Leaving, for the present, Mark O'Donoghue to the duties he imposed on himself of rallying the people around the French standard, we shall turn to the old Castle of Carrig-na-curra, where life seemed to move on in the same unbroken tranquillity. For several days past, Hemsworth, still weak from his recent illness, had been a frequent visitor, and although professing that the great object of his solicitude was the safety of young O'Donoghue, he found time and opportunity to suggest to Kate, that a more tender feeling influenced him: so artfully had he played his part, and so blended were his attentions with traits of deference and respect, that however little she might be disposed to encourage his addresses, the difficulty of repelling them without offence was great indeed. This delicacy on her part was either mistaken by Hemsworth, or taken as a ground of advantage. All his experiences in life pointed to the fact, that success is ever attainable by him who plays well his game; that the accidents of fortune, instead of being obstacles and interruptions, are in reality, to one of quick intelligence, but so many aids and allies. His illness alone had disconcerted his plans; but now once more well, and able to conduct his schemes, he had no fears for the result. Up to this moment, every thing promised success. It was more than doubtful that the Travers' would ever return to Ireland. Frederick would be unwilling to visit the neighbourhood where his affections had met so severe a shock. The disturbed state of the country, and the events which Hemsworth well knew must soon occur, would in all likelihood deter Sir Marmaduke from any wish to revisit his Irish property. This was one step gained: already he was in possession of a large portion of the Glenflesk estate, of which he was well aware the title was defective, for he had made it a ground of considerable abatement in the purchase money to the O'Donoghue, that his son was in reality under age at the time of sale. Mark's fate was, however, in his hands, and he had little fear that the secret was known by any other. Nothing, then, remained incomplete to the accomplishment of his wishes, except his views regarding Kate. Were she to become his wife, the small remnant of the property that pertained to them would fall into his hands, and he become the lord of the soil. His ambitions were higher than this. Through the instrumentality of Lanty Lawler, he had made himself master of the conspiracy in all its details. He knew the names of the several chiefs, the parts assigned them, the places of rendezvous, their hopes, their fears, and their difficulties. He was aware of the views of France, and had in his possession copies of several letters which passed between members of the French executive and the leaders of the United party in Ireland. Far from communicating this information to the Government, he treasured it as the source of his own future elevation. From time to time, it is true, he made known certain facts regarding individuals whom he either dreaded for their power, or suspected that they might themselves prove false to their party and betray the plot; but, save in these few instances, he revealed nothing of what he knew, determining, at the proper moment, to make this knowledge the ground-work of his fortune.
“Twenty-four hours of rebellion,” said he, “one day and night of massacre and bloodshed will make me a Peer of the realm. I know well what terror will pervade the land, when the first rumour of a French landing gains currency. I can picture to myself the affrighted looks of the Council; the alarm depicted in every face, when the post brings the intelligence, that a force is on its march towards the capital; and then—then, when I can lay my hand on each rebel of them all, and say, this man is a traitor, and that, a rebel—when I can show where arms are collected and ammunition stored—when I can tell the plan of their operation, their numbers, their organization, and their means—I have but to name the price of my reward.”
Such were the speculations that occupied the slow hours of his recovery, and such the thoughts which engrossed the first days of his returning health.
The latest letters he had seen from France announced that the expedition would not sail till January, and then, in the event of escaping the English force in the Channel, would proceed to land fifteen thousand men on the banks of the Shannon. The causes which accelerated the sailing of the French fleet before the time originally determined on were unknown to Hemsworth, and on the very morning when the vessels anchored in Bantry Bay, he was himself a visitor beneath the roof of Carrig-na-curra, where he had passed the preceding night, the severity of the weather having detained him there. He, therefore, knew nothing of what had happened, and was calmly deliberating on the progress of his own plans, when events were occurring which were destined to disconcert and destroy them.
The family was seated at breakfast, and Hemsworth, whose letters had been brought over from “the Lodge,” was reading aloud such portions of news as could interest or amuse the O'Donoghue and Kate, when he was informed that Wylie was without, and most anxious to see him for a few minutes. There was no communication which, at the moment, he deemed could be of much importance, and he desired him to wait. Wylie again requested a brief interview—one minute would be enough—that his tidings were of the deepest consequence.
“This is his way ever,” said Hemsworth, rising from the table; “if a tenant has broken down a neighbour's ditch, or a heifer is impounded, he always comes with this same pressing urgency;” and, augry at the interruption, he left the room to hear the intelligence.
“Still, no letter from Archy, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue, when they were alone; “once more the post is come, and nothing for us. I am growing more and more uneasy about Mark; these delays will harass the poor boy, and drive him perhaps to some rash step.”
“Mr. Hemsworth is doing everything, however, in his power,” said Kate, far more desirous of offering consolation to her uncle, than satisfied in her own mind as to the state of matters. “He is in constant correspondence with Government; the only difficulty is, they demand disclosures my cousin neither can, nor ought to make. A pardon is no grace, when it commutes death for dishonour. This will, I hope, be got over soon.”
While she was yet speaking, the door softly opened, and Kerry, with a noiseless step, slipped in, and approaching the table unseen and unheard, was beside the O'Donoghue's chair before he was perceived.
“Whisht, master dear—whisht, Miss Kate,” said he, with a gesture of warning towards the door. “There's great news without. The French is landed—twenty-eight ships is down in Bantry Bay. Bony himself is with them. I heard it all, as Sam Wylie was telling Hems-worth; I was inside the pantry door.”
“The French landed!” cried the O'Donoghue, in whom amazement overcame all sensation of joy or sorrow.
“The French here in Ireland!” cried Kate, her eyes sparkling with enthusiastic delight; but before she could add a word, Hemsworth reentered. Whether his efforts to seem calm and unmoved were in reality well-devised, or that, as is more probable, Hemsworth's own pre-occupation prevented his strict observance of the others, he never remarked that the O'Donoghue and his niece exhibited any traits of anxiety or impatience; while Kerry, after performing a variety of very unnecessary acts and attentions about the table, at last left the room, with a sigh over his inability to protract his departure.
