + </p> +<p> +“Bring the wine, woman; and if you don't wish to wait for the bonfire, be +off with you up the glen. I'll leave a mark on this spot as a good warning +to traitors. People shall talk of it hereafter, and point to it as the +place where rebellion met its first lesson.” + </p> +<p> +“And who dares to say that there was any treason in this house?” + </p> +<p> +“If my oath,” said Wylie, “won't satisfy you, Mrs. M'Kelly——” + </p> +<p> +“Yours!” interrupted Mary;—“yours!—a transported felon's +oath!” + </p> +<p> +“What do you think of your old sweetheart, Lanty Lawler?” said Hemsworth, +as he drank off goblet after goblet of the strong wine. “Wouldn't you +think twice about refusing him now, if you knew the price it was to cost +you?” + </p> +<p> +“I would rather see my bones as black as his own traitor's heart,” cried +Mary, with flashing eyes, “than I would take a villain like that! There, +captain, there's the best of the cellar, and there's the house for you, +and there,” said she, throwing herself on her knees, “and there's the +curse of the lone woman that you turn out this night upon the road, +without a roof to shelter her, and may it light on you now, and follow you +hereafter!” + </p> +<p> +“Clear your throat, and cool it, after your hot wishes,” said Hems-worth, +with a brutal laugh; for in this ebullition of the woman's passion was the +first moment of his enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +With a gesture of menace, and a denunciation uttered in Irish, with all +the energy the native language possesses, Mary turned into the road, and +left her home for ever. +</p> +<p> +“What was that she said?” said Hemsworth, turning to one of the men that +stood behind the chair. +</p> +<p> +“It was a saying they do have in Irish, sir,” said the fellow, with a +simper, “and the meaning of it is, that it isn't them that lights a +bonfire, that waits to dance round the ashes.” + </p> +<p> +“Ha! that was a threat, then! She will bring the rebels on us;—but I +have taken good care for that. I have sent a strong party by the other +road, to cut off their advance from the Bay, and we'll hear the firing +time enough to warn us; and that party,” said Hemsworth, muttering to +himself, “should be at their post by this time;” here he looked at his +watch: “it is now eleven o'clock; you took the order, Wylie, for Captain +Travers to go round by Googawn Barra, and occupy the pass between +Carrig-na-curra and Bantry Bay?” + </p> +<p> +“I did, sir, and he set off the moment I gave the letter.” + </p> +<p> +“Then the fellow, Mark, cannot escape me,” said Hemsworth. “If he leave +the castle before I come, he falls into the hands of the others. Still, I +would rather be judge and jury myself and you shall be the hangman, Sam. +There's little love between you: it is an office you'll like well.” + </p> +<p> +“If I don't do it nate,” said Wylie, “the young gentleman must forgive me, +as it is my first time;” and they both laughed heartily at the ruffian +jest. +</p> +<p> +“But what are we staying for?” said Hemsworth, while he drained his glass. +“Let us get up the dragoons, and make sure of him at once. I am strong +now, and ready for any exertion.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis a pity to burn the little place, captain,” said one of the fellows +of the party. “There's many a dacent boy would think himself well off, to +get the likes of it for his reward.” + </p> +<p> +“Make yourself at home,” said Hemsworth, “for I'll give you a lease for +three lives of it—yours, Wylie's, and mine own—will that +satisfy you?” + </p> +<p> +The fellow stared at the speaker, and then looked at Wylie, as if not +knowing whether to place any faith in the words he heard. +</p> +<p> +“I didn't say you were to get the premises in good repair, however,” said +Hemsworth, with a bitter laugh, “I didn't boast much about the roof,” and +at the same moment he took a lighted turf from the hearth, and thrust it +into the thatch, while Wylie, to curry favour with his patron, imitated +his example. +</p> +<p> +“Where does that door lead to?” said Hemsworth, pointing to the small +portal, which led into the rock towards the stable. +</p> +<p> +“That's the way to the stable,” said Wylie, as he opened it, and looked +down the passage; “and here's another door, that I never saw before.” + </p> +<p> +“That's where she do keep the spirits, sir,” said one of the men; “'tis +there she do have all the liquor.” + </p> +<p> +“There's nothing like whiskey for a blaze,” said Hemsworth, with a half +drunken laugh. “Burst open that door!”—but all their efforts were +vain: it was made with every precaution of strength, and studded over with +strong nails. +</p> +<p> +“Stop!” said Hemsworth, as he pushed the others rudely away, “there's a +readier plan than yours to force it. I'll blow the lock to pieces!” and, +so saying, he took the pistol from Wylie's hand, and, having leisurely +examined the priming and the flint, placed the muzzle in the lock. +</p> +<p> +“Be quick, sir, be quick!” said Wylie; “the place is filling with smoke!” + </p> +<p> +And so it was: the crackling of the thatch, and the dense masses of black +smoke that filled the cabin, showed that the work of destruction was +begun. +</p> +<p> +“Here, then: this is to put the seal to your lease, Peter,” said +Hemsworth, as he pulled the trigger. +</p> +<p> +A quick report followed, and then a crashing sound, as of splintered +timber, and, sudden as the lightning flash itself, a noise burst forth +louder than thunder, and at the same moment the house, and all that were +in it, were blown into the air, while the massive rock was shattered from +its base, full fifty feet up above the road. Report after report followed, +each accompanied by some new and fearful explosion, until at length a +great portion of the cliff was rent asunder, and scattered in huge +fragments across the road, where, amid the crumbling masonry and the +charred rafters, lay four black and lifeless bodies, without a trait which +should distinguish one from the other. +</p> +<p> +All was silent on the spot, but through every glen in the mountains the +echoing sounds sent back in redoubled peals the thunder of that dreadful +explosion, and through many a far-off valley rung out that last requiem +over the dead. +</p> +<p> +For some time the timbers and the thatch continued to burn, emitting at +intervals lurid bursts of flame, as more combustible matter met