“Vive la Contrabande, mes amis,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able.
“'Tis an elegant song, any way,” said Lanty, “if one only understood it all—and the tune's mighty like the 'Cruiskeen Lawn.'”
“Well, Harry,” said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “will the song persuade you to turn smuggler? I fear not. You'd rather practise your own 'Contrabande' among the bright eyes and dark locks of the capital. Well, there are worse 'metiers.' I have had a turn at it these fifteen years, and whether on the waters of Ontario, or Champlain, or scudding along under the fog-banks of the Scheldt, I never grew weary of it. But, now for a little business talk—where is the Padre? where's Father Luke? was he not to have been here to-night?”
Mary whispered the answer in the captain's ear.
“Ah! parbleu,” exclaimed he aloud—“is it so? Practising a little 'Contrebande' of his own—trying to see a poor fellow safe over the frontier, into the next world.”
“Fie for shame, Captain Jacques,” said Mary, with pious horror. “That's not the way to talk of the holy offices.”
“I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivières, he's the boy could despatch them without trouble.”
Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault's new turn of the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he went on—
“We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois Rivières, when a messenger came from Lachégon, for the Père to administer the last rites to a 'mourant.' Maurice promised to be there in half-an-hour, but never stirred—and though three other messengers came for him, the answer was all the same—until, at last came word, 'Cest trop tard, il est mort.'
“'Trop tard!' said Maurice, 'not a bit of it; give me a pen and ink, and some paper.' With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and wrote—
“'Mon cher Pierre—Fais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre diable, qui s'est glissé hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement il était bien pressé; mais tu l'arrangera pour le mieux.
“'Ton viel ami.'
“'Maurice Dulang. “'St. Pierre, à la Conciergerie au Paradis.'
“'Put that in his mouth,' said Maurice, 'and there's no fear of him.'”
“'Twas a blessed gospel he gave him,” said Mary, who did not comprehend the French portion of the story, “and sure it's as good as any thing.”
“We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine—but though the Commissaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a breviary in his portmanteau, and they couldn't let him off. Pauvre bête! To travel about the world with the 'pièce de conviction' in his possession. What, Harry, no more wine?”
“I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a temptation.”
“A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master Lawler—does it suit your palate?”
“I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,” said Lanty; “I'm not genteel enough for wine, God help me—but it's time to turn in, any how—and there's Mary asleep already.”
“I don't stir till I finish the flask,” said Jacques, firmly; “and if you won't drink, you needn't grudge me your company. It's hard to say when we meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn't that so?
“Yes, and that's the point I wish to come to—where and how shall I find a mount?—I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, but he has not made his appearance.”
“You never fell upon your legs more fortunately—here's your man for a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what's to be had now?”
“Devil a thing can be got for love or money,” said Lanty. “If the gentleman only told me yesterday—”
“Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the Western Ocean—but that's gone by—let us talk of to-day.”
“My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, I'll sell him; but he's a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price.”
“Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his condition bear it?”
“I'll answer for it—you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you give him ten minutes' rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom.”
“That's enough—what's his price?”
“Take a look at him first,” replied Lanty, “for if you are judge of a beast, you'll not refuse what I ask you.” With these words he lighted a candle, and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against the wall, and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, by a narrow passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by Talbot, Flahault remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. Scarcely, however, had the two figures disappeared in the distance, when he shook Mary violently by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, but collected tone—
“Mary—Mary, I say—is that fellow all safe?”
“Ay is he safe,” said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a second. “Why do you ask now?”
“I'll tell you why—for myself I care not a sous—I'm here to-day, away to-morrow—but Talbot's deep in the business—his neck's in the halter—can we trust Lawler on his account—a man of rank and large fortune as he is, cannot be spared—what say you?”
“You may trust him, Captain,” said Mary, “he knows his life would not be his own two hours if he turned informer—and then this Mr. Talbot, he's a great man you tell me?”
“He's a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the game—that's all I know, Mary—and, indeed, the present voyage was more to bring him over, than any thing else—but hush, here they come.”