Hemsworth eye wandered to the door to see if it was closed before he spoke; and then leaning forward, said, in a low, cautious voice—
“I have just heard some news that may prove very important. A number of the people have assembled in arms in the glen, your son Mark at their head. What their precise intentions, or whither they are about to direct their steps, I know not; but I see clearly that young Mr. O'Donoghue will fatally compromise himself, if this rash step become known. The Government never could forgive such a proceeding on his part. I need not tell you that this daring must be a mere hopeless exploit; such enterprises have but one termination—the scaffold.”
The old man and his niece exchanged glances—rapid, but full of intelligence. Each seemed to ask the other, “Is this man false? Is he suppressing a part of the truth at this moment, or is this all invention? Why has he not spoken of the great event—the arrival of the French?”
Kate was the first to venture to sound him, as she asked—
“And is the rising some mere sudden ebullition of discontent, or have they concerted any movement with others at a distance?”
“A mere isolated outbreak—the rash folly of hair-brained boys, without plan or project.”
“What is to become of poor Mark?” cried the O'Donoghue, all suspicions of treachery forgotten in the anxiety of his son's safety.
“I have thought of that,” said Hemsworth, hastily. “The movement must be put down at once. As a magistrate, and in the full confidence of the Government, I have no second course open to me, and therefore I have ordered up the military from Macroom. There are four troops of cavalry and an infantry regiment there. With them in front, this ill-disciplined rabble will never dare to advance, but soon scatter and disband themselves in the mountains—the leaders only will incur any danger. But as regards your son, you have only to write a few lines to him, and dispatch them by some trusty messenger, saying that you are aware of what has happened—know everything—and without wishing to interfere or thwart his designs, you desire to see and speak with him, here, at once. This he will not refuse. Once here safe, and within these walls, I'll hasten the pursuit of these foolish country fellows; and even should any of them be taken, your son will not be of the number. You must take care, however, when he is here, that he does not leave this until I return.”
“And are these brave fellows, misguided though they be, to be kidnapped thus, and by our contrivance, too?” said Kate, on whom, for the first time, a dread of Hemsworth's duplicity was fast breaking.
“I did not know Miss O'Donoghue's interest took so wide a range, or that her sympathies were so Catholic,” said Hemsworth, with a smile of double meaning. “If she would save her cousin, however, she must adopt my plan, or at least suggest a better one.”
“Yes, yes, Kate, Mr. Hemsworth is right,” said the O'Donoghue, in whom selfishness was always predominant; “we must contrive to get Mark here, and to keep him when we have him.”
“And you may rely upon it, Miss O'Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, in a whisper, “that my pursuit of the others will not boast of any excessive zeal in the cause of loyalty. Such fellows may be suffered to escape, and neither King nor Constitution have any ground of complaint for it.”
Kate smiled gratefully in return, and felt angry with herself for even a momentary injustice to the honourable nature of Hemsworth's motives.
“Mr. Hemsworth's horses is at the door,” said Kerry, at the same moment.
“It is, then, agreed upon, that you will write this letter at once,” said Hemsworth, leaning over the old man's chair, as he whispered the words into his ear.
The O'Donoghue nodded an assent.
“Without knowing that,” continued Hemsworth, “I should be uncertain how to proceed. I must not let the Government suppose me either ignorant or lukewarm. Lose no time, therefore; send off the letter, and leave the rest to me.”
“You are not going to ride, I hope,” said Kate, as she looked out of the window down the glen, where already the rain was falling in torrents, and the wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Hemsworth muttered a few words in a low tone, at which Kate coloured, and looked away.
“Nay, Miss O'Donoghue,” said he, still whispering, “I am not one of those who make a bargain for esteem; if I cannot win regard, I will never buy it.”
There was a sadness in his words, and an air of self-respect about him, as he spoke them, that touched Kate far more than ever she had been before by any expression of his feelings. When she saw him leave the room, her first thought was, “It is downright meanness to suspect him.”
“Is it not strange, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue, as he took her hand in his, “he never mentioned the French landing to us? What can this mean?”
“I believe I can understand it, sir,” said Kate, musingly; for already she had settled in her mind, that while Hemsworth would neglect no measures for the safety of Carrig-na-curra, he scrupled to announce tidings which might overwhelm them with alarm and terror. “But let us think of the letter; Kerry, I suppose, is the best person to send with it.”
“Yes, Kerry can take it; and as the way does not lead past Mary's door, there's a chance of his delivering it without a delay of three hours on the road.”
“There, sir, will that do?” said Kate, as she handed him a paper, on which hastily a few lines were written.
“Perfectly—nothing better; only, my sweet Kate, when a note begins 'my dear son,' it should scarcely be signed 'your own affectionate Kate O'Donoghue.'”
Kate blushed deeply, as she tore the paper in fragments, and without A word reseated herself at the table.
“I have done better this time,” said she, as she folded the note and sealed it; while the old man, with an energy quite unusual for him, arose and rung the bell for Kerry.
“Did I ever think I could have done this,” said Kate to herself, as a tear slowly coursed along her cheek and fell on the letter; “that I could dare to recall him, when both honour and country demand his services; that I could plot for life, when all that makes life worth having is in the opposite scale?”
“You must find out master Mark, Kerry,” said the O'Donoghue, “and give him this letter; there is no time to be lost about it.”
“Sorra fear; I'll put it into his hand this day.”
“This day!” cried Kate, impatiently. “It must reach him within three hours time. Away at once—the foot of Hungry Mountain—the shealing—Bantry Bay—you cannot have any difficulty in finding him now.”
