Early on the following morning Mark O'Donoughue was on his way to “the Lodge.” To see Hemsworth, and dare him to a proof of his assertions regarding him, or provoke him, if possible, to a quarrel, were his waking thoughts throughout the night, and not even all his weariness and exhaustion could induce sleep. He did not, indeed, know the full depth of the treachery practised against him; but in what he had discovered there were circumstances that portended a well-planned and systematic scheme of villainy. The more Mark reflected on these things, the more he saw the importance of proceeding with a certain caution. Hemsworth's position at Carrig-na-curra, the advances he had made in his father's esteem, the place he seemed to occupy in Kate's good graces, were such that any altercation which should not succeed in unmasking the infamy of his conduct, would only be regarded as a burst of boyish intemperance and passion; and although Mark was still but too much under the influence of such motives, he was yet far less so than formerly; besides, to fix a duel on Hemsworth might be taken as the consequences of a sense of rivalry on his part, and anger that his cousin had preferred him to himself. This thought was intolerable; the great effort he proposed to his heart, was to eradicate every sentiment of affection for his cousin, and every feeling of interest. To be able to regard her as one whose destiny had never crossed with his own—to do this, was now become a question of self-esteem and pride. To return her indifference as haughtily as she bestowed it, was a duty he thought he owed to himself, and therefore he shrunk from anything which should have the faintest semblance of avenging his own defeat.
Such were some of the difficulties of his present position, and he thought over them long and patiently, weighing well the consequences each mode of acting might entail, and deliberating with himself as to what course he should follow. His first resolve, then, which was to fasten a hostile meeting upon Hemsworth, was changed for what seemed a better line of procedure—which was simply to see that gentleman, to demand an explanation of the statements he had made concerning him, calling upon him to retract whenever anything unfounded occurred, and requiring him to acknowledge that he had given a colouring and semblance to his conduct at total variance with fact. By this means, Mark calculated on the low position to which Hemsworth would be reduced in Kate's estimation, the subterfuges and excuses he would be forced to adopt,—all the miserable expedients to gloss over his falsehood, and all the contemptible straits to conceal his true motives. To exhibit him in this light before Kate's eyes, she whose high sense of honour never brooked the slightest act that savoured of mere expediency, would be a far more ample revenge than any which should follow a personal rencontre.
“She shall see him in his true colours,” muttered he to himself, as he went along; “she shall know something of the man to whom she would pledge honour and affection; and then, when his treachery is open as the noon-day, and the blackness of his heart revealed, she shall be free to take him, unscathed and uninjured. I'll never touch a hair of his head.”
Mark had a certain pride in thus conducting himself on this occasion, to show that he possessed other qualities than those of rash and impetuous courage—that he could reason calmly and act deliberately, was now the great object he had at heart. Nor was the least motive that prompted him the desire he felt to exhibit himself to Kate in circumstances more favourable than any mere outbreak of indignant rage would display him.
The more he meditated on these things, the more firm and resolute were his determinations not to suffer Hemsworth to escape his difficulties, by converting the demand for explanation into an immediate cause of quarrel. Such a tactique he thought it most probable Hemsworth would at once adopt, as the readiest expedient in his power.
“No,” said Mark to himself, “he shall find that he has mistaken me; my patience and endurance will stand the proof; he must and shall avow his own baseness, and then, if he wish for fighting——”
The clenched lip and flashing eye the words were accompanied by, plainly confessed that, if Mark had adopted a more pacific line of conduct, it certainly was not in obedience to any temptations of his will.
Immersed in his reveries, he found himself in front of “the Lodge” before he was aware of it; and, although his thoughts were of a nature that left him little room for other considerations, he could not help standing in surprise and admiration at the changes effected in his absence. The neat but unpretending cottage had now been converted into a building of Elizabethean style; the front extended along the lake side, to which it descended in two terraced gardens. The ample windows, thrown open to the ground, displayed a suite of apartments furnished with all that taste and luxury could suggest—the walls ornamented by pictures, and the panels of both doors and window-shutters formed of plate glass, reflecting the mountain scenery in every variety of light and shadow. The rarest flowers, the most costly shrubs, brought from long distances, at great risk and price, were here assembled to add their beauties to a scene where nature had already been so lavish.