“You shall have your money—you've no objection to French gold, I hope—for several years I have seen no other,” said Talbot entering.
“I know it well,” said Lanty, “and would just as soon take it, as if it had King George on it.”
“You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far off—will that do?” said the youth, as he emptied a heavily filled purse of gold, upon the table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer.
“As well as the best, sir,” said Lanty, as he stored the money in his long leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket.
“Will Mrs. M'Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake,” said the youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Venetian work, and threw it gallantly over Mary's; “this is the first shelter I have found, after a long exile from my native land; and you, my old comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are in the lugger—and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at once—I should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems over.”
Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young man and the others; for, although he had mingled but little in the evening's conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the charm of his good looks, had won their favourable opinions; besides that he was pledged to a cause which had all their sympathies.
While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and bridled the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still raging fiercely, and the night dark as ever.
“You'd better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him,” said Mary, as she looked out into the wild and dreary night.
“'Tis what I mean to do,” said Lanty, “I'll show him as far as the turn of the road.”
Though the stranger declined the proffered civility, Lanty was firm in his resolution, and the young man, vaulting lightly into the saddle, called out a last farewell: to the others, and rode on beside his guide.
Mary had scarcely time to remove the remains of the supper, when Lanty re-entered the cabin.
“He's the noble-hearted fellow, any way,” said he, “and never took a shilling off the first price I asked him;” and with that he put his hand into his breast pocket to examine, once more, the strange coin of France. With a start, a tremendous oath broke from him—“My money—my pocket-book is lost,” exclaimed he, in wild excitement, while he ransacked pocket after pocket of his dress. “Bad luck to that glen, I dropt it out there, and with the torrent of water that's falling, it will never be found—och, murther, this is too bad.”
In vain the others endeavoured to comfort and console him—all their assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its being discovered the next morning, were in vain. Lanty re-lighted the lantern, and muttering maledictions on the weather, the road, and his? own politeness, he issued forth to search after his treasure, an occupation which, with all his perseverance, was unsuccessful; for when day was breaking, he was still groping along the road, cursing his hard fate, and every thing which had any share in inflicting it.
“The money is not the worst of it,” said Lanty, as he threw himself down, exhausted and worn out, on his bed. “The money's not the worst of it—there was papers in that book, I wouldn't have seen for double the amount.”
Long after the old smuggler was standing out to sea the next day, Lanty Lawler wandered backwards and forwards in the glen, now searching among the wet leaves that lay in heaps by the way side, or, equally in vain, sounding every rivulet and water-course which swept past. His search, was fruitless; and well it might be—the road was strewn with fragments of rocks and tree-tops for miles—while even yet the swollen stream tore wildly past, cutting up the causeway in its passage, and foaming on amid the wreck of the hurricane.
Yet the entire of that day did he persevere, regardless of the beating rain, and the cold, drifting wind, to pace to and fro, his heart bent upon recovering what he had lost.
“Yer sowl is set upon money; devil a doubt of it, Lanty,” said Mary, as dripping with wet,# and shaking with cold, he at last re-entered the cabin; “sorra one of me would go rooting there, for a crock of goold, if I was sure to find it.”
“It is not the money, Mary, I tould you before—it's something else was in the pocket-book,” said he, half angrily, while he sat down to brood in silence over his misfortune.
“'Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then,” said she, with a spice of jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his addresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable.
“May be it is, and may be it is not,” was the cranky reply.
“Well, she'll have a saving husband, any way,” said Mary, tartly, “and one that knows how to keep a good grip of the money.”
The horse-dealer made no answer to this enconium on his economy, but with eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on his loss; meanwhile Mrs. M'Kelly's curiosity, piqued by her ineffectual efforts to obtain information, grew each instant stronger, and at last became irrepressible.
“Can't you say what it is you've lost? sure there's many a one goes by, here, of a Saturday to market—and if you leave the token—”
“There's no use in it—sorra bit,” said he, despondingly.