Kerry waited not for further bidding, and though not by any means determined to make any unusual exertion, left the room with such rapidity as augured well for the future.
“Well,” said Mrs. Branagan, whose anxiety for news had led her to the head of the kitchen stairs, an excursion which, at no previous moment of her life, had she been known to take, “well, Kerry, what's going on now?”
“Faix, then, I'll tell ye, ma'am,” said he, sighing; “'tis myself they're wanting to kill. Here am I setting out wid a letter, and where to, do you think? the top of Hungry Mountain, in the Bay of Bantry, that's the address—divil a lie in it.”
“And who is it for?” said Mrs. Branagan, who, affecting to bestow a critical examination on the document, was inspecting the superscription wrong side up.
“'Tis for Master Mark; I heard it all outside the door; they don't want him to go with the boys, now that the French is landed, and we're going to have the country to ourselves. 'Tis a dhroll day when an O'Donoghue would'nt have a fight for his father's acres.”
“Bad cess to the weak-hearted, wherever they are,” exclaimed Mrs. Branagan; “don't give him the letter, Kerry avich; lie quiet in the glen till evening, and say you couldn't find him, by any manner of means. Do that, now, and it will be a good sarvice to your country this day.”
“I was just thinking that same myself,” said Kerry, whose resolution wanted little prompting; “after I cross the river, I'll turn into the Priests' Glen, and never stir out till evening.”
With these honest intentions regarding his mission, Kerry set out, and if any apology could be made for his breach of faith, the storm might plead for him; it had now reached its greatest violence; the wind blowing iu short and frequent gusts, snapped the large branches like mere twigs, and covered the road with fragments of timber; the mountain rivulets, too, were swollen, and dashed madly down the rocky cliffs with a deafening clamour, while the rain, swooping past in torrents, concealed the sky, and covered the earth with darkness. Muttering in no favourable spirit over the waywardness of that sex, to whose peculiar interposition he ascribed his present excursion, Kerry plodded along, turning, as he went, a despairing look at the barren and bleak prospect around him. To seek for shelter in the glen, he knew was out of the question, and so he at once determined to gain the priest's cottage, where a comfortable turf fire and a rasher of bacon were certain to welcome him.
Dreadful as the weather was, Kerry wondered that he met no one on the road. He expected to have seen groups of people, and all the signs of that excitement the arrival of the French might be supposed to call forth; but, on the contrary, everything was desolate as usual, not a human being appeared, nor could he hear a signal nor a sound, that betokened a gathering.
“I wouldn't wonder now if it was a lie of Sam Wylie's, and the French wasn't here at all,” said he to himself; “'tis often I heerd that Hemsworth could have the rebellion brake out whenever he liked it, and sorra bit but that may be it now, just to pretend the French was here, to get the boys out, and let the army at them.”
This reflection of Kerry's was scarcely conceived, when it was strengthened by a boy who was coming from Glengariff with a turf-car, and who told him that the ships that came in with the morning's tide had all weighed anchor, and sailed out of the Bay before twelve o'clock, and that nobody knew anything about them, what they were, and whence from. “We thought they were the French,” said the boy, “till we seen them sailing away; but then we knew it wasn't them, and some said it was the King's ships coming in to guard Bantry.”
“And they are not there now?” said Kerry.
“Not one of them; they're out to say, and out of sight, this hour back.”
Kerry hesitated for a second or two, whether this intelligence might not entitle him to turn homeward; but a second thought—the priest's kitchen—seemed to have the advantage, and thither he bent his steps accordingly.
When Mark and Herbert separated on the mountain, each took a different path downward. Mark, bent on assembling the people at once, and proclaiming the arrival of their friends, held his course towards Glengariff and the coast, where the fishermen were, to a man, engaged in the plot. Herbert, uncertain how to proceed, was yet equally anxious to lose no time, but could form no definite resolve what course to adopt amid his difficulties To give notice of the French landing, to apprise the magistrates of the approaching outbreak, was, of course, his duty; but in doing this, might he not be the means of Mark's ruin;—while, on the other hand, to conceal his knowledge would be an act of disloyalty to his sovereign, a forfeiture of the principles he held dear, and the source, perhaps, of the most dreadful evils to his country. Where, too, should he seek for counsel or advice—his father, he well knew, would only regard the means of his brother's safety, reckless of all other consequences; Kate's opinions, vague and undefined as they were, would be in direct opposition to his own. Hems-worth he dared not confide in—what then remained! There was but one for miles round, in whose judgment and honour together he had trust; but from him latterly he had kept studiously aloof. This was his old tutor, Father Rourke. Unwilling to inflict pain upon the old man, and still unable to reconcile himself to anything like duplicity in the matter, Herbert had avoided the occasion of meeting him, and of avowing that change in his religious belief, which, although secretly working for many a year, had only reached its accomplishment when absent from home. He was aware how such a disclosure would afflict his old friend—how impossible would be the effort to persuade him that such a change had its origin in conviction, and not in schemes of worldly ambition; and to save himself the indignity of defence from such an accusation, and the pain of an interview, where the matter should be discussed, he had preferred leaving to time and accident, the disclosure, which from his own lips would have been a painful sacrifice to both parties. These considerations, important enough as they regarded his own happiness, had little weight with him now. The graver questions had swallowed up all others—the safety of the country—his brother's fate. It was true the priest's sympathies would be exclusively with one party; he would not view with Herbert's eye the coming struggle; but still might he not regard with him the results?—might he not, and with prescience stronger from his age, anticipate the dreadful miseries of a land devastated by civil war?—was it not possible that he might judge unfavourably of success, and prefer to endure what he regarded as evils, rather than incur the horrors of a rebellion, and the re-enactment of penalties it would call down?