the fire, +while now and then a great report, and a sudden explosion, would announce +that some hitherto untouched store of powder became ignited, until, as day +was breaking, the flames waned and died out, leaving the rent rocks and +the ruined cabin the sad memorials of the event. +</p> +<p> +Nor were these the only occurrences of which the glen was that night the +witness. Mark, his brain burning for the moment when the fray should +commence, rode on amid the storm, the crashing branches and the loud +brawling torrents seeming to arouse the wild spirit within him, and lash +his enthusiasm even to madness. The deafening clamour of the hurricane +increased, as he came nearer the Bay, where the sea, storm-lashed and +swollen, beat on the rocks with a din like artillery. +</p> +<p> +But louder far than all other sounds were the minute peals of cannon from +the Bay, making the deep valleys ring with their clangour, and sending +their solemn din into many a far-off glen. +</p> +<p> +“They are coming! they are coming!” cried Mark, as he bounded madly in his +saddle. “What glorious music have they for their march!” + </p> +<p> +“Stop!—pull in!—hould hard, Master Mark!” screamed a voice +from the side of the road, as a fellow jumped from a cliff, and made +towards the rider. +</p> +<p> +“Don't delay me now, Terry; I cannot stay,” said Mark, as he recognised +the youth, “the French are landing!” + </p> +<p> +“They are not!” cried Terry, with a yell of despair; “they are going off, +leaving us for ever, and the glen is full of soldiers. The dragoons is +there; ay, not half a mile from you,” as he pointed through the gloom in +the direction of the glen. +</p> +<p> +“The dragoons there!—what treachery is this?” + </p> +<p> +“I saw them coming round the head of the lake this evening, and I thought +it was after me they were coming; but they never turned off the road, but +went on to the gap of the glen, and there they are now, waiting, I +suppose, for the French to go.” + </p> +<p> +“The French are not going, fool!—they are landing! Don't you hear +the guns—there! and there again! There is but one way now, but a +bold heart needs no more. Let go the bridle, Terry.” + </p> +<p> +“I can't, I won't let go. 'Tis cut to pieces you'll be. I seen them +looking at their swords a while ago. Och, don't twist my hand that way!” + </p> +<p> +“Leave me free! There is no such armour of proof as recklessness!” + </p> +<p> +As he spake, he reined in his horse, and, dashing the spurs into his +flanks, sprang beyond Terry, and the next moment was out of sight. A very +few minutes showed that Terry was but too accurate. Around a blazing fire, +beneath the rock, a party of dragoons were dismounted, vainly seeking to +dry their soaked clothes, while in front two mounted men could be seen +with their carbines unslung, ready for action. +</p> +<p> +A bold dash to force his way through was the only chance remaining. To +depend on his horse's speed, and his own dexterous hand to guide him, was +all his hope. He resolved, therefore, neither to draw sword nor pistol, +but attempt to pass by sheer horsemanship. Few men were either better +suited for a venture so daring, or better equipped at the moment. The +animal he rode was a powerful thoroughbred, trained and managed to +perfection. +</p> +<p> +Without the slightest noise Mark dismounted, and, ungirthing his saddle, +re-adjusted and fastened it further back. He then looked carefully to his +bridle, to see all was safe there, and loosened the curb, to give the +horse free play of his head. This done, and with his cap pressed firmly +down upon his brow, he sprang into his saddle once more. +</p> +<p> +The bright blaze enabled him to see the party in front, and, while he +himself escaped all observation, to devise his plans at leisure. He +advanced, therefore, at a slow walk, keeping the horse's feet in the deep +ground, where no noise was made. He counted seven figures around the fire, +and two as sentinels, and suspected at once that the whole party was not +there. Still there was no other chance. To attempt the mountain would +delay him a day at least, and a day now was a life-time. Creeping +noiselessly forward, he came within a few yards of the outposts, and could +distinctly hear the voices as they talked together. He halted for a second +or two, and looked back down the glen. It was an involuntary action, for +even had all not been dark around him, his home, to which he wished to bid +a last adieu, was out of sight. +</p> +<p> +A cannon-shot rung out at the instant, and, taking it for a signal, Mark +reined in his horse sharply, and then, dashing the spurs to his sides, +made him plunge madly forward, and, with the bound, shot through the space +between the two sentinels, each of whom presented, but feared to fire, +lest he should injure his comrade. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0024" id="linkimage-0024"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00462.jpg" width="100%" alt="462 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Come on—follow me!” cried Mark, waving his hand as if encouraging +others on, and the action turned every look down the glen, in the +direction from whence he came, and whence now came a wild, shrill yell, +the most savage and appalling. +</p> +<p> +“Fire!—down with him!—fire!” shouted the soldiers to one +another, as Mark, leaning fiat on his horse's main, rode on; and the balls +whistled quick, above and around, but not one struck him. “After him, Jack—after +him!” cried one of the sentinels, who, perceiving that Mark was not +followed, turned his horse to the pursuit; but another yell, wilder than +the first, arrested him, and he heard a voice screaming, “This way, boys, +this way—we have them here!” and Terry, waving his cap, bounded +forward, and called out unceasingly for others to come on. In an instant +the whole attention was turned to the front, while with the stroke of a +sabre poor Terry was stretched upon the ground, bleeding and senseless. +</p> +<p> +“It is only that cursed fool we used to see at Macroom, about the barrack +gates,” said one of the dragoons, as he held a piece of lighted wood +beside his face, “and the other fellow cannot have had much more sense, or +he would never have tried to ride through a squadron of horse. But there!—he's +down now! Did you hear that crash?