“You know your own saycrets best,” said Mary, foiled at every effort; “and they must be the dhroll saycrets too, when you're so much afraid of their being found out.”
“Troth then,” said Lanty, as a ray of his old gallantry shot across his mind; “troth then, there isn't one I'd tell a saycrct too as soon as yourself, Mary M'Kelly; you know the most of my heart already, and Why wouldn't you know it all?”
“Faix it's little I care to hear about it,” said Mary, with an affectation of indifference, the most finished coquetry could not have surpassed. “Ye may tell it, or no, just as ye plaze.”
“That's it now,” cried Lanty—“that's the way of women, the whole world over; keep never minding them, and bad luck to peace or case you get; and then try and plaze them, and see what thanks you have. I was going to tell you all about it.”
“And why don't you?” interrupted she, half fearing lest she might have pulled the cord over-tight already; “why don't you tell it, Lanty dear?”
These last words settled the matter. Like the feather that broke the camel's back, these few and slight syllables were all that was wanting to overcome the horse-dealer's resistance.
“Well, here it is now,” said he, casting, as he spoke, a cautious glance around, lest any chance listener should overhear him. “There was in that pocket-book, a letter, sealed with three big seals, that Father Luke gave me yesterday morning, and said to me, 'Lanty Lawler, I'm going over to Ballyvourney, and after that, I'm going on to Cork, and it's mighty likely I'll go as far as Dublin, for the Bishop may be there, and if he is, I must follow him; and here's a letter,' says he, 'that you must give the O'Donoghue with your own hands'—them was the words—'with your own hands, Lanty; and now swear you'll not leave it to any one else, but do as I tell you;' and, faix, I took my oath of it, and see, now, it's lost; may I never, but I don't know how I'll ever face him again; and sure God knows what was in it.” “And there was three seals on it,” said Mary, musingly, as if such extraordinary measures of secrecy could bode nothing good.
“Each of them as big as a half-crown—and it was thick inside too; musha 'twas the evil day I ever set eyes on it!” and with this allusion to the lost money, which, by an adroitness of superstition, he coupled with the bad luck the letter had brought him, Lanty took his farewell of Mary, and, with a heavy heart, set out on his journey.
The occurrence so briefly mentioned by Flahault, of the night attack on the “Lodge.” was not so easily treated by the residents; and so many different versions of the affair were in circulation, that Miss Travers, the only one whose information could have thrown any light upon it, was confused by the many marvels she heard, and totally unable to recall to mind what had really taken place. Sir Marmaduke himself examined. the servants, and compared their testimony; but fear and exaggeration conspired to make the evidence valueless. Some asserting that there were at least a hundred assailants surrounding the house at one time—others, that they wore a kind of uniform, and had their faces blackened—some again had seen parties prowling about the premises during the day, and could positively swear to one man, “a tall fellow in a ragged blue coat, and without shoes or stockings”—no uncommon phenomena in those parts. But the butler negatived all these assertions, and stoutly maintained that there had been neither attack nor assailants—that the whole affair was a device of Terry's, to display his zeal and bravery; and, in short, that he had set fire to the rick in the haggard, and “got up” the affray for his own benefit.
In proportion as any fact occurred to throw discredit on the testimony of each, he who proffered it became a thousand times more firm and resolute in his assertion—circumstances dubious a moment before, were then suddenly remembered and sworn to, with numerous little aids to corroboration newly recalled to mind. To one point, however, all the evidence more or less converged, and that was, to accuse Terry of being the cause, or at least an accomplice in the transaction. Poor fellow—his own devotedness had made enemies for him every where—the alacrity with which he mounted the burning stack was an offence not soon to be forgotten by those who neither risked life nor limb; nor were the taunts he lavished on their sluggish backwardness to be forgiven now. Unhappily, too, Terry was not a favourite among the servants: he had never learnt how much deference is due from the ragged man to the pampered menial of a rich household; he had not been trained to that subserviency of demeanour which should mark the intercourse of a poor, houseless, friendless creature like himself, with the tagged and lace-covered servants of a wealthy master. Terry, by some strange blunder of his nature, imagined that, in his freedom and independence, he was the better man of the two; he knew that to do nothing, was the prerogative of the great; and as he fulfilled that condition to a considerable extent, he fancied he should enjoy its privileges also. For this reason he had ever regarded the whole class of servants as greatly his inferiors; and although he was ready and willing to peril his life at any moment for Sir Marmaduke or his daughter, the merest common-place services he would refuse to the others, without a moment's hesitation. Neither intimidation could awe, nor bribery bend him—his nature knew not what fear was in any shape, save one—that of being apprehended and shot for a deserter—and as to any prospect of buying his good offices, that was totally out of the question.