The hopes such calculations suggested were higher, because Mark had himself often avowed, that the French would only consent to the enterprize, on the strict understanding of being seconded by the almost unanimous voice of the nation. Their expression was, “We are ready and willing to meet England in arms, provided not one Irishman be in the ranks.” Should Father Rourke, then, either from motives of policy or prudence, think unfavourably of the scheme, his influence, unbounded over the people, would throw a damper on the rising, and either deter the French from any forward movement, or at least delay it, and afford time for the Government to take measures of defence. This alone might have its effect on Mark, and perhaps be the means of saving him.
Whether because he caught at this one chance of succour, when all around seemed hopeless, or that the mind: fertilizes the fields of its own discovery, Herbert grew more confident each moment that this plan would prove successful, and turned with an eager heart towards the valley where the priest lived. In his eagerness to press forward, however, he diverged from the path, and at last reached a part of the mountain where a tremendous precipice intervened, and stopped all further progress. The storm increasing every minute made the way slow and perilous, for around the different peaks the wind swept with a force that carried all before it. Vexed at his mistake, he resolved, if possible, to discover some new way down the mountain; but in the endeavour he only wandered still further from his course, and finally found himself in front of the sea once more.
The heavy rain and the dense drift shut out for some minutes the view; but when at last he saw the Bay what was his surprise to perceive that the French fleet was no longer there; he turned his eyes on every side, but the storm-lashed water bore no vessel on its surface, and save some fishing craft at anchor in the little nooks and bays of the coast, not a mast could be seen.
Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses, he knelt down on the cliff, and bent his gaze steadily on the Bay; and when at length re-assured and certain that no deception existed, he began to doubt whether the whole had not been unreal, and that the excitement of his interview with Mark had conjured the images his wishes suggested, The faint flickering embers of an almost extinguished fire on the Smuggler's Rock decided the question, and he knew at once that all had actually happened.
He did not wait long to speculate on the reasons of this sudden flight—enough for him that the most pressing danger was past, and time afforded to rescue Mark from peril; and without a thought upon that armament, whose menace had already filled him with apprehension, he sped down the mountain in reckless haste, and never halted till he reached the glen beneath. The violence of the storm—the beating rain, seemed to excite him to higher efforts of strength and endurance, and his courage appeared to rise as difficulties thickened around him. It was late in the day, however, before he came in sight of the priest's cottage, and where, as the gloom was falling, a twinkliug light now shone.
It was with a last effort of strength, almost exhausted by fatigue and hunger, that Herbert gained the door; this lay, as usual, wide open, and entering, he fell overcome upon a seat. The energy that had sustained him hitherto seemed suddenly to have given way, and he lay back scarcely conscious, and unable to stir. The confusion of sense, so general after severe fatigue, prevented him for some time from hearing voices in the little parlour beside him; but after a brief space he became aware of this vicinity, when suddenly the well-known accents of Mark struck upon his ear; he was speaking louder than was his wont, and evidently with an effort to control his rising temper, while the priest, in a low, calm voice, seemed endeavouring to dissuade and turn him from some purpose.
A brief silence ensued, during which Mark paced the room with slow and heavy steps, then ceasing suddenly he said—
“Why was it, then, that we never heard of these scruples before, sir?—why were we not told that unbelieving France was no fitting ally for saintly Ireland? But why do I ask: had the whole fleet arrived in safety—were there not thirteen missing vessels, we should hear less of such Christian doubts.”
“You are unjust, Mark,” said the priest, calmly; “you know me too well and too long, to put any faith in your reproaches. I refuse to address the people, because I would not see them fall, or even conquer, in an unjust cause. Raise the banner of the Church——”
“The banner of the Church!” said Mark, with a mocking laugh.
“What does he say?” whispered a third voice, in French, as a new speaker mingled in the dialogue.
“He talks of the banner of the Church!” said Mark, scoffingly.
“'Oui, parbleu,' if he likes it,” replied the Frenchman, laughing; “it smacks somewhat of the middle ages; but the old proverb is right, 'a bad etiquette never spoiled good wine.'”
“Is it then in full canonicals, and with the smoke of censers, we are to march against the Saxon?” said Mark, with a taunting sneer.
“Hear me out, Mark,” interrupted the priest; “I didn't say that we were yet prepared even for this; there is much to be done, far more indeed than you wot of. Every expedition insufficiently planned and badly supported, must be a failure; every failure retards the accomplishment of our hopes; such must this enterprise be, if now——'
“Now or never,” interposed Mark, as he struck the table violently with his clenched hand—“now, or never, for me at least. You have shown me to these Frenchman, as a fool or worse. One with influence, and yet without a man to back me—with courage, and you tell me to desert them—with the confidence of my countrymen, and I come alone, unaccompanied, unaccredited, to tell my own tale amongst them. What other indignities have you in store for me, or in what other light am I next to figure? But for that, and perhaps you would dare to go further, and say I am not an O'Donoghue;” and in his passion Mark tore open a pocket-book, and held before the old man's eyes the certificate of his baptism, written in the priest's hand. “Yes, you have forced me to speak, of what I ever meant to have buried in my own heart. There it is, read it, and bethink you, how it becomes him who helped to rob me of my inheritance, to despoil me of my honour also.”
“You must unsay these words, sir,” said the priest in an accent as stern and commanding as Mark's own; “I was never a party to any fraud, nor was I in this country when your father sold his estates.”
“I care not how it happened,” cried Mark, passionately. “When my own father could do this thing, it matters little to me who were his accomplices;” and he tore the paper in fragments, and scattered them over the floor. “Another and a very different cause brought me here. The French fleet has arrived.”
The priest here muttered something in a low tone, to which Mark quietly replied—
“And if they have, it is because their anchors were dragging; you would not have the vessels go ashore on the rocks; the next tide they'll stand up the Bay again. The people that should have been ready to welcome them, hold back. The whole country round is become suddenly craven; of the hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seventeen appeared this morning, and they were wretches more eager for pillage than the field of honourable warfare. It is come then to this, you either come forth, at once, to harangue the people, and recall them to their sworn allegiance, or the expedition goes on without you—go on it shall.”