While Mark was yet looking about in quest of the entrance to the building, he saw a man approach, with whose features he was well acquainted. This was no other than Sam. Wylie, the sub-agent, the same he had treated so roughly when last they met. The fellow seemed to know that, though in certain respects the tables were now turned, yet, that with such a foe as Mark O'Donoghue, any exhibition of triumph might be an unsafe game; so he touched his hat, and was about to move past in silence, when Mark cried out—
“I want to speak with your master—can I see him?”
“Master!” said Wylie, and his sallow face grew sallower and sicklier. “If ye mean Mr. Hemsworth, sir——”
“Of course I do. If I spoke of Sir Marmaduke Travers, I should mean his master. Is he at home?”
“No, sir; he has left 'the Lodge.'”
“Left it!—since when? I saw him last night at ten o'clock.”
“He left here before eleven,” was Wylie's answer.
“When is he expected back?”
“Not for a week, at soonest, sir. It may be even longer, if, as he said, it were necessary for him to go to England.”
“To England!” exclaimed Mark, in bitter disappointment, for in the distance the hope of speedy vengeance seemed all but annihilated. “What is his address in Dublin?” said he, recovering himself.
“To the office of the Upper Secretary, sir, I am to address all his letters,” said Wylie, for the first time venturing on a slight approach to a smile.
“His hotel, I mean. Where does he stop in the city?”
“He usually stays in the Lower Castle-yard, sir, when in town, and probably will be there now, as the Privy Council is sitting, and they may want to examine him.”
The slow measured tone in which these few words were uttered gave them a direct application to Mark himself which made him flush deeply. He stood for a few seconds, seemingly in doubt, and then turned his steps towards home.
“Did you hear what the young O'Donoghue said, there, as he passed?” said Wylie to a labouring man who stood gazing after the youth.
“I did, faix,” replied the other; “I heerd it plain enough.”
“Tell me the words, Pat—I'd like to hear them.”
“'Tis what he said—'He's escaped me this time; but, by G—, he'll not have the same luck always.'”
“It was Mr. Hemsworth he was after,” said Wylie. “It was him he meant.”
“To be sure it was; didn't I hear him asking after him.”
“All right—so you did,” added Wylie, nodding. “Take care you don't forget the words, that's all, and here's the price of a glass to keep your memory fresh.”
And he chucked a sixpence to the man, who, as he caught it, gave a look of shrewd intelligence, that showed he felt there was a compact between them.
Mark moved homewards in deep thought. There was a time when disappointment would have irritated him rather than have suggested any new expedient for success. Now he was changed in this respect. If baffled, he did not feel defeated. His first anger over, he began to think how best he should obtain a meeting with Hemsworth, and a retractation of his calumnies against himself. To venture back to Dublin would have been unsafe on every account. The informations sworn against him by Lanty Lawler might be at any moment used for his capture. In Glenflesk alone was he safe; so long as he remained there, no force Government would think of sending against him could avail; nor was it likely, for the sake of so humble an individual as himself, that they would take measures which would have the effect of disclosing their knowledge of the plot, and thus warn other and more important persons of the approaching danger. Mark's first determination to leave home at once, was thus altered by these casual circumstances. He must await Hemsworth's return, since, without the explanation he looked for, he never could bring himself to take leave of his friends. As he pondered thus, a servant in Hemsworth's livery rode rapidly past him. Mark looked suddenly up, and perceived, with some surprise, from the train of dust upon the road, that the man was coming from Carrig-na-curra. Slight as the incident was, he turned his thoughts from his own fortunes to fix them on those of his cousin Kate. By what magic this man Hemsworth had won favour in her eyes he could not conceive. That he should have overcome all the prejudices of his father was strange enough; but that Kate, whose opinions of people seldom or ever underwent a change, and who of all others professed to dislike that very plausibility of manner which Hemsworth possessed, that she could forgive and forget the tyrannies with which his name was associated—she whose spirit no sordid bait could tempt, nor any mean object of personal ambition bias—this was, indeed, inexplicable. Twice or thrice a thought flashed across him, if it should not be true,—if it were merely one of those rumours which the world builds on circumstances,—that Hemsworth's intimacy was the sole foundation for the report, and the friendly interchange of visits the only reason for the story.
