“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.
“'Twelve miles in forty-two minutes, my lord,' said Talbot, showing his watch; 'hope your lordship won't forget the boy.'”
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.
Talbot smiled significantly at the remark, and exchanged a glance with Crossley, while he answered—
“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?”
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.
“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.
“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—”
“Like gentlemen, Bill—that's the phrase,” interrupted Talbot; “and a very comprehensive term it is, after all. But what is the Parliament doing?”
“Voting itself into Government situations.”
“And the Viceroy?”
“Snubbing the Parliament.”
“And the Government in England?”
“Snubbing the Viceroy.”
“Well, they are all employed, at least; and, as the French say, that's always something. And who are the playmen now?”
“The old set. Tom Whaley and Lord Drogheda—your old friend, Giles Daxon—Sandy Moore——”
“Ah, what of Sandy? They told me he won heavily at the October races.”
“So he did—beggared the whole club at hazard, and was robbed of the money the night after, when coming up through Naas.”
“Ha! I never heard of that, Billy. Let us hear all about it.”
“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.
“'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.
“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.
“'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.
“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.”
“Cleverly done, by Jove,” cried Talbot, in an ecstacy of admiration.
“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.”
“A bold fellow, well armed, Mark,” observed Talbot, gravely, “might do the deed, and Sandy be no coward after all.”
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“But how do you mean to go there? You do not surely expect an invitation.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
“I'll have no more wine, nor you, if you will be advised by me, either,” said Mark, gravely.
“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.”
“You are despondent about our prospects,” said Mark, gloomily.
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—
“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.”
“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.”
“The shadows are the warnings, Mark, and the wise man never neglects a warning.”
“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.
“The very fellow!” cried Talbot; for at the moment a passing gleam of light fell upon the figure, and marked it out distinctly.
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“There's a gentleman below stairs, Mr. Talbot, would be glad to speak a few words with you.”
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.
“No, sir—never saw him before. He seems like one from the country: Mr. Crossley says he's from the south.”
“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.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Talbot. I hope I see your honor well,” said he, in an accent of very unmistakable Kerry Doric.
“Good evening to you, friend,” replied Talbot. “My memory is not so good as yours, or I'd call you by your name also.”
“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.
“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?”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“The times is changed, sir,” said Lanty, sighing. “God help us—we must do the best we can.”
This evasive answer seemed perfectly to satisfy Talbot, who assented with a shake of the head, as he said—
“Very well, Lanty; if you will come here to-morrow, I'll exchange your gold for you.”
“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.”
“And that is—Let us hear it, Lanty.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Devil a lie in it, but that's just it,” said Lanty, who laughed heartily at the notion.
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“Good night to you, then, sir,” said Lanty, with a most obsequious bow, as he opened the door.
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.
“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.”
“Done, then!” cried Lanty, grasping his hand; “And you'll ask no more than his name?”
“Nothing more. I pledge my word; and here's the money.”
“Captain Hemsworth, the agent to the rich Englishman in Glen-flesk.”
“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?”
“I'll tell you no more,” said Lanty. “The devil a luck I ever knew come of speaking of him.”
“All fair, Lanty—a bargain's a bargain; and so, good-night.” And with a shake-hands of affected cordiality, they parted.
“Your conference has been a long one,” said Mark, who waited with impatience, until the silence without permitted him to come forth.
“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——”
“Lanty Lawler, did you say?”
“Yes. You know him, then?”
“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.”
“You think so, Mark,” said Talbot, with a smile of significant meaning.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Must I really wear this absurd dress, Talbot? For very shame's sake, I shall not be able to look about me.”
“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.”
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.
“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?”
“But you are taller, I think?”
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.
“There's Tom Connolly,” shouted a loud voice, “three cheers for the Volunteers—three cheers for Castletown.”
“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.
“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.
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“What was it you said?” cried Mark.
“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.”
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.
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.
“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.
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.
“He has passed eleven times,” said a gentleman to his friend, in Mark's hearing; “he must at least have won four hundred pounds.”
“Do you happen to know who he is?”