Here he turned sharply round, and said a few words in French, to which the person addressed replied—
“Certainly; the French Republic does not send a force like this for the benefit of a sea voyage.”
“Desert the cause, then,” continued Mark, in a tone of denunciation; “desert us, and by G—d, your fate will be worse than that of our more open enemies. To-night the force will land; to-morrow we march all day, aye and all night too: the blazing chapels shall light the way.”
“Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of outraged heaven is more terrible than you think of. Whatever be the crime and guilt of others, remember that you are an Irishman; that what the alien may do in recklessness, is sacrilege in him who is the son of the soil.”
“Save me, then, from this guilt—save me from myself,” cried Mark, in an accent of tender emotion. “I cannot desert this cause, and oh, do not make it one of dishonour to me.”
The old man seemed overcome by this sudden appeal to his affections, and made no reply, and the deep breathing of Mark, as his chest heaved in strong emotion, was the only sound in the stillness. Herbert, who had hitherto listened with that vague half consciousness of reality excessive fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the eventful moment was come, when, should the priest falter or hesitate, Mark might succeed in his request, and all hope of rescuing him be lost for ever. With the energy of a desperate resolve he sprang forward, and entered the room just as the priest was about to reply.
“No, Father, no,” cried he, wildly; “be firm, be resolute; if this unhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found in opposing ranks.”
“This from you, Herbert!” said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a cold, stern gaze upon his brother.
“And why not from him,” said the priest, hastily. “Is he not an Irishman in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as to us?”
“I give you joy upon the alliance, Father,” said Mark, with a scornful laugh. “Herbert is a Protestant.”
“What!—did I hear aright?” said the old man, as with a face pale as death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth by either arm. “Is this true, Herbert? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so.”
“It is true, sir, most true; and if I have hitherto spared you the pain it might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the avowal might cost me.”
The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a livid hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew glassy and lustreless.
“We may well be wretched and miserable,” exclaimed he with a faint sigh, “when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to each other.”
The French officer—for such he was—muttered some words into Mark's ear, who replied—“I cannot blame you for feeing impatient; this is no time for fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, we'll meet again soon;” and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from the room with his companion.
Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to say something, yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the old man's chair, he said—
“There is yet time to avert the danger; the people are irresolute—many actually averse to the rising; my brother will fall by his rashness.”
“Better to do so than survive in dishonour,” said the priest, snatching rudely away his hand from Herbert's grasp. “Leave me, young man—go; this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it sheltered the apostate.”
“I never thought I should hear these words, here,” said Herbert, mildly; “but I cannot part from you in anger.”
“There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, Herbert,” said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke; “kneel now, my child.”
Herbert knelt at the priest's feet, when placing his hand on the young man's head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, as he concluded—
“And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and bring you back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth.”
He kissed the young man's forehead, and then covering his eyes with his hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts.
At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice without; he stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little porch, found Kerry O'Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had reached the cottage, after several hours' endeavour to cross the watercourses, swollen into torrents by the rain.
“A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir,” said Kerry; for heartily sick of his excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to which brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his unpleasant mission.
The note began, “My dear son;” and, without the mention of a name, simply entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert felt both duty and inclination called him, and without a moment's delay left the cottage, and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra.
The night was dark and starless, as they plodded onward, and as the rain ceased, the wind grew stronger, while for miles inland the roaring of the sea could be heard like deep continuous thunder. Herbert, too much occupied with his own thoughts, seldom spoke, nor did Kerry, exhausted as he felt himself, often break silence as they went. As they drew near the castle, however, a figure crossed the road, and advancing towards them said—
“Good night.”
“Who could that be, Kerry?” said Herbert, as the stranger passed on.
“I know the voice well,” said Kerry, “though he thought to disguise it. That's Sam Wylie, and it's not for any thing good he's here.”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang down upon and seized them.
“This is our man,” said one of the party, as he held Herbert by the collar, with a grasp there was no resisting; “but secure the other also.”
Herbert's resistance was vain, although spiritedly made, and stifling his cries for aid, they carried him along for some little distance to a spot, where a chaise was standing with four mounted dragoons on either side. Into this he was forced, and seated between two men in plain clothes, the word was given to start.
“You know your orders if a rescue be attempted,” said a voice, Herbert at once knew to be Hemsworth's.
The answer was lost in the noise of the wheels; for already the horses were away at the top of their speed, giving the escort all they could do to keep up beside them.
Never had the O'Donoghue and Kate passed a day of more painful anxiety, walking from window to window, whenever a view of the glen might be obtained, or listening to catch among the sounds of the storm for something that should announce Mark's return; their fears increased as the hours stole by, and yet no sign of his coming appeared.
The old castle shook to its very foundations, as the terrific gale tore along the glen, and the occasional crash of some old fragment of masonry, would be heard high above the roaring wind—while in the road beneath were scattered branches of trees, slates, and tiles, all evidencing the violence of the hurricane. Under shelter of the great rock, a shivering flock of mountain sheep were gathered, with here and there amidst them a heifer or a wild pony, all differences of habit merged in the common instinct of safety. Within doors every thing looked sad and gloomy; the kitchen, where several country people, returning from the market, had assembled, waiting in the vain hope of a favourable moment to proceed homeward, did not present any of its ordinary signs of gaiety. There was no pleasant sound of happy voices; no laughter, no indulgence in the hundred little narratives of personal adventure by which the peasant can beguile the weary time. They all sat around the turf fire, either silent, or conversing in low cautious whispers, while Mrs. Branagan herself smoked her pipe in a state of moody dignity, that added its shade of awe to the solemnity of the scene.