“I must know this,” said Mark; “it may not be too late to save her. I may have come back in the very nick of time, and if so, I shall deem this piece of fortune more than enough to requite all the mischances of my life.”
As he spoke thus he had reached the little flower-garden, which, in front of the tower, was the only spot of cultivation around the old building. His eye wandered over the evidences of care, few and slight as they were, with pleasant thoughts of her who suggested the culture, when at the turn of a walk he beheld his cousin coming slowly towards him.
“Good morrow, Mark,” said she, extending her hand, and with a smile that betokened no angry memory of the preceding night; “you took but little sleep for one so much fatigued as you were.”
“And you, cousin, if I mistake not, even as little. I saw a light burning in your room when day was breaking.”
“An old convent habit,” said she, smiling; “our matins used to be as early.”
A low, soft sigh followed this speech.
“Yes,” said Mark, “you have reason to regret it; your life was happier there; you had the pleasure of thinking, that many a mile away in this remote land, there were relatives and friends to whom you were dear, and of whom you might feel proud; sad experience has told you how unworthy we are of your affection, how much beneath your esteem. The cold realities that strip life of its ideal happiness are only endurable when age has blunted our affections and chilled our hearts. In youth their poignancy is agony itself. Yes, Kate, I can dare to say it, even to you, would that you had never come amongst us.”
“I will not misunderstand you, Mark; I will not affect to think that, in your speech, there is any want of affection for me; I will take it as you mean it, that it had been better for me; and, even on your own showing, I tell you, nay. If I have shed some tears within these old walls, yet have my brightest hours been passed within them. Never, until I came here, did I know what it was to minister to another's happiness; never did I feel before the ecstacy of being able to make joy more pleasurable, and sorrow less afflicting. The daughter feeling has filled up what was once a void in my poor heart; and when you pity me for this life of loneliness, my pulse has throbbed with delight to think how a duty, rendered by one as humble and insignificant as I am, can ennoble life, and make of this quiet valley a scene of active enjoyment.”
“So you are happy here, Kate,” said he, taking her hand, “and would not wish to leave it?”
“No, Mark, never; there would be no end to my ambition were the great world open to me, and the prizes all glittering before me—ambitions which should take the shape not of personal aggrandizement, but high hope for objects that come not within a woman's sphere. Here, affection sways me; there, it might be prejudice or passion.”
“Ambition!” muttered Mark, catching at the word; “ambition, the penalty you pay for it is far too high; and were the gain certain, it is dearly bought by a heart dead to all purer emotions, cold to every affection of family and kindred, and a spirit made suspecting by treachery. No, Kate, no, the humblest peasant on that mountain, whose toil is for his daily bread, whose last hope at night is for the health that on the morrow shall sustain more labour, he, has a nobler life than those who nourish high desires by trading on the crimes and faults of others. I had ambition once; God knows, it grew not in me from any unworthy hope of personal advantage. I thought of myself then as meanly as I now do; but I dreamt, that, by means, humble and unworthy as mine, great events have been sometimes set in motion. The spark that ignites the train is insignificant enough in itself, though the explosion may rend the solid masonry that has endured for ages. Well, well, the dream is over now; let us speak of something else. Tell me of Herbert, Kate. What success has he met with in the University?”
“He failed the first time, but the second trial made ample amends for that defeat. He carried away both prizes from his competitors, Mark, and stands now, confessedly, the most distinguished youth of his day; disappointment only nerved his courage. There was a failure to avenge, as well as a goal to win, and he has accomplished both.”
