“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.
“They do not concern you,” said Mark, as he placed his foot in the very middle of the blaze.
“Stand back, sir,” cried the constable, half raising his arm to enforce the command.
“Lay but a finger on me,” said Mark, scornfully, “and I'll dash your head against the wall.”
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—
“It is the O'Donoghue of Glenflesk, a young gentleman of rank and fortune.”
“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.”
“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.
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.
Lanty stood for a few seconds, irresolute what to do; then stealing softly behind Mark's chair, he muttered, in a broken voice—
“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.”
Mark made no other reply to this speech than a steady frown, whose contemptuous expression Lanty cowered under, as he said once more—
“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——”
“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.”
“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.”
“Master Mark knows nothing at all about him, I'll go bail to any amount.”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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.
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?”
“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——”
“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?”
“Is it in earnest you are?” cried Lanty, with an expression of admirably dissembled astonishment. “Are you telling me truth, Master Mark.”
“Yes, and more still—the day is not far distant now, when we shall strike the blow.”
“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.
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 his fate, her 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.
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!
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.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“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——
“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.
“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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
“And you know this horse,” said Mark, with some anxiety of manner.
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.
“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.”
“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.
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.
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——
“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.
“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.”
“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.”
“What!—Talbot's signal! Was that his?”
“Talbot, or Barrington,” said Travers, smiling; “perhaps we should better call him by the name he is best known by.”
“And do you concur in the silly notion that confounds Harry Talbot with a highwayman?” said Mark, sternly.
“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.”
“And he has sworn informations against me?”
“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.
“And the scoundrel has my letters?” said Mark, as his face grew purple with passion.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Say you so, indeed!” cried Mark, as his eyes flashed with joy: “is that your meaning?”
“There's my hand on it,” said Travers, “as friend or foe!”
Mark grasped his hand, and wrung it with a convulsive pressure.
“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?”
“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.”
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.
“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.”
Mark nodded assentingly, and Travers resumed—
“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——”
“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?”
“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.”
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—
“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 you wear with honour, would be a badge of disgrace upon my shoulder. Good-bye, I can afford to thank you, because you have not made a service take the form of an 'amende.'”
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.
“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!”
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!”
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?”
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“And who is at 'the Lodge' now?” asked Mark, endeavouring tore-strain any semblance of emotion, even before Terry.
“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.”
“And my brother—where is he?”
“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.”
“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.
“They do,” said Terry quietly, “and it's razonable, too, seein' that he's never out of the house from morning till night.”
“What house?—where do you mean?”
“What house but Carrig-na-curra—your father's house.”
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—
“I can't go any further with you. I dar'n't go there.”
“And why not, my poor fellow?” said Mark, compassionately, for the terror depicted in his face too plainly indicated the return of some hallucination.
“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.”
“And who are they, Terry?”
“The soldiers,” said Terry, trembling all over. “I ran away from them, and they want to shoot me for desarting.”
“And there are soldiers quartered at Mary's now?”
“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.”
“And how does poor Mary bear it?” said Mark.
“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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.
“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.
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.
“Who is that?” cried the O'Donoghue, “who is standing yonder?” and they all turned their eyes towards the door.
“Why don't you speak?” continued the old man. “Have you any tidings from my son?—is it news of Mark you bring me?”
“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.
“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.
“You are not ill, Mark—you're only fatigued,” said Kate, as a tear slowly trickled down her cheek, and fell upon his hand.
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.
“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.
“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?”
“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.”
So saying, he courteously saluted the O'Donoghue, Sir Archy, and Kate; while, turning to Mark, he proffered his hand, as he said—
“Pray, sir, let the occasion excuse the liberty, and permit me to add my welcome also.”
“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.”
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.
“You are unco severe on Maister Hemsworth, Mark,” said Sir Archy, gravely. “If his politeness wasna altogether correct, it was weel intended.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Would it had been a dream to me,” said Mark, with a deep sigh, as he seated himself beside the old man.
“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.”
“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——”
“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.”
“The supper, the supper. Confound the fellow, the boy is famished, and the rascal stands prating there about bonfires.”
“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.
“Poor fellow,” said the O'Donoghue, “how pale and careworn he looks—he appears to have suffered heavily.”
“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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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——”
“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?”
“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.”
“Of me. What did he know of me?”
“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.
“Once more, sir, speak out, and intelligibly—say what this man seemed to know of me?”
“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——”
“The scoundrel—the base, black-hearted villain,” exclaimed Mark, “did he dare to speak thus of me?”
“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——”
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.
“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?”
“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.”
“And my uncle, he is generally a shrewd and cautious judge—what was his opinion?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“My discretion is above price, sir,” said Mark, smiling dubiously, and left the room.