—that was a horse that fell!” + </p> +<p> +So it was; Mark had but passed the first party to fall on a much more +formidable body further on, and his horse, twice wounded, was at last +struck in the shoulder, and fell headlong to the ground pinioning the +rider beneath him. With a dexterity that seemed magical, Mark disengaged +himself from the wounded animal, and drawing his pistols, prepared to sell +his life dearly. +</p> +<p> +“You are a prisoner, sir,” called out the sergeant, as with fearless step +he marched towards him. +</p> +<p> +“Another pace nearer, and I'll send a bullet through you,” said Mark; “you +may have my corpse for your booty, but you'll never lay hands on me +living.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't fire, don't fire, men,” cried a voice, as the officer rode up at +the speed of his horse, and then throwing himself from the saddle, +commanded the men to fall back. With looks of astonishment and even of +anger, the dragoons retired, while the captain sheathing his sword, +approached Mark. +</p> +<p> +“Thank heaven, Mr. O'Donoghue, you have not fired at my men.” + </p> +<p> +“Am I your prisoner, Captain Travers?” said Mark, replacing his weapon. +</p> +<p> +“No, far from it; it was to serve you I accepted the command of this +party. I knew of the plot by which you were threatened—Hemsworth——” + </p> +<p> +“He is gone to his reckoning now,” said Mark, who never gave credit to +Kerry's story. +</p> +<p> +“Not dead—you do not mean that?” + </p> +<p> +“Even so, sir, but not as I see you suspect.” + </p> +<p> +“No matter now,” cried Travers, wildly, for a thousand dreadful fears came +crowding on his mind; “you must escape at once; this will be worse than +the charge of treason itself. Was there any witness to his death?” + </p> +<p> +“None,” said Mark, for he remembered that Kate was still fainting during +the struggle he believed fatal. +</p> +<p> +“You must escape at once,” repeated Travers, for without directly +attributing guilt to Mark, he feared the consequence of this dreadful +event. “Keep in the mountain for some little time, and when this mad +enterprise has blown over——” + </p> +<p> +“The country then will be in other hands,” interrupted Mark;—“aye, +sir, you may look and feel incredulous, but the time is perhaps not +distant when I may be able to return your present courtesy. The French are +landing——” + </p> +<p> +“They are putting out to sea—flying—not advancing,” said +Travers, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“No, no, you mistake them,” said Mark, with a smile of incredulity. “I +heard the guns not a quarter of an hour since—would I had never left +them.” + </p> +<p> +“There, take my horse, mount quickly, and make for the Bay, and turn him +loose on the shore—reach the fleet if you can—in any case, +escape; there is no time to lose.” + </p> +<p> +“And you—how are you to account for this?” said Mark. “Will your +loyalty stand so severe a trial as that of having assisted a rebel's +escape?” + </p> +<p> +“Leave me to meet my difficulties my own way; turn your thoughts to your +own—heaven knows, they are enough.” + </p> +<p> +The tone he spoke in appealed to Mark's feelings more strongly than all he +said before, and grasping Travers' hand, he said— +</p> +<p> +“Oh, if I had but had your friendship once, how different I might be this +day; and my father too—what is to become of him?” + </p> +<p> +“Spare him at least the sorrow of seeing his son arraigned on a charge of +treason, if not of worse.” + </p> +<p> +Fortunately Mark heard not the last few words, which rather fell from +Travers inadvertently, and were uttered in a low voice. +</p> +<p> +“There,” cried Mark, as the loud report of several guns pealed forth— +“they have landed—they will soon be here.” + </p> +<p> +As he spoke, a mounted dragoon rode up to Travers, and whispered a few +words in his ear. Frederick motioned the man to fall back, and then +approaching Mark, said— +</p> +<p> +“I was correct, sir—the French fleet is under weigh—the +expedition is abandoned; away then before your chance is lost—down +to the Bay and get on board; you will at least find a path where there is +glory as well as peril; there—away.” + </p> +<p> +“They cannot have done this,” cried Mark, in an agony of passion; “they +would not desert the cause they have fostered, and leave us to our fate +here.” + </p> +<p> +Mark vaulted on Travers' horse as he said this, all feeling for his own +safety merged in his anxiety for the issue of the plot. +</p> +<p> +“Treachery we have had enough of—we may be well spared the curse of +cowardice. Good-bye, farewell—few, either friends or foes, have done +me the services that you have. If we are to meet again, Travers——” + </p> +<p> +“Farewell, farewell,” cried Travers; “we shall never meet as enemies,” and +he hastened from the spot, while Mark bending forward in the saddle, +pressed the spurs to his horse, and started. +</p> +<p> +With the speed of one who cared for nothing less than his own safety, Mark +urged his horse onward, and deserting the ordinary road, he directed his +course to the shore along the base of the mountain—a rough and +dangerous path beset with obstacles, and frequently on the very edge of +the cliff; at last he reached the Bay, over which the dark storm was +raging in all its violence; the wind blowing with short and sudden gusts +sent the great waves thundering against the rocks, and with fearful roar +through the caves and crevices of the coast. Riding madly on till the +white foam dashed over him, he turned on every side, expecting to see the +boats of the fleet making for the land, but all was dreary and desolate; +he shouted aloud, but his voice was drowned in the uproar of the elements; +and then, but not till then, came over him the afflicting dread of +desertion. The vivid lightning shot to and fro over the bleak expanse of +sea, but not a sail was there—all, all were gone. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0025" id="linkimage-0025"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00467.jpg" width="100%" alt="467 " /> +</div> +<p> +There was a projecting promontory of rock which, running out to a +considerable distance in the Bay, shut out all view beyond it; the last +hope he cherished was, that they might have sought shelter in the bay +beneath this, and plunging into the boiling surf, he urged his horse +forward—now madly rearing as the strong sea struck him—now +buffeting the white waves with vigorous chest—the noble beast braved +the storm-lashed water, and bore him alternately bounding and swimming, as +the tide advanced or receded. +</p> +<p> +The struggle, with all its peril to life, brought back the failing courage +to Mark's heart, and he cheered his horse with a cry of triumphant +delight, as each great wave passed over them, and still they went on +undaunted. It was a short but desperate achievement to round the point of +the promontory, where the sea beat with redoubled fury; but the same +daring intrepidity seemed to animate both horse and rider, and after a +moment of extreme danger, both gained the beach in safety. At the very +same instant that the animal touched the strand, a quick flash broke over +the sea, and then came the thundering report of a cannon. This was +answered by another further out to sea, and then a blue light burst forth +on high, and threw its lurid glare over the spars and canvas of a large +ship—every rope and block, every man and every gun were displayed in +the spectral light. It was a grand, but still an appalling sight, to see +the huge mass labouring in the sea, and then the next moment to strain the +eyes through the black canopy of cloud that closed around her; for so it +was, as the light went out, no trace of the vessel remained, nor was there +aught to mark the spot she had occupied. +</p> +<p> +From time to time the flash and the report of a gun would show where some +ship struggled with the raging sea; but to Mark all was mystery. He knew +not what it might portend, and hesitated between hope and despair, whether +these might prove the preparations for disembarking, or the last signal +before sailing. +</p> +<p> +In the low hut of a fisherman, not far from where he was, a light still +twinkled, and thither he hastened: it belonged to the man who had rowed +him on board of the frigate, and with whom Kate had spoken in the kitchen. +As Mark reached the door, he heard the sound of several voices talking in +a low, half-suppressed tone; pushing open the door, he entered, and found +about a dozen fishermen standing over the lifeless body of a man in a +French uniform. +</p> +<p> +“Who is this? What has happened?” said Mark, hurriedly. “It's one of the +French officers, sir,” said Tom McCarthy; “he came ashore with us this +morning, and to-night, when it came on to blow, and he saw the signals to +sail, he insisted on going on board again, and we did our best for him; we +twice put out, and twice were sent back again; but the last time we tried, +the craft was upset, and the poor fellow could not swim, and we never saw +him more, till we found his body on the strand about an hour ago.” + </p> +<p> +Mark held the light beside the pale features, and saw that he was a youth +of not more than eighteen years; there was no distortion whatever, and the +features were calm and tranquil, as if in sleep. +</p> +<p> +“Let us lay him in the earth, boys,” said Mark, as his voice trembled with +emotion; “it is the least we can do to let him sleep in the land he came +to save.” + </p> +<p> +The men lifted the body without a word, and, preceded by Mark, who carried +a lantern, issued from the hut. A few paces brought them to a little +grassy mound, where the cliff, descending between the rocks, preserved its +rich verdure untrodden and untouched. +</p> +<p> +“Here, this will do, boys,” said Mark; “this rock will mark the spot.” + </p> +<p> +The work was soon over, and as the last turf was laid over him, a +deafening peal of artillery thundered over the sea, and suddenly, lights +shone here and there, through the dark atmosphere. +</p> +<p> +“He has had a soldier's burial,” said Mark; “may his rest be tranquil. And +now”—and his voice assumed a firm and determined tone at the moment—“and +now, who will put me on board of any ship in that fleet? I have neither +gold to offer, nor silver to bribe you. I am poor and powerless, but if +the broad lands that were once our own, were mine now, I'd give them all +for that one service.” + </p> +<p> +“No boat could live ten minutes in that surf; there's a sea running there +would swamp a schooner,” said an old man, with white hair. +</p> +<p> +“We'd never get outside the breakers yonder,” said another. +</p> +<p> +“I think we've had enough of it for one night,” muttered a third, with a +side-long glance towards the recent grave. +</p> +<p> +“And you,” said Mark, turning fixedly round to Tom M'Carthy, “what words +of comfort have you for me?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, that I'm ready and willin' to go with you, divil may care who the +other is,” said the stout-hearted fellow. “I seen the day you jumped into +a boat yourself to take the crew off a wreck below the point there, and I +took an oath that night I'd never see you wanting for two hands at an oar +as long as I could pull one. The waves that isn't too high for you is not +a bit too big for me either.” + </p> +<p> +“Well done, Tom,” said a powerful looking young fellow beside him, “and +I'll be the bow oar for you, an' you'll take me.” + </p> +<p> +“And here's two more of us,” said another, as he held a comrade by the +hand, “that will never see his honour at a loss, no matter how it blows.” + </p> +<p> +The doubt and hesitation which prevailed but a moment before, were at once +changed for confidence and resolution, and eight men now hurried to the +beach to launch the boat, and make ready for the enterprize. +</p> +<p> +“If we could only see a flash, or hear a shot now, we'd know which way to +bear down,” said Tom, as he stood on the shore, with his eyes turned +seaward. +</p> +<p> +“There—there goes one!” cried Mark, as a red flame shot forth and +glittered for a second over the dark water. +</p> +<p> +“That's the frigate; she's holding on still by her anchors.” + </p> +<p> +“I knew they would not desert us, boys,” cried Mark, with wild enthusiasm, +for hope gained on him every moment as peril increased. +</p> +<p> +“Now for it, and all together,” said Tom, as he bent forward against the +whistling storm, and the craft, as if instinct with life, bounded over the +wave, and cleft her way through the boiling surf, while the hardy +fishermen strained every nerve, and toiled with all their energy. Mark +kneeling in the bow, his eyes strained to catch any signal, seemed +perfectly delirious in the transport of his joy. +</p> +<p> +“Luff her, luff her—here comes a large wave—nobly done, lads—how +she mounts the sea—here's another;” but the warning was this time +too late, for