“Happy fellow, that his career in life could depend on efforts of his own making—who needed but to trust his own firm resolve, and his own steady pursuit of success, and cared not how others might plot, and plan, and intrigue around him.”
“Very true, Mark; the prizes of intellectual ambition have this advantage, that they are self won; but, bethink you, are not other objects equally noble—are not the efforts we make for others more worthy of fame than those which are dictated by purely personal desire of distinction?”
Mark almost started at the words, whose direct application to himself could not be doubted, and his cheek flushed, partly with pride, partly with shame.
“Yes,” said he, after a brief pause, “these are noble themes, and can stir a heart as sorrow-struck as mine—but the paths that lead upwards, Kate, are dark and crooked—the guides that traverse them are false and treacherous.”
“You have, indeed, found them so,” said Kate, with a deep sigh.
“How do you mean, I have found them so?” cried Mark, in amazement at the words.
“I mean what I have said, Mark, that betrayal and treachery have tracked you for many a day. You would not trust me with your secret, Mark, nor yet confide in me, when an accident left it in my possession. Chance has revealed to me many circumstances of your fortune, and even now, Mark, I am only fearful lest your own prejudices should hazard your safety. Shall I go on? May I speak still more plainly?”
Mark nodded, and she resumed—
“One who never favoured the cause you adopted, probably from the very confederates it necessitated—yet saw with sympathy how much truth and honour were involved in the struggle, has long watched over you—stretching out, unseen, the hand to help, and the shield to protect you. He saw in you the generous boldness of one whose courage supplies the nerve, that mere plotters trade upon, but never possess. He saw, that once in the current, you would be swept along, while they would watch you from the shore. He, I say, saw this, and with a generosity the greater, because no feelings of friendship swayed him, he came forward to save you.”
“And this unseen benefactor,” said Mark, with a proud look of scornful meaning, “his name is——”
“I will not speak it, if you ask me thus,” said Kate, blushing, for she read in his glance the imputation his heart was full of. “Could you so far divest yourself of prejudice as to hear calmly, and speak dispassionately, I could tell you anything—everything, Mark.”
“No, Kate, no,” said he, smiling dubiously; “I have no right to ask, perhaps not to accept of such a confidence.”
“Be it so, then,” said she, proudly, “we will speak of this no more; and with a slight bow, and a motion of her hand, she turned into another alley of the garden, and left Mark silently musing over the scene. Scarcely, however, had she screened herself from his view by the intervening trees, than she hastened her steps, and soon gained the house. Without stopping to take breath, she ascended the stairs, and tapped at Sir Archy's door.
“Come in, my sweet Kate,” said he, in his blandest voice, “I should know that gentle tap amid a thousand; but, my dear child, why so pale?—what has agitated you?—sit down and tell me.”
“Read this, sir,” said she, taking a letter from the folds of her handkerchief—“this well tell you all, shorter and more collectedly than I can. I want your advice and counsel, and quickly too, for no time is to be lost.
“This is Mr. Hemsworth's writing,” said Sir Archy, as he adjusted his spectacles to read. “When did you receive it?”
“About an hour ago,” answered Kate, half impatient at the unhurried coolness of the old man's manner, who at last proceeded to examine the epistle, but without the slightest show of anxiety or eagerness. His apathy was, however, short-lived—short expressions of surprise broke from him, followed by exclamations of terror and dismay, till at length, laying down the letter, he said, “Leave me, sweet Kate, leave me to read and reflect on this alone; be assured I'll lose no time in making up my mind about it, for I see that hours are precious here.” And as she glided from the room, Sir Archy placed the open letter on a table before him, and sat down diligently to re-consider its contents.
The letter, over which Sir Archy bent in deep thought, was from Hemsworth. It was dated from the night before, and addressed to Kate O'Donoghue, and, although professing to have been hurriedly written, an observer, as acute as Sir Archy, could detect ample evidence of great care and consideration in its composition. Statements seemingly clear and open, were in reality confused and vague; assertions were qualified, and, in lieu of direct and positive information, there were scattered throughout, hopes, and fears, wishes, and expectations, all capable of being sustained, whatever the issue of the affair they referred to.