It was a strange feature of the converse, nor would it be worth to mention here, save as typifying the wonderful caution and reserve of the people in times of difficulty; but no one spoke of the “rising,” nor did any allude, except distantly, to the important military preparations going forward at Macroom. The fear of treachery was at the moment universal; the dread that informers were scattered widely through the land, prevailed everywhere, and the appearance of a stranger, or of a man from a distant part of the country, was always enough to silence all free and confidential intercourse. So it was now—none spoke of anything but the dreadful storm—the injury it might do the country—how the floods would carry away a bridge here, or a mill there, what roads would be impassable—what rivers would no longer be ford-able—some had not yet drawn home their turf from the bog, and were now in despair of ever reaching it—another had left his hay in a low callow, and never expected to see it again—while a few, whose speculations took a wider field ventured to expatiate on the terrible consequences of the gale at sea, a topic which when suggested led to many a sorrowful tale of shipwreck on the coast.
It was while they were thus, in low and muttering voices, talking over these sad themes, that Kate, unable any longer to endure the suspense of silent watching, descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen, to try and learn there some tidings of events. The people stood up respectfully as she came forward, and while each made his or her humble obeisance, a muttered sound ran through them, in Irish, of wonder and astonishment at her grace and beauty; for, whatever be the privations of the Irish peasant, however poor and humble his lot in life, two faculties pertain to him like instincts—a relish for drollery, and an admiration for beauty—these are claims that ever find acknowledgment from him, and in his enjoyment of either, he can forget himself, and all the miseries of his condition. The men gazed on her as something more than mortal, the character of her features heightened by costume strange to their eyes, seemed to astonish almost as much as it captivated them—while the women, with more critical discernment, examined her more composedly, but, perhaps, with not less admiration; Mrs. Branagan, at the same time throwing a proud glance around, as though to say, “You didn't think to see the likes of that, in these parts.”
Kate happened on this occasion to look more than usually handsome. With a coquetry it is not necessary to explain, she had dressed herself most becomingly, and in that style which distinctly marks a French woman—the only time in his life Mark had ever remarked her costume was when she wore this dress, and she had not forgotten the criticism.
“I didn't mean to disturb you,” said Kate, with her slightly foreign accent; “pray sit down again—well, then, I must leave you, if you won't—every one let's me have my own way—is it not true, Mrs. Branagan?”
Mrs. Branagan's reply was quite lost in the general chorus of the others, as she said—
“And why wouldn't you, God bless you for a raal beauty!” while a powerful looking fellow, with dark beard and whiskers, struck his stick violently against the ground, and cried out in his enthusiasm—
“Let me see the man that would say agin it—that's all.”
Kate smiled at the speaker, not all ungrateful for such rude chivalry, and went on—“I wanted to hear if you have any news from the town—was there any stir among the troops, or anything extraordinary going forward there?”
Each looked at the other as if unwilling to take the reply upon himself, when at last an old man, with a head as white as snow, answered—
“Yes, my lady, the soldiers is all under arms since nine o'clock, then came news that the French was in the Bay, and the army was sent for to Cork.”
“No, 'tis Limerick I heerd say,” cried another.
“Limerick indeed! sorra bit, 'tis from Dublin they're comin wid cannons; but it's no use, for the French is sailed off again as quick as they come.”
“The French fleet gone!—left the Bay—surely you must mistake,” said Kate, eagerly.
“Faix, I won't be sure, my lady; but here's Tom McCarthy seen them going away, a little after twelve o'clock.”
The man thus appealed to, seemed in nowise satisfied with the allusions to him, and threw a quick distrustful look around, as though far from feeling content with the party before whom he should explain, a feeling that increased considerably as every eye was now turned towards him.
Kate, with a ready tact that never failed her, saw his difficulty, and approaching close to where he stood, said, in a voice only audible by himself——
“Tell me what you saw in the Bay, do not have any fear of me.”
M'Carthy, who was dressed in the coarse blue jacket of a fisherman! possessed that sharp intelligence so often found among those of his calling, and seemed at once to have his mind relieved by this mark of confidence.
“I was in the boat, my lady,” said he, “that rowed Master Mark out to the French frigate, and waited for him alongside to bring him back. He was more than an hour on board talking with the officers, sometimes down in the cabin, and more times up on the quarter-deck, where there was a fierce-looking man, with a blue uniform, lying on a white skin—a white bear, Master Mark tould me it was. The officer was wounded in the leg before he left France, and the sea voyage made it bad again, but, for all that, he laughed and joked away like the others.”
“And they were laughing then, and in good spirits?” said Kate.
“'Tis that you may call it. I never heerd such pleasant gentlemen before, and the sailors too was just the same—sorra bit would sarve them, but making us drink a bottle of rum apiece, for luck, I suppose—devil a one had a sorrowful face on him but Master Mark, whatever was the matter with him, he wouldn' eat anything either, and the only glass of wine he drank, you'd think it was poison, the face he made at it—more by token he flung the glass overboard when he finished it. And to be sure the Frenchmen weren't in fault, they treated him like a brother—one would be shaking hands wid him—another wid his arm round his shoulders, and”—here Tom blushed and stammered, and at last stopped dead short.
“Well, go on, what were you going to say?”
“Faix, I'm ashamed then—but 'tis true enough—saving your presence, I saw two of them kiss him.”
Kate could not help laughing at Tom's astonishment at this specimen of French greeting—while for the first time, perhaps, did the feeling of the peasant occur to herself, and the practice she had often witnessed abroad, without remark, became suddenly repugnant to her delicacy.
“And did Master Mark come back alone,” asked she, after a minute's hesitation.
“No, my lady, there was a little dark man wid gould epaulettes, and a sword on him, that came too. I heerd them call him, Mr. Morris, but sorra word of English or Irish he had.”
“And where did they land, and which way did they take afterwards?”
“I put them ashore at Glengariff, and they had horses there to take them up the country. I heerd they were going first to Father Rourke's in the glen.”