In an Irish household Terry's character would have been appreciated at once. The respect which is never refused to any bereavement, but, in particular, to that greatest of all afflictions, would have secured for him, there, both forgiveness and affection—his waywardness and caprice would have been a law to the least good-tempered servant of the family; but Sir Marmaduke's retainers were all English, and had about as much knowledge of, or sympathy with, such a creature, as he himself possessed of London life and manners.
As his contempt was not measured by any scale of prudence, but coolly evinced on every occasion of their intercourse, they, one and all, detested him beyond bounds—most, asserting that he was a thoroughpaced knave, whose folly was a garb assumed to secure a life of idleness—and all, regarding him in the light of a spy, ever ready to betray them to their master.
When, therefore, one after another, the servants persisted in either openly accusing or insinuating suggestions against Terry, Sir Marmaduke became sorely puzzled. It was true, he himself had witnessed his conduct the night before; but if their version was correct, all his daring, energy, and boldness were so many proofs against him. He was, indeed, reluctant to think so badly of the poor fellow—but how discredit the evidence of his entire household? His butler had been in his service for years—and oh! what a claim for all the exercise of evil influence—for all the petty tyranny of the low-minded and the base-born—tracking its way through eaves-dropping, and insinuating its venom in moments of unguarded freedom. His footman too—but why go on? His daughter alone rejected the notion with indignation; but in her eager vindication of the poor fellow's honour, her excitement militated against success—for age thus ever pronounces upon youth, and too readily confounds a high-spirited denunciation of wrong, with a mistaken, ill-directed enthusiasm. He listened, it is true, to all she said of Terry's devotedness and courage—of his artless, simple nature—of his single-minded, gentle character; but by a fatal tendency, too frequent as we advance in years, the scales of doubt ever lean against, and not to the side favourable to human nature, and as he shook his head mournfully, he said—
“I wish I did not suspect him.”
“Send for him at least,” said his daughter, as with an effort she restrained the emotion that agitated her; “speak to him yourself.”
“To what end, my child, if he really is innocent?”
“Oh! yes, indeed—indeed he is,” she exclaimed, as the tears at length fell fast upon heir cheek.
“Well then, be it so,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he rung the bell, and ordered Terry to be sent for.
While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her hands, her father paced slowly up and down the room; and so absorbed was he in his thoughts, that he had not noticed Terry, who had meanwhile entered the room, and now stood respectfully beside, the door. When the old man's eyes did fall on him, he started back, with horror and astonishment. The poor fellow's clothes were actually reduced to a mass of burned rags—one sleeve was completely gone, and, there, could be seen his bare arm scorched and blackened by the fire—a bandage of coarse linen wrapping the hand and fingers—a deep cut marked his brow—and his hair was still matted and clotted with the blood—awhile his face was of the colour of death itself.
“Can you doubt him now, father,” whispered the young girl, as she gazed on the poor fellow, whose wandering eyes roamed over the ornaments of the chamber, in total unconsciousness of himself and his sufferings.
“Well, Terry,” said Sir Marmaduke after a pause, “what account do you give of last night's business?”