The letter opened with a respectful apology for addressing Miss O'Donoghue; but pleading that the urgency of the case, and the motives of the writer, might be received as a sufficient excuse. After stating, in sufficiently vague terms, to make the explanation capable of a double meaning, the reasons for selecting her, and not either of her uncles, for the correspondence, it entered at once upon the matter of the communication, in these words:—
Continuing for a brief space in this strain, the letter went on to mention that the sudden return of Mark had left the writer no alternative but to venture on this correspondence, whatever the consequences—consequences which, the writer palpably inferred, might prove of the last moment to himself. The explanation—and, for the reader's sake, it is better to spare him Hemsworth's involved narrative, and merely give its substance—was chiefly, that information of Mark O'Donoghue's complicity in the plot of the United Irish party had been tendered to Government, and supported by such evidence that a Judge's warrant was issued for his apprehension and the seizure of all his papers; partly from friendly interference—this was dubiously and delicately put by Hemsworth—and partly from the fact that his extreme youth and ignorance of the real views of the insurgents were pleaded in his favour, the execution of this warrant was delayed, and the young man suffered to go at large. So long as he withdrew himself from the company of the other conspirators, and avoided publicity, the Government was willing to wink at the past. It had been, however, determined on, that should he either be found mixed up with any of the leaders of the movement in future, or should he venture to return to Glenflesk, where his influence amongst the peasantry was well known to, and apprehended by the Government, then there should no longer be any hesitation in the line to be followed. He was immediately to be apprehended and sent up under a sufficient escort to Dublin, to take his trial, with five others, for high treason. The proofs of his guilt were unquestionable, consisting of letters written and received, conversations to which witnesses could depose, as well as an intimacy for months long with Barrington, whose active participation in the schemes of rebellion was as well known, as the notorious fact of his being a convicted felon. To found a hope upon his innocence was thus shown to be perfectly impossible. His most trusted associates were the evidence against him; documents in his hand-writing were also in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown, and, in fact, far more than enough to bring him to the scaffold.
Hemsworth, who gently hinted all through, how far his interference had been beneficial, was one of those entrusted with Mark's arrest, should he ever dare to re-appear in his native country. The orders of the Privy Council on this score were positive and clear, and admitted of no possible misconception.
Sir Archy studied this letter with the patient care a lawyer bestows upon a brief. He thought over each sentence, and weighed the expressions in his mind with deep thought. It had been his fortune, in early life, to have been thrown into situations of no common difficulty, and his mind had, in consequence, acquired a habit of shrewd and piercing investigation, which, though long disused, was not altogether forgotten; by the aid of this faculty, Hemsworth's letter appeared to him in a very different light from that in which Kate viewed it. The knowledge of every circumstance concerning Mark evinced an anxiety which he was very far from attributing to motives of friendship. Sir Archy well knew the feelings of dislike which subsisted between these two men—how then account for this sudden change on Hemsworth's part?—to what attribute this wonderful interest concerning him?
“Let us see,” said the old man to himself, “let us see the fruit, and then we may pronounce upon the tree. Where and to what does Hemsworth's benevolence point, dishonour or banishment? Such are the terms he offers; such are the alternatives his kindness suggests. Might these have no other motive than friendship?—might they not he the offspring of feelings very different indeed? What benefit might he derive from Mark's expatriation—that is the question? Does he anticipate easier terms with the old man for the little remnant of property that still pertains to him—or is it merely the leaven of the old hate that still rises in his nature?—or”——and here his eye flashed with brilliancy as a new thought crossed his brain——“or does he suspect Mark of occupying a place in his cousin's affection, and is rivalry the source of this mysterious good nature?”