the wave broke over the boat, and fell in torrents over the +crew. With redoubled vigour the stout fellows bent to their work, and once +more the boat sped on her course; while Mark cheered them with a shout +heard even above the storm, and with a deep, mellow voice chanted out the +rude verses of a song— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“The fisherman loves the rippled stream, +And the lover the moon-lit sea, +But the darkening squall +And the sea birds call are dearer far to me. + +“To see on the white and crest'd wave +The stormy petrel float, +And then to look back On the stormy track +That glitters behind our boat.” + </pre> +<p> +“Avast there, Master Mark, there's wind enough without singing for more,” + cried one of the fishermen, who, with the superstition of his craft, felt +by no means pleased at Mark's ditty; “and there comes a sea to poop a line +of battle-ship,” and as he said the words, a wave mountains high rolled +past, and left them labouring in the deep trough of the sea; while the +lurid glare of sheet lightning showed all the ships of the fleet, as, with +top-sails bent, they stood out to sea. +</p> +<p> +“There they go,” said one of the fishermen, “and that's all the good +they've done us.” + </p> +<p> +“Pull hard, boys,” cried Mark, passionately, “it may not be yet too late, +strain every arm—the fate of our country may rest upon those bending +spars—together, men, together; it is not for life now, it is Ireland +is on the struggle:” thus cheering the drooping courage of the men, and +eagerly bending his glance towards the sea, his own heart glowed with +enthusiasm that made every danger forgotten; and at last, after an hour of +desperate exertion, with strength all but exhausted, and nearly overcome +by fatigue, they beheld the dark hull of a large ship looming above them. +By firing his pistol, Mark attracted the notice of the watch on deck; his +signal was replied to, and the next moment the boat was alongside, and +Mark clambering up the steep side, stood on the quarter-deck. +</p> +<p> +“Will the troops not land,” said Mark, as the officers crowded eagerly +around him—“is the expedition abandoned?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you think the hurricane might answer the question, young man?” said +a weather-beaten officer, who appeared in command—“or are you so +ignorant in naval matters as to suppose that a force could disembark in a +gale like this?” + </p> +<p> +“It might scare a pleasure party,” said Mark, rudely, “but for men who +have come to give and get hard knocks, methinks this need not disconcert +them.” + </p> +<p> +“And who is to aid us if we land?” said the first speaker—“what +forces are in arms to join us?—what preparations for ourselves?—have +you a musket, have you a horse, or do you yourself, in your own person, +represent the alliance we seek for?” + </p> +<p> +Mark hung down his head abashed and ashamed: too well he knew how +treachery had sapped the foundation of the plot; that, betrayed and +abandoned by their chiefs, the people had become either apathetic or +terror-stricken, and that, if a blow were to be struck for Irish +independence, it must be by the arm of the stranger. +</p> +<p> +“It is needless to waste words, sir,” said the French captain, for such he +was; “the admiral has twice made the signal to stand out to sea. The +French Republic will have suffered loss enough in some of the finest ships +of her navy, without hazarding fifteen thousand brave fellows upon an +exploit so hopeless.” + </p> +<p> +“The Captain says truly,” interposed another; “Ireland is not ripe for +such an enterprize; there may be courage enough among your countrymen, but +they know not how to act together. There's no slavery like dissension.” + </p> +<p> +“That boat will be swamped,” said the officer of the watch, as he pointed +to the fishing-craft, which still held on to the leeward of the ship; “if +you are going back to shore, sir, let me advise you, for your own sake, +and your comrades', too, to lose no time about it.” + </p> +<p> +“Far better to come with us,” said a powerful looking man in the uniform +of an infantry regiment; “the young gentleman seems inclined to see +service. 'Ma foi,' we seldom lack an opportunity of showing it.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll never go back,” said Mark; “I have looked at my country for the last +time.” + </p> +<p> +With many a welcome speech the officers pressed round and grasped his +hands, and for a moment all their misfortunes were forgotten in the joy +with which they received their new comrade. +</p> +<p> +“Who will be my banker for some gold,” said Mark; “those brave fellows +have risked their lives for me, and I have nothing but thanks to give +them.” + </p> +<p> +“Let this go to the expenses of the expedition,' said the captain, +laughing, as he threw his purse to Mark. The young man leaned over the +bulwark, and hailed the boat, and, after a moment of great difficulty, one +of the fishermen reached the deck. +</p> +<p> +“I wish to bid you good-bye, Tom,” said Mark, as he grasped the rough hand +in his; “you are the last thing I shall see of my country; farewell, then; +but remember, that however deeply wrongs may gall, and injuries oppress +you, the glory of resistance is too dearly bought at the cost of +companionship with the traitor and the coward—goodbye forever.” He +pressed the purse into the poor fellow's hand; nor was it without a +struggle he could compel him to accept it. A few minutes after the boat +was cleaving her way through the dark water, her prow turned to the land +which Mark had left for ever. +</p> +<p> +Seated on the deck, silent and thoughtful, Mark seemed indifferent to the +terrible storm, whose violence increased with every moment, and as the +vessel tacked beneath the tall cliffs, when every heart beat anxiously, +and every eye was fixed on the stern rocks above them, his glance was +calm, and his pulse was tranquil; he felt as though fate had done her +worst, and that the future had no heavier blow in store for him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIX. THE END. +</h2> +<p> +The storm of that eventful night is treasured among the memories of the +peasantry of the south. None living had ever witnessed a gale of such +violence—none since have seen a hurricane so dreadful and enduring: +for miles along the coast the scattered spars and massive timbers told of +shipwreck and