“That's a picture of Keim-an-Eigh,” said Terry, as he fixed his large eyes, open to their widest extent, on a framed drawing on the wall. “There's the Eagle's Cliff, and that's Murrow Waterfall—and there's the lake—ay, and see if there isn't a boat on it. Well, well, but it's beautiful—one could walk up the shepherd's path there, where the goat is—ay, there's a fellow going up—musha, that's me—I'm going over to Cubber-na-creena, by the short cut.”
“Tell me all you know of what happened last night, Terry,” repeated Sir Marmaduke.
“It was a great fire, devil a doubt of it,” said Terry, eagerly; “the blaze from the big stack was twice as high as the roof; but when I put the wet sail of the boat on it, it all went into black smoke; it nearly choked me.”
“How did it catch fire first, Terry? can you tell us that?”
“They put a piece of tindir in it; I gave them an ould rag, and they rubbed it over with powder, and set it burning.'
“Who were they that did this?”
“The fellows that threw me down—what fine pistols they had, with silver all over them! They said that they would not beat me at all, and they didn't either. When I gave them the rag, they said, 'Now, my lad, we'll show you a fine fire;' and, true for them, I never seen a grander.”
In this vague, rambling strain, did Terry reply to every question put to him, his thoughts ever travelling in one narrow circle. Who they were that fired the haggard, how many, and what kind of appearance they wore, he knew nothing of whatever; for in addition to his natural imbecility of mind, the shock of the adventure, and the fever of his wounds and bruises, had utterly routed the small remnant of understanding which usually served to guide him.
To one question only did his manner evince hesitation and doubt in the answer, and that was, when Sir Marmaduke asked him, how it happened that he should have been up at the Lodge at so late an hour, since the doors were all locked and barred a considerable time previous.
Terry's face flushed scarlet at the question, and he made no reply; he stole a sharp, quick glance towards Miss Travers, beneath his eyelids, but as rapidly withdrew it again, when his colour grew deeper and deeper.
The old man marked the embarrassment, and all his suspicions were revived at once. “You must tell me this, Terry,” said he, in a voice of some impatience; “I insist upon knowing it.”
“Yes, Terry, speak it out freely; you can have no cause for concealment,” said Sybella, encouragingly.
“I'll not tell it!” said he, after a pause of some seconds, during which he seemed to have been agitating within himself all the reasons on either side—“I'll not tell it.”
“Come, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke angrily, “I must and will know this; your hesitation has a cause, and it shall be known.”
The boy started at the tones so unusual to his ears, and stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.
“I am not displeased with you, Terry—at least I shall not be, if you speak freely and openly to me. Now, then, answer my question—What brought you about the Lodge at so late an hour?”
“I'll not tell,” said the youth resolutely.
“For shame, Terry,” said Sybella, in a low, soothing voice, as she drew near him; “how can you speak thus to my father. You would not have me displeased with you?”
The boy's face grew pale as death, and his lips quivered with agitation, while his eyes, glazed with heavy tears, were turned downwards; still he never spoke a word.
“Well, what think you of him, now?” said Sir Marmaduke in a whisper to his daughter.
“That he is innocent—perfectly innocent,” replied she, triumphantly. “The poor fellow has his own reasons—shallow enough, doubtless—for his silence; but they have no spot or stain of guilt about them, Let me try if I cannot unfathom this business—I'll go down to the boat-house.”
The generous girl delayed not a moment, but hastened from the room as she spoke, leaving Sir Marmaduke and Terry silently confronting each other. The moment of his daughter's departure, Sir Marmaduke felt relieved from the interference her good opinion of Terry suggested, and, at once altering his whole demeanour, he walked close up to him, and said—
“I shall but give you one chance more, sir. Answer my question now, or never.”
“Never, then!” rejoined Terry, in a tone of open defiance.
The words, and the look by which they were accompanied, overcame the old man's temper in a moment, and he said—
“I thought as much. I guessed how deeply gratitude had sunk in such a heart. Away! Let me see you no more.”
The boy turned his eyes from the speaker till they fell upon his own seared and burned limb, and the hand swathed in its rude bandage. That mute appeal was all he made, and then burst into a flood of tears. The old man turned away to hide his own emotions, and when he looked round, Terry was gone. The hall door lay open. He had passed out and gained the lawn—no sight of him could be seen.