This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than Sir Archy recalled to mind all the circumstances of Hemsworth's recent behaviour—the endeavours he had made to recommend himself to their favourable notice—all his acts to ingratiate himself with Kate—the ample views he affected in politics—the wide-spread generosity of his plans for the amelioration of the people. That his conduct was unreal, that his principles were but assumed for the occasion, the shrewd Scotchman had long suspected; and this letter, so far from dispelling the doubts, increased them tenfold. Besides this, there seemed some reason to fear that Kate was not quite indifferent to him. The disparity of years was so far in his favour, as she could not but feel flattered by the notice of one so conversant with the world and its ways, who had travelled and seen so much, and might in every respect be deemed a competent judge in matters of taste. Any comparison of him with Mark must redound with great advantage to the former. The accomplished scholar, the agreeable and well-bred man of society, was a severe competitor for the half-educated and slovenly youth, whose awkward and bashful manner seemed rather ill-temper than mere diffidence. Mark was himself conscious of the disadvantages he laboured under, and although Sir Archy had few fears that such an admirer was likely to win favour with the gay and capricious girl, whose foreign habits had taught her to value social qualities at the highest price, still, there was a chance that Hemsworth might have thought differently, and that jealousy was the secret of the whole scheme. Kate, with her ten thousand pounds of a rent-charge, might be a very reasonable object of Hemsworth's ambition; and when already he had absorbed so large a portion of the family estates, this additional lien would nearly make him master of the entire. It was, then, perfectly possible that this was his game, and that in withdrawing Mark from the scene, he both calculated on the gratitude his generosity would evoke, and more securely provided for his own success. While Sir Archy thus pondered over Hemsworth's motives, he did not neglect the more pressing consideration of Mark's danger. It was evident that he had taken an active part in the insurrectionary movement, and without the slightest precautions for his personal safety. The first care, therefore, was to see and learn from him the full extent of his danger, what proofs there existed against him, and what evidence, either in writing or otherwise, might be adduced to his disadvantage.
“Tell me, frankly and freely, Mark,” said he, aloud, as he arose and paced the room; “tell me, openly, how you stand, who are your betrayers, what your dangers, and I'll answer for it the peril may be averted.”
“I have come to do so, sir,” said a voice behind him—and Mark O'Donoghue was standing at the door.
While they who meditated the invasion of Ireland were thoroughly informed on the state of parties, and the condition of public opinion in that kingdom, the English Government were satisfied with vague and insufficient rumours of those intentions, derived from sources of questionable accuracy, or communicated by persons in the pay of their opponents. Certain it is, neither the magnitude of the peril was appreciated, nor its nearness suspected. Many, in England, regarded the whole in the light of a menace, and believed that the embarrassments of the French Directory were quite sufficient to withdraw their thoughts from foreign aggression, to troubles nearer home. Their great want of money, arms, and all the munitions of war, was well known and trusted to as a guarantee of security. Others supposed that a rash attempt might be made, but were equally sure of its being defeated by our naval forces before a landing could be effected; and many more believed that the pretence of foreign aid was but a threat of the malcontents at home, to enforce compliance with their demands. The event itself was to show how unfounded were all these calculations, and how little reason we had to regard our security as derived from our own measures of foresight and precaution.
Constituted as the French Government of the day was, nothing would have been easier than to have ample knowledge of all the projects. The men in high situations were newly elevated to power, from positions of very humble pretension, with no habits of public business, no experience of the mode of conducting difficult affairs, and many of them of very questionable character for integrity; and yet, with these opportunities at our disposal, a few scattered facts, ill-authenticated and vague, were all that our Government attained to; and even these were unattended to, save when they implicated the conduct of some suspected character nearer home; then, indeed, party violence assumed an appearance of statesmanlike vigilance, and crown prosecutions and ex-officio informations, seemed the safeguard of the empire.
On occasions of this kind, the activity of the Government was most remarkable, and while the great question of national security was overlooked, no pains were spared to track out the narrow path where some insignificant treason was plodding, and bring the plotter to the scaffold. Large sums of money were spent in obtaining secret information, and the whole science of government was reduced to a system of “espionage.” This little-minded and narrow policy was, in a great measure, the consequence of entrusting so much of the Government to the influence of the lawyers, who, regarding everything through the light of their own profession, placed the safety of the empire on the success of a crown prosecution.