“And then, after that?”
“Sorra a one of me knows. I never set eyes on them since—I was trying to get a warp out for one of the French ships, for the anchors was dragging—they came to the wrong side of the island, and got into the north channel, and that was the reason they had to cut their cables and stand out to sea till the gale is over, but there's not much chance of that for some time.”
Kate did not speak for several minutes, and at length said—
“The people, tell me of them, were they in great numbers along the coast, were there a great many of them with Mr. Mark when he came down to the shore?”
“I'll tell you no He, my lady; there was not—there was some boys from Castletown, and down thereabouts, but the O'Learys and the Sullivans, the McCarthys—my own people—and the Neals wasn't there; and sure enough it was no wonder if Master Mark was angry, when he looked about and saw the fellows was following him. 'Be off,' says he, 'away wid ye, 'tis for pillage and robbery the likes of ye comes down here—if the men that should have heart and courage in the cause won't come forward, I'll never head ruffians like you to replace them.' Them's the words he said, and hard words they were.”
“Poor fellow,” said Kate, as she wiped away a tear from her eye, “none stand by him, not one, and why is this the case,” asked she, eagerly, “have the people grown faint-hearted—are there cowards amongst them?”
“There's as bad,” said M'Carthy, in a low, cautious whisper—. “there's traitors, that would rather earn blood money, than live honestly—there's many a one among them scheming to catch Master Mark himself, and he is lucky if he escapes at last.”
“There's horses now, coming up the road, and fast they're coming too,” said one of the country people, and the quick clattering of a gallop could be heard along the plashy road.
Kate's heart beat almost audibly, and she bounded from the spot, and up the stairs. The noise of the approaching horses came nearer, and at last stopped before the door.
“It is him—it is Mark,” said she to herself, in an ecstasy of delight, and with trembling fingers withdrew the heavy bolt, and undid the chain, while, with an effort of strength the emergency alone conferred, she threw wide the massive door, clasped and framed with iron.
“Oh, how I have watched for you,” exclaimed she, as a figure, dismounting hastily, advanced towards her, and the same instant the roice revealed Hemsworth, as he said—
“If I could think this greeting were indeed meant for me, Miss O'Donoghue, I should call this moment the happiest of my life.”
“I thought it was my cousin,” said Kate, as almost fainting, she fell back into a seat, “but you may have tidings of him, can you tell if he is safe?”
“I expected to have heard this intelligence from you,” said he, as recovering from the chagrin of his disappointment, he resumed his habitual deference of tone; “has he not returned?”
“No, we have not seen him, nor has the messenger yet come back. Herbert also is away, and we are here alone.”
As Hemsworth offered her his arm to return to the drawing-room, he endeavoured to reassure her on the score of Mark's safety, while he hinted that the French, who that morning had entered Bantry Bay with eleven vessels, unprepared for the active reception his measures had provided, had set sail again, either to await the remainder of the fleet, or perhaps return to France; “I would not wish to throw blame on those whose misfortune is already heavy, but I must tell you, Miss O'Donoghue, that every step of this business has been marked by duplicity and cowardice. I, of course, need not say, that in either of these, your friends stand guiltless, but your cousin has been a dupe throughout; the dupe of every one who thought it worth his while to trick and deceive him—he believed himself in the confidence of the leaders of the expedition—they actually never heard of his name. He thought himself in a position of trust and influence—he is not recognized by any—unnoticed by his own party, and unacknowledged by the French, his only notoriety will be the equivocal one of martyrdom.”
Every word of this speech, uttered in a voice of sad, regretful meaning, as though the speaker were sorrowing over the mistaken opinions of a dear friend, cut deeply into Kate's heart—she knew not well at the instant, whether she should not better have faced actual danger for her cousin, than have seen him thus deceived and played upon. Hemsworth saw the effect his words created, and went on—
“Would that the danger rested here, and that the fate of one rash, but high-spirited boy, was all that hung on the crisis”—as he spoke he threw a cautious look around the roomy apartment to see that they were, indeed, alone.
“Great Heaven! there is not surely worse than this in store for us,” cried Kate, in a voice of heartrending affliction.
“There is far worse, Miss O'Donoghue; the ruin that threatens is that of a whole house—a noble and honoured name—your uncle is unhappily no stranger to these mischievous intentions—I was slow to put faith in the assertion.”
“It is false—I know it is false,” said Kate, passionately—“My poor dear uncle, overwhelmed with many calamities, has borne up patiently and nobly, but of any participation in schemes of danger or enterprize he is incapable—think of his age—his infirmity.”
“I am aware of both, young lady, but I am also aware that for years past, his pecuniary difficulties have been such that he would hesitate at nothing which should promise the chance of extrication. Many have imagined like him, that even a temporary triumph over England would lead to some new settlement between the two countries, concessions of one kind or other, laws revoked and repealed, and confiscations withdrawn; nor were the expectations, perhaps, altogether unfounded. Little has ever been accorded to Ireland as a grace—much has been obtained by her by menace.”
“He never calculated on such an issue to the struggle, sir; depend upon it, no unworthy prospect of personal gain ever induced an O'Donoghue to adopt a cause like this. You have convinced me, now, that he is unconnected with this plot.”
“I sincerely wish my own convictions could follow yours, madam, but it is an ungrateful office I have undertaken. Would to heaven I knew how to discharge it more fittingly. To be plain, Miss O'Donoghue, the statute of high treason, which will involve the confiscation of your uncle's estate, will, if measures be not speedily taken, rob you of your fortune; to prevent this—
“Stay, sir, I may save you some trouble on my account. I have no fortune, nor any claim upon my uncle's estate.”
“Pardon me, young lady, but the circumstance of my position has made me acquainted with matters connected with your family; your claim extends to a very considerable, and a very valuable property.”
“Once more, sir, I must interrupt you—I have none.”