“I know it, father, I know it all now,” said Sybella, as she came running up the slope from the lake.
“It is too late, my child; he has gone—left us for ever, I fear,” said Sir Marmaduke, as in shame and sorrow he rested his head upon her shoulder.
For some seconds she could not comprehend his words; and, when at last she did so, she burst forth—
“And, oh, father, think how we have wronged him. It was in his care and devotion to us, the poor fellow incurred' our doubts. His habit was to sit beneath the window each night, so long as lights gleamed within. Till they were extinguished, he never sought his rest. The boatman tells me this, and says, his notion was, that God watches over the dark hours only, and that man's precautions were needed up to that time.”
With sincere and heartfelt sorrow Sir Marmaduke turned away. Servants were despatched on foot and horseback to recover the idiot boy, and persuade him to return; but his path lay across a wild and mountain region, where few could follow; and at nightfall the messengers returned unsuccessful in their search.
If there was real sorrow over his departure in the parlour, the very opposite feeling pervaded the kitchen. There, each in turn exulted in his share of what had occurred, and took pains to exaggerate his claims to gratitude, for having banished one so unpopular and unfriended.
Alarm at the attack of the previous night, and sorrow for the unjust treatment of poor Terry, were not Sir Marmaduke's only emotions on this sad morning. His messenger had just returned from Carrig-na-curra with very dispiriting tidings of Herbert O'Donoghue. Respect for the feelings of the family under the circumstances of severe illness, had induced him to defer his intended visit to a more suitable opportunity; but his anxiety for the youth's recovery was unceasing, and he awaited the return of each servant sent to inquire after him, with the most painful impatience. In this frame of mind was he as evening drew near, and he wandered down his avenue to the road-side to learn some minutes earlier the last intelligence of the boy. It was a calm and peaceful hour; not a leaf moved in the still air; and all in the glen seemed bathed in the tranquil influence of the mellow sunset. The contrast to the terrific storm which so lately swept through the mountain-pass was most striking, and appealed to the old man's heart, as reflecting back the image of human life, so varying in its aspect, so changeful of good and evil. He stood and meditated on the passages of his own life, whose tenor had, till now, been so equable, but whose fortunes seemed already to participate in the eventful fate of a distracted country. He regretted, deeply regretted, that he had ever come to Ireland. He began to learn how little power there is to guide the helm of human fortune, when once engaged in the stormy current, and he saw himself already the sport of a destiny he had never anticipated.
If he was puzzled at the aspect of a peasantry, highly gifted with intelligence, yet barbarously ignorant—active and energetic, yet indolent and fatalist—the few hints he had gathered of his neighbour, the O'Donoghue, amazed him still more; and by no effort of his imagination could he conceive the alliance between family pride and poverty—between the reverence for ancestry, and an utter indifference to the present. He could not understand such an anomaly as pretension without wealth; and the only satisfactory explanation he could arrive at, to himself, was, that in a wild and secluded tract, even so much superiority as this old chieftain possessed, attracted towards him the respect of all humbler and more lowly than himself, and made even his rude state seem affluence and power. If in his advances to the O' Donoghue he had observed all the forms of a measured respect, it was because he felt so deeply his debtor for a service, that he would omit nothing in the repayment: his gratitude was sincere and heartfelt, and he would not admit any obstacle in the way of acknowledging it.
Reflecting thus, he was suddenly startled by the sound of wheels coming up the glen—he listened, and now heard the low trot of a horse, and the admonitions of a man's voice, delivered in tones of anger and impatience. The moment after, an old-fashioned gig, drawn by a small miserable pony, appeared, from which a man had dismounted to ascend the hill.
“A fine evening, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, as the stranger, whose dress bespoke one of the rank of gentleman, drew near.