It was at a moment when this favourite policy was in the ascendant, that Hemsworth reached Dublin, little aware, indeed, how far events there, were hastening forward the catastrophe for which he was interested. Lanty Lawler, who for a long time had never communicated, save to Hemsworth, his knowledge of the United Irish movement, had, at length, become alarmed for his own safety; and putting but slight trust in Hemsworth's good faith, should any calamity befall him, had come forward and revealed to Major Sirr all that he knew of the plot, the names of several parties implicated, and in particular the whole history of Mark O'Donoghue's complicity. The information came well-timed. The crown lawyers were desirous of exhibiting the parade of a state prosecution, and all the ordinary measures were taken to secure its success. Lanty, now a prisoner in Newgate, but, with the promise of a free pardon and a reward, had been repeatedly examined by the Attorney and Solicitor-general, and his statement found perfectly accurate and consistent. He narrated the various interviews he had been present at among the Delegates in Dublin—the messages he had conveyed from them to different individuals through the country—the depots where pikes and muskets were stored, and the several places of rendezvous agreed upon, whenever the rising should take place. He also revealed many facts of the feeling prevalent among the people, and exemplified the conflicting state of opinion then in the country—how, that many were worn out and discouraged by delay, and believed themselves betrayed by France—while others were full of hope and confidence, eager for the time to come, and ready to incur any peril. While, in all these disclosures he was most candid and explicit, he never once betrayed the name of Mary M'Kelly, nor even alluded, in any way, to her cabin, as the resort of the French spies, and the secret depot of arms and ammunition, It might have been that in the blackness of his treachery to others, this one spark of better feeling survived towards her—that some lurking affection lingered in a heart dead to every other noble sentiment, or perhaps the lesser motive swayed him, that in excepting her from the general ruin, he was securing to himself one, who as a wife, would bring him no small share of worldly wealth. Either may be the explanation of his conduct, for strange as it may seem, the vilest actions are sometimes conceived with a reserve of conscience, that shows what casuistry guilt requires, and how much the spirit of evil lacks of courage, when it has to borrow the energy to act from even the semblance of something good.
It was not without reluctance, at first, that Lanty ventured on the betrayal of Mark O'Donoghue; nor did he even consent to do so, until his own safety had been threatened by Hemsworth, and also a solemn promise given, that he should never be brought forward to give evidence against him, nor exhibited before the world as an informer. This was the character he most dreaded—it was the only reproach that had any terror for his mind. Gradually, however, and by the frequency of his revelations to Hemsworth, this dread diminished, and in proportion, the fears for his own safety increased. Hemsworth's game was to make him believe that such depended solely on him—that at any moment he could give information of a character sufficient to convict him—and by this tie was he bound to a man he detested with all his hatred. After much vacillation and doubt it was, that Lanty determined, whatever the consequences to his fame, to make a full disclosure to Government, and only bargain for his own life. Hemsworth's absence from Dublin afforded the opportunity, and he seized it at once. Such, then, was the position of affairs when Hemsworth reached the capital, and learned that his agent, Lanty, was no longer at his disposition, but at that very moment a prisoner in the gaol of Newgate, strict orders being given that nobody was to be admitted to converse with him without the special leave of the law officers of the crown. Now, although Hemsworth had, personally, little to fear from any disclosure Lanty might make, yet his information might thwart all the plans he had so artfully devised regarding the O'Donoghues; the events impending that family being, up to that moment, perfectly at his own direction and disposal, to delay or precipitate which, constituted the essence of his policy. Mark could not be brought to trial, he well knew, without exhibiting himself in the light of an enemy and an accuser, he being the person to whom Lanty originally communicated his informations. This hostile part would form an impassible obstacle to any success with Kate, and consequently to his great plan of obtaining the Glenflesk estate.