“If I dare contradict you I would say——”
“Nay, nay, sir,” cried she, blushing, partly from shame, and partly from anger—“this must cease, I know not what right you have to press the avowal from me. The property you speak of is no longer mine; my uncle did me the honour to accept it from me, would that the gift could express the thousandth part of the love I bear him.”
“You gave over your claim to your uncle!” said Hemsworth, leaving a pause between every word of the sentence, while a look of malignant anger settled on his brow.
“Who dares to question me on such a subject,” said Kate, for the insulting expression so suddenly assumed by Hemsworth, roused all her indignation.
“Is this, then, really so,” said Hemsworth, who, so unaccustomed as he ever was to be overreached, felt all the poignancy of a deception in his disappointment.
Kate made no answer, but moved towards the door, while Hemsworth sprang forward before her, and placed his back against it.
“What means this, or how comes it, that you dare to treat me thus beneath my uncle's roof?”
“One word only, Miss O'Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, with an effort to assume his habitual tone of deference; “May I ask was this transfer of property made legally and formally.”
“Sir,” said Kate, as drawing herself up, she stared full at him, without another word of reply.
“I see it all,” said Hemsworth, rapidly, and as if thinking, aloud. “This was the money that paid off Hickson—in this way the mortgage was redeemed, and the bond for two thousand also recovered—duped and cheated at every step. And so, madam,”—here he turned a look of insulting menace towards her—“I have been the fool in your hands all this time; and not content with thwarting my views, you have endeavoured to sap the source of my fortune. Yes, you need not affect ignorance; I know of Sir Archibald's kind interference in my behalf: Sir Marmaduke Travers has withdrawn his agency from me; he might have paused to inquire where was the property from which he has removed me—how much of it owns him the master, or me. This was your uncle's doing. I have it under his own hand, and the letter addressed to yourself.”
“And you dared, sir, to break the seal of my letter!”
“I did more, madam—I sent a copy of it to the Secretary of State, whose warrant I possess: the young officials of the Home Office will, doubtless, thank me for the amusement I have afforded them in its contents. The match-making talents of Sir Archy and his niece's fascinations have, however, failed for once. The Guardsman seems to have got over his short-lived passion.”
“Stand back, sir, and let me pass.”
“One moment more, madam; if I have suffered some injuries from your family, I have at least one debt of gratitude to acknowledge—but for your note, written by your own hand, I should scarcely have succeeded in capturing a rebel, whose treason will not long await its penalty—but for your able assistance, your cousin might have escaped—indeed, it may be worth while to inform you that Sir Archibald had good hopes of obtaining his pardon, a circumstance which will, doubtless, be satisfactory to the surviving members of the family.”
“My cousin Mark taken!” cried Kate, as she clasped her hands to either side of her head in a paroxysm of agony.
“Taken, and on his way to Dublin, under a military escort; on Wednesday he will be tried by court-martial: I hope and trust on Thursday—but perhaps it would be cruel to tell you of Thursday's proceedings.”
Kate reeled, and endeavoured to support herself by a chair; but a sickness like death crept over her, and with a faint low sigh she sank lifeless on the floor; at the same instant the door was burst open by a tremendous effort, and Hemsworth sent forward into the room. It was Mark, splashed and dripping, his face flushed with violent exertion, that entered. With one glance at Hemsworth, and another at the fainting form before him, he seemed to divine all.
“Our day of reckoning is come at last, sir,” said he, in a low distinct voice; “it has been somewhat tardy, however.”
“If you have any claim on me, Mr. O'Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, with a forced calmness, “I am ready, at the proper time and place, to offer you every satisfaction.”
“That time and place is here, sir,” said Mark, as without the slightest sign of passion he bolted the door, and drew a heavy table across it. “Here, in this room, from which both of us shall never walk forth alive.”
“Take care, sir, what you do; I am armed,” said Hemsworth, as he threw a quick glance around, to see if any hope of escape should present itself.
“And so am I,” said Mark, coolly, who still busied himself in removing every object from the middle of the room, while gently lifting Kate, he laid her, still unconscious as she was, upon a sofa.
“We have neither of us much time to throw away, I fancy,” said he, with a bitter laugh; “choose your place now, sir, and fire when you please—mine is yonder;” and as he spoke he turned half round to walk towards the spot indicated. With the quickness of lightning, Hemsworth seized the moment, and drawing a pistol from his bosom, aimed and fired; the ball grazed Mark's shoulder, and made him stagger forwards; but in a second he recovered himself: the casualty saved him; for while falling, a second bullet whizzed after the first. With a cry of vengeance that made the old walls ring again, Mark sprang at him; it was the deadly leap of a tiger on his prey; the impulse was such, that as he caught him in his arms, both rolled over together on the floor. The struggle was but brief; Mark, superior in youth, strength, and activity, soon got him under, and with his knee upon his chest, pinioned him down to the ground. There was a pause, the only sounds being the quick-drawn breathings of both, as with looks of hate they gazed at each other;—while with one hand he grasped Hemsworth by the throat, with the other he felt for his pistol: slowly he drew forth the weapon, and cocked it; then laying the cold muzzle upon the other's forehead, he pressed the trigger; the cock snapped, but the priming burned. He flung the weapon from him in passion, and drew another; but ere he could adjust it, Hemsworth ceased to breathe; a cold livid colour spread over his features, and a clammy sweat bedewed his forehead—he had fainted.
Mark dropped the uplifted weapon, as he muttered—“It was a fitting fate—the death of a coward.” Then standing up, he approached the window that overlooked the road, and threw it wide open. The storm still blew with all its force, and in a second extinguished the lights in the room, leaving all in darkness. With cautious steps, Mark moved towards where the body lay, and lifting it in his powerful arms, carried it towards the window; with one vigorous effort he hurled the lifeless form from him, and the heavy mass was heard as it fell crashing among the brushwood that covered the precipice.