disasters, while inland, uptorn trees and fallen rocks +attested its power. +</p> +<p> +The old castle of Carrig-na-curra did not escape the general calamity; the +massive walls that had resisted for centuries the assaults of war and +time, were shaken to their foundations, and one strong, square tower, the +ancient keep, was rent by lightning from the battlements to the base, +while far and near might be seen fragments of timber, and even of masonry, +hurled from their places by the storm. For whole days after the gale +abated, the air resounded with an unceasing din—the sound of the +distant sea, and the roar of the mountain torrents, as swollen and +impetuous they tore along. +</p> +<p> +The devastation thus wide spread, seemed not to have been limited to the +mere material world, but to have extended its traces over man: the +hurricane was recognized as the interposition of heaven, and the disaster +of the French fleet looked on as the vengeance of the Almighty. It did not +need the superstitious character of the southern peasants' mind to induce +this belief: the circumstances in all their detail were too strongly +corroborative, not to enforce conviction on sterner imaginations; and the +very escape of the French ships from every portion of our channel fleet, +which at first was deemed a favour of fortune, was now regarded as +pointing out the more signal vengeance of Heaven. Dismay and terror were +depicted in every face; the awful signs of the gale which were seen on +every side suggested gloom and dread, and each speculated how far the +anger of God might fall upon a guilty nation. +</p> +<p> +There is no reason to doubt the fact, that whatever the ultimata issue of +the struggle, the immediate fate of the country was decided on that night. +Had the French fleet arrived in full force, and landed the troops, there +was neither preparation for resistance, nor means of defence, undertaken +by the Government. +</p> +<p> +How far the peasantry might or might not have associated themselves with a +cause to which the Romish clergy were then manifestly averse, may be a +matter of uncertainty; but there are a sufficient number in every land, +and every age, who will join the ranks of battle with no other prospect +than the day of pillage and rapine. Such would have flocked around the +tricolor in thousands, and meet companions such would have been to that +portion of the invading army called the “Legion des Francs”—a +battalion consisting of liberated felons and galley slaves—the +murderers and robbers of France, drilled, armed, and disciplined to carry +liberty to Ireland! With this force, and a company of the “Artillerie +Légère,” Wolfe Tone proposed to land; and as the expedition had manifestly +failed, any further loss would be inconsiderable; and as for the “Legion,” + he naively remarked, “the Republic would be well rid of them.” + </p> +<p> +Let us, however, turn from this theme, to the characters of our tale, of +which a few words only remain to be told. By Terry, who made his escape +after being wounded by the dragoons, was the first news brought to +Carrig-na-curra of Mark's rencontre with the dragoons; and while the +O'Donoghue and Kate were yet speculating in terror as to the result, a +small party of cavalry was seen coming up the causeway at a brisk trot, +among whom rode a person in coloured clothes. +</p> +<p> +“It is Mark—my boy is taken!” cried the old man in a burst of agony, +and he buried his head in his hands, and sobbed aloud. Kate never spoke, +but a sick, cold faintness crept over her, and she stood almost breathless +with anxiety. She heard the horses as they drew up at the door, but had +not strength to reach the window and look out. The bell was rung violently—every +clank sent a pang through her bosom. The door was opened, and now she +heard Kerry's voice, but could not distinguish the words. Then there was a +noise as of some one dismounting, and the clatter of a sabre was heard +along the flagged hall. This ceased, and she could recognize Kerry's step +as he came up the corridor to the door of the tower. +</p> +<p> +“Come in,” cried she to his summons, but her utmost effort could not make +the words audible. “Come in,” said she again. +</p> +<p> +Kerry heard it not, but opening the door cautiously, he entered. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis the Captain, Miss Kate, wants to know if he could see the master.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said she, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. “Who is with him? Is +there a prisoner there?” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, there is then; but Captain Travers will tell you all himself.” + </p> +<p> +“Captain Travers!” cried Kate, a deep flush covering her face. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, madam,” said Frederick, as he entered at the same moment. +</p> +<p> +“I am but too happy to bear pleasant tidings, to think of my want of +courtesy in intruding unannounced.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave the room—shut the door, Kerry,” said Kate, as with eyes fixed +on Travers she waited for him to continue. +</p> +<p> +“Your cousin is safe, Miss O'Donoghue—he has reached the fleet, and +is already on his way to France.” + </p> +<p> +“Thank God!” cried Kate fervently, as she fell upon her uncle's shoulders, +and whispered the tidings into his ear. +</p> +<p> +The old man looked up and stared wildly around him. +</p> +<p> +“Where's Mark, my love—where did you say he was?” + </p> +<p> +“He's safe, uncle—he's on board of a French ship, and bound for +France, beyond the reach of danger.” + </p> +<p> +“For France! And has he left me—has he deserted his old father?” + </p> +<p> +“His life was in peril, sir,” whispered Kate, who, stung by the old man's +selfishness, spoke almost angrily. +</p> +<p> +“My boy has abandoned me,” muttered the O'Donoghue, the one idea, +absorbing all others, occupied his mind, and left him deaf to every +explanation or remonstrance. +</p> +<p> +“You are right, Miss O'Donoghue,” said Travers, gently, “his danger was +most imminent—the evidence against him was conclusive and complete; +and although one of the principal witnesses could not have appeared, Lanty +Lawler——” + </p> +<p> +“And was he an informer?” + </p> +<p> +“He was, madam; but amid the mass of treachery he has met a just fate. +Barrington, determined to punish the fellow, has come forward, and given +himself up; but with such evidence of the horse-dealer's guilt, that his +conviction is certain; the sums he received from France are all proved +under his own hand, and now that Hemsworth is no more, and Lawler's +treachery has no patron, his case has little hope. He is at this moment my +prisoner; we took him on the mountain where he had gone with a party to +secure Mr. Mark O'Donoghue, for whose capture a large reward was offered.” + </p> +<p> +As Kate listened to this recital, delivered in a tone which showed the +contempt the speaker entertained for an enterprise undertaken by such +actors, her own indignant pride revolted at the baseness of those with +whom her cousin was associated. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” said she at length, and speaking unconsciously aloud, “no cause +could prosper with supporters like these; there must be rottenness in the +confederacy that links such agencies as these together. And had my cousin +not one friend?—was there not one to wring his hand at parting?” + said she hurriedly, changing the theme of her thoughts. +</p> +<p> +“There was one,” said Travers, modestly; “Mr. O'Donoghue was noble-hearted +enough, even in the hour of calamity, to forget an ancient grudge, and to +call me his friend. He did more—he wished we had been friends for +many a day before.” + </p> +<p> +“Would that you had,” said Kate, as the tears burst forth, and ran down +her cheeks. +</p> +<p> +“And we might have been such,” continued Travers, “had not deceit and +malevolence sowed discord been our families. You know not, Miss +O'Donoghue, how deeply this treachery worked, and how artfully its plans +were conceived. The very hopes whose disappointment has darkened my life, +were fed and fostered by him, who knew how little reason I had to indulge +them; forgive me, I pray, if I allude to a subject I ought never to +recall. It was Hemsworth persuaded me that my suit would not prove +unsuccessful; it was by his advice and counsel I risked the avowal which +has cost me the happiness of my future life. I will speak of this no +more,” said Travers, who saw in the deep blush that covered Kate's +features, the distress the theme occasioned her. “It was a selfish thought +that prompted me to excuse my hardihood at the cost of your feelings.” + </p> +<p> +“I will not let you speak thus, sir,” said Kate, in a voice faint from +excessive emotion, “there was no such hardihood in one favoured by every +gift of fortune stooping to one humble as I am; but there were disparities +wider than those of rank between us, and if I can now see how greatly +these were exaggerated by the falsehood and treachery of others, yet I +know that our opinions are too wide apart, to make agreement aught else +than a compromise between us.” + </p> +<p> +“Might not time soften, if not obliterate such differences,” whispered +Travers, timidly. +</p> +<p> +“It could not with me,” said Kate, resolutely; “this is the losing side +ever, and my nature is a stubborn one—it has no sympathies save with +those in misfortune; but we can be friends,” said she, extending her hand +frankly towards him—“friends firm and true, not the less strong in +regard, because our affections have not overcome our convictions.” + </p> +<p> +“Do not speak so decisively,” Miss O'Donoghue, said Travers, as his lip +trembled with strong emotion; “even at this moment how much has +misrepresentation clouded our knowledge of each other; let time, I entreat +of you, dissipate these false impressions, or give me, at least, the +opportunity of becoming more worthy of your esteem.” + </p> +<p> +“While I should become less so,” interrupted Kate, rapidly; “no, no; my +duties are here,” and she pointed to the old man, who, with an expression +of stupid fatuity, sat with his hands clasped, and his eyes fixed on +vacancy. “Do not not make me less equal to my task, by calling on me for +such a pledge. Besides,” added she, with a smile, “you are too truly +English, to suggest a divided allegiance; we are friends; but we can never +be more.” + </p> +<p> +Travers pressed the white hand to his lips without a word, and the moment +after his horse was heard descending the causeway, as with desperate speed +he hurried from the spot so fatal to all his hopes. +</p> +<p> +Scarcely had Frederick left the castle, when a chaise and four, urged to +the utmost speed, dashed up to the door, and Sir Archy, followed by +Herbert, jumped out. The old man, travel-stained and splashed, held an +open paper in his hand, and cried aloud, as he entered the drawing-room— +</p> +<p> +“He's pardoned, he's pardoned—a free pardon to Mark!” + </p> +<p> +“He's gone, he's away to France,” said Kate, as fearing to awaken the +O'Donoghue to any exertion of intelligence, she pointed cautiously towards +him. +</p> +<p> +“All the better, my sweet lassie,” cried M'Nab, folding her in his arms; +“his arm will not be the less bold in battle, because no unforgiven +treason weighs upon his heart. But my brother, what ails him?—he +does not seem to notice me.” + </p> +<p> +“He is ill—my father is ill,” said Herbert, with a terrified accent. +</p> +<p> +“He is worse,” whispered M'Nab to himself, as passing his hand within the +waistcoat, he laid it on his heart. +</p> +<p> +It was so—the courage that withstood every assault of evil fortune—every +calamity which poverty and distress can bring down—failed at last;—the +strong heart was broken—the O'Donoghue was dead. +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +We will once more ask our readers to accompany us to the glen, the scene +of our story. It was of an evening, calm and tranquil as that on which our +tale opened, on a day in August, in the year 1815, that two travellers, +leaving the postillion of their carriage to refresh his horses, advanced +alone and on foot for above a mile into this tranquil valley; the air had +all that deathlike stillness so characteristic of autumn, while over the +mountains and the lake the same rich mellow light was shed. As the +travellers proceeded slowly, they stopped from time to time, and gazed on +the scene; and, although their looks met, and glance seemed to answer +glance, they neither of them spoke: from their appearance, it might have +been conjectured that they were foreigners. The man, bronzed by weather +and exposure, possessed features which, in all their sternness, were yet +eminently handsome: he wore a short thick moustache, but the armless +sleeve of his coat, fastened on the bosom, was a sign still more +indisputable than even his port and bearing, that he was a soldier. His +companion was a lady in the very pride and bloom of beauty, but her dress, +more remarkably than his, betrayed the foreigner; in the rapid look she +turned from the bold scenery around them to the face of him at whose side +she walked, one might read either a direct appeal to memory, or the +expression of wonder and admiration of the spot. Too much engrossed by his +own thoughts, or too deeply occupied by the scene before him, the man +moved on, until at last he came in front of a low ruined wall, beneath a +tall and overhanging cliff. He stopped for some seconds, and gazed at this +with such intentness as prevented him from noticing the figure of a +beggar, who, in all the semblance of extreme poverty, sat crouching among +the ruins. She was an old, or at least seemed a very old woman—her +hair, uncovered by cap or hood, was white as snow, but her features still +preserved an expression of quick intelligence, as, lifting her head from +the attitude of moping thought, she fixed her eyes stedfastly on the +travellers. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0026" id="linkimage-0026"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/00480.jpg" width="100%" alt="480 " /> +</div> +<p> +“Give her something, 'mon cher,'” said the lady to her companion in +French; but the request was twice made before he seemed conscious of it. +The woman, meanwhile, sat still, and neither made any demand for charity, +or any appeal to their compassion. +</p> +<p> +“This is Glenflesk, my good woman,” said he at length, with the intonation +of a foreign accent on the words. +</p> +<p> +The woman nodded assentingly, but made no reply. +</p> +<p> +“Whose estate is all this here?” said he, pointing with his hand to either +side of the valley. +</p> +<p> +“'Sorra one o' me knows whose it is,” said the woman, in a voice of +evident displeasure. “When I was a child it was the O'Donoghues', but they +are dead and gone now—I don't know whose it is.” + </p> +<p> +“And the O'Donoghues are dead and gone, you say? What became of the last +of them?—what was his fate?” + </p> +<p> +“Is it the one that turned Protestant you mean?” said the woman, as an +expression of fiendish malignity shot beneath her dark brows: “he was the +only one that ever prospered, because he was a heretic, maybe.” + </p> +<p> +“But how did he prosper?” said the stranger. +</p> +<p> +“Didn't he marry the daughter of the rich Englishman, that lived there +beyant? and wasn't he a member of Parlimint? and sure they tell me that he +went out beyond the says to be be Judge somewhere in foreign parts—in +India, I believe.” + </p> +<p> +“And who lives in the old castle of the family?” + </p> +<p> +“The crows and the owls lives in it now,” said the woman, with a grating +laugh—“the same way as the weasels and the rats burrow in my own +little place here. Ay, you may stare and wonder, but here, where you see +me sit, among these old stones and black timbers, was my own comfortable +home—the house I was born and reared in—and the hearth I sat +by when I was a child.” + </p> +<p> +The man whispered a few words to his companion in a deep, low voice—she +started, and was about to speak, when he stopped her, saying, “Nay, nay, +it is better not;” then, turning to the woman, asked, “And were there, +then, no others, whose fortunes you remember?” + </p> +<p> +“It is little worth while remembering them,” said the crone, whose own +misfortunes shed bitterness over all the memory of others. “There was an +old Scotchman that lived there long after the others were gone, and when +the niece went back to the nunnery in France he staid there still alone by +himself. The people used to see him settling the room, and putting books +here, and papers there, and making all ready agin she came back—and +that's the way he spent his time to the day of his death. Don't cry, my +lady; he was a hard-hearted old man, and it isn't eyes like yours should +weep tears for him; if you want to pity any one, 'pity the poor, that's +houseless and friendless.'” + </p> +<p> +“And the Lodge,” said the stranger—“is not that the name they gave +the pretty house beside the lake?” + </p> +<p> +“'Tisn't a pretty house now, then,” said the hag, laughing. “It's a ruin +like the rest.” + </p> +<p> +“How is that?—does the Englishman never come to it?” + </p> +<p> +“Why should he come to it? Sure it's in law ever since that black-hearted +villain Hemsworth was killed—nobody knows who owns it, and they say +it will never be found out; but,” said she, rising, and gathering her +cloak around her as she prepared to move away—“there's neither luck +nor grace upon the spot. God Almighty made it beautiful and lovely to look +upon, but man and man's wickedness brought a curse down upon it.” + </p> +<p> +The man drew his purse forth, and, while endeavouring to take some pieces +of money from it by the aid of his single remaining hand, she turned +abruptly about, and, staring him stedfastly in the face, said— +</p> +<p> +“I'll not take your money—'tisn't money will serve me now—them +that's poor themselves will never see me in want.” + </p> +<p> +“Stop a moment,” said the stranger, “I have a claim on you.” + </p> +<p> +“That you haven't,” said the woman, sternly—“I know you well, Mark +O'Donoghue—ay, and your wife, Miss Kate there; but it isn't by a +purse full of gold you'll ever make up for desarting the cause of ould +Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't be angry with her,” whispered a low mild voice behind. He turned, +and saw a very old man dressed in black, and with all the semblance of a +priest. “Don't be angry with her, sir; poor Mary's senses are often +wandering; and,” added he with a sigh, “she has met sore trials, and may +well be pardoned, if, in the bitterness of her grief, she looks at the +world with little favour or forgiveness. She has mistaken you for another, +and hence the source of her anger.” + </p> +<p> +THE END. <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The O'Donoghue, by Charles James Lever + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE O'DONOGHUE *** + +***** This file should be named 32340-h.htm or 32340-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/3/4/32340/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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