Hemsworth lost not a moment, after his arrival in town, in his endeavours to have an interview with Lanty; and, being on terms of old intimacy with the sheriff, at length persuaded him to grant him a brief opportunity of speaking to him; a permission, under the circumstances, most reluctantly acceded. It was near nine o'clock—the latest hour at which a visit to the gaol was practicable—when Hemsworth presented himself, with the sheriff's order at the gate. A brief delay ensued, for even on such an authority, the goaler scrupled to deviate from the directions given him, and he was admitted. Following the turnkey for some minutes, through passages and across courts, they reached an angle of the building dedicated to the reception of those who were held over by the crown as “approvers” against their former friends and associates. Many of these had been in confinement several months, the time not having arrived when the evidence, which they were to corroborate, was perfected; and not a few preferring the security of a prison, to the dangers the character of an informer would expose them, to without doors. A confused noise of voices and coarse laughter was heard as they came near, and the turnkey, striking his bunch of keys against a heavy door, called, “Be silent there, b——t ye, there's more trouble with six of ye than we have with the whole condemned ward,” then turning to Hemsworth, he added, in a lower voice, “them chaps is awaitin' a passage over seas—they've given their evidence long ago, and they're not wanted now. That one with the cracked voice is Cope, the fellow that tracked Parson Jackson—but here, this is your man's cell—we cannot give you more than a quarter of an hour, and so, don't lose anymore time.” Hemsworth laid his hand on the gaoler's arm as he extended it with the key. “One second—just wait one second,” said he, as he pressed his fingers across his brow, and seemed to reflect, then added, “Yes, that will do—open it now, and I shall be ready to retire whenever you please.”
Whether the sound without had drowned the noise, or that his attention was too much engaged to notice it, Lanty never stirred nor looked round, as the heavy door was unbarred, and fastened again behind Hemsworth. Seated in a recess of the window, and with his face pressed against the iron bars, he was watching, with interest, the movement in the street below, where a considerable number of people went past, their eyes directed upwards, to the front of the building, but all view of which was impossible to him. Hemsworth stood and looked at him for some minutes without speaking—he was as if calculating the very thoughts of the other's brain—then advancing gently, he laid his hand on Lawler's shoulder, as he said—
“Ay, Lanty, that's the reward they get. Two of them are to be turned off to-morrow.”
“Two of whom, sir?” asked Lanty, as, starting at the voice, his face became the colour of death.
“I thought you knew!” said he, affecting astonishment; “they are the approvers against Bond. The Government has no use for the rascals now, and it saves expense to hang them; and so, they tried them for a murder at Sallins, in March last. I hear they were not there; but no matter, they've enough to answer for, without that.”
“But, sure, Mr. Hemsworth, they'll never treat their own friends that way?”
“Wouldn't they, Lanty! You don't know them as well as I do. They keep little faith with scoundrels, and more fools the scoundrels for being caught; but I mustn't lose time; it was that very thing brought me here. I heard this evening the scrape you were in.”
“Me, in a scrape!” exclaimed Lanty, his eyes growing wider with terror.
“To be sure it is, and a devilish ugly scrape, too, my friend: havn't you given information to the Attorney-general against the young O'Donoghue?”
Lanty nodded, and he went on—
“Havn't you confessed the whole of the plot, and told them everything?”
“Very nearly, faix!” said Lanty, dropping his head, and sighing.
“And what do you expect to gain by that, Master Lanty? Is it by showing that you are of no use to them—that you've nothing more left in you—that you hope for a reward. Is it for the sake of your family and friends, or on account of your remarkable honesty, they're so fond of you?” Then checking this sneering tone, he added, in a slow and solemn voice, “Are you a fool, man?—or don't you see what you're bringing yourseif to? What will be your claim when the trial of the young O'Donoghue is over? The crown lawyers will have you up in the witness-box till they've drained you dry. Devil a drop they'll leave in you; and when they say 'Go down,' take my word for it, it's down you'll go in earnest; and all the world wouldn't lift you up afterwards.”