“No; nor do I know any one that does. There!—see!—he has won again.”
“He's a devilish cool player—that's certain. I never saw a man more collected.”
“He studies his adversary far more than his cards—I remark that.”
“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.
“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.”
“The caprice of Fortune, my lord, that so often favours the undeserving,” said Talbot, with a gesture of extreme humility.
“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.
“According to that theory, my lord, I have the advantage over you at present.”
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?”
“I am completely at your service, my lord—whatever you please.”
“Shall we say fifty?—or do you prefer a hundred?”
“If the same to you, I like the latter just twice as well.”
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.
“You have the deal, my lord,” said Talbot, presenting the cards. “Still, if any gentleman cares for another fifty on the game——”
“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.
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.
“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——”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“May I ask how the gentleman feels called on to require the explanation?” said Talbot, proudly.
“I wish him to know the circumstances,” said Mark.
“And I,” said Travers, interrupting, “might claim a right to ask it, as first aide-de-camp to his Excellency.”
“So, then,” whispered Talbot, with a smile, “it is the mere impertinence of office.”
Travers' face flushed up, and his his quivered, as in an equally low tone of voice he said—
“Where and when, sir, will you dare to repeat these words?”
“To-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, on the strand below Clontarf, and in this gentleman's presence,” said Talbot into his ear.
A nod from Travers completed the arrangement, and Talbot, placing his arm hurriedly within Mark's, said—
“Let us get away from this, Mark. It is all settled. We meet tomorrow.”
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 hers, a world of anxiety and interest—in his, the proud and scornful defiance of one who seemed to accept of no compromise with fortune.
“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.”
“And why so?” asked Mark, sternly, for in his present mood he was as little satisfied with Talbot as with Travers.
“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!”
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.
“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.
“Who is it you bowed to?” said Mark, in a whisper.
“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.
“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.”
“Carysford says,” cried another, “that he knows one of them well, and has often seen him in Paris at the play-houses.”
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—
“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.”
“He has just left this. I hope before now he has reached the street.”
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“It was with Travers you parted at the head of the stair?” said Talbot, inquiringly.
“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.”
“Come, come, Mark, don't lose temper about trifles.”
“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?”
Talbot made no reply, but walked on in silence.
“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?”
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.
“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.”
“Me! concerned me,” said Mark, in surprise.
“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?”
“Free from Hemsworth,” cried Mark, passionately.
“Even so—I was just coming to that.”;
“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.”
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.”
“How, and on what terms?” cried Mark, bursting with impatience.
“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.”
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.
“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——”
“Who will dare to do so before me?” said Mark, indignantly.
“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.”
Mark grasped Talbot's hand firmly, and shook it with the warmth of true friendship.
“Sit down beside me, Mark,” said he, placing the chairs at the table, “and read this.”
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.
“This is addressed to your father, Mark,” said he, showing him the superscription.
“I know that hand-writing,” said Mark, gazing fixedly at it; “that is Father Rourke's.”
“Yes, that's the name,” said Talbot, opening the letter. “Read this,” and he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud—
“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.”
“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?”
“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——”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“You have your choice, therefore,” said Talbot, flippantly, “to believe your father, a man of honour, or your mother——”
“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.”
Talbot seemed to feel no anger at this savage threat, but calmly said—
“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——”
“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?”
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—
“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?”
“Would you have me repay either by arraigning my father as a criminal?”
“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——-”
“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.”
“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—
“I tell you, gentlemen, Mr. Talbot is not in the house; he dined out to-day, and has not returned since dinner.”
A confused murmur followed this announcement; and again Crossley said, but in a still louder tone—
“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.”
Talbot knew in a moment the intention of the speaker, and recognized in Crossley's vehemence an urgent warning to himself.
“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——”
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.
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.
“Is that him?” said one of the fellows, who seemed like a constable in plain clothes.
“No,” whispered Lanty, as he skulked behind the shoulder of the speaker; “that's another gentleman.”
“Were you alone in this apartment?” said the same man who spoke first, as he addressed Mark in the tone of authority.
“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.