The other stopped suddenly, and surveyed the baronet without speak ing; then, throwing down the collar of his great coat, which he wore high round his face, he made a respectful salute, and said—
“A lovely evening, sir. I have the honour to see Sir Marmaduke Travers, I believe? May I introduce myself, Doctor Roach, of Killarney?”
“Ah, indeed! Then you are probably come from Mr. O'Donoghue's house? Is the young gentleman better this evening?”
Roach shook his head dubiously, but made no reply.
“I hope, sir, you don't apprehend danger to his life?” asked Sir Marmaduke, with an effort to appear calm as he spoke.
“Indeed I do, then,” said Roach, firmly; “the mischiefs done already.”
“He's not dead?” said Sir Marmaduke, almost breathless in his terror.
“Not dead; but the same as dead: effusion will carry him off some time to-morrow.”
“And can you leave him in this state? Is there nothing to be done? Nothing you could suggest?” cried the old man, scarcely able to repress his indignant feeling at the heartless manner of the doctor.
“There's many a thing one might try,” said Roach, not noticing the temper of the question, “for the boy is young; but for the sake of a chance, how am I to stay away from my practice and my other patients? And indeed slight a prospect as he has of recovery, my own of a fee is slighter still. I think I've all the corn in Egypt in my pocket this minute,” said he, slapping his hand on his purse: “one of the late king's guineas, wherever they had it lying by till now.”
“I am overjoyed to have met you, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke hastily, and by a great exertion concealing the disgust this speech suggested. “I wish for an opinion about my daughter's health—a cold, I fancy—but to-morrow will do better. Could you return to Mr. O'Donoghue's tonight? I have not a bed to offer you here. This arrangement may serve both parties, as I fervently hope something may yet be done for the youth.”
“I'll visit Miss Travers in the morning with pleasure.”
“Don't leave him, sir, I entreat you, till I send over; it will be quite time enough when you hear from me: let the youth be your first care, doctor; in the mean while accept this slight retainer, for I beg you to consider your time as given to me now,” and with that he pressed several guineas into the willing palm of the doctor.
As Roach surveyed the shining gold, his quick cunning divined the old baronet's intentions, and with a readiness long habit had perfected, he said—
“The case of danger before all others, any day. I'll turn about at once and see what can be done for the lad.”
Sir Marmaduke leaned towards him, and said some words hastily in a low whispering voice.
“Never fear—never fear, Sir Marmaduke,” was the reply, as he mounted to the seat of his vehicle, and turned the pony's head once more down the glen.
“Lose no time, I beseech you,” cried the old man, waving his hand in token of adieu; nor was the direction unheeded, for, using his whip with redoubled energy, the doctor sped along the road at a canter, which threatened annihilation to the frail vehicle at every bound of the animal.
“Five hundred!” muttered Sir Marmaduke to himself, as he looked after him. “I'd give half my fortune to see him safe through it.”
Meanwhile Roach proceeded on his way, speculating on all the gain this fortunate meeting might bring to him, and then meditating what reasons he should allege to the O'Donoghue for his speedy return.
“I'll tell him a lucky thought struck me in the glen,” muttered he; “or, what! if I said I forgot something—a pocket-book, or case of instruments—any thing will do;” and, with this comfortable reflection, he urged his beast onward.
The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow causeway, which led to the old keep; and here, now, Kerry O'Leary was closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a bolt and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. The sound of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman's ear, for he hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of the gate, and as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred with iron, resembled the grated aperture of a convent door.
“You're late this time, any how,” cried Kerry. “Tramp back again, friend, the way you came; and be thankful it's myself seen you; for, by the blessed Father, if it was Master Mark was here, you'd carry away more lead in your skirts than you'd like.”
“What, Kerry?—what's that you're saying?” said the astonished doctor; “don't you know me, man?”
“Kerry's my name, sure enough; but artful as you are, you'll just keep the other side of the door. Be off now, in God's name. 'Tis a fair warning I give you; and faix if you won't listen to my son, you might hear worse;” and as he spoke, that ominous sound, the click of a gun-cock, was heard, and the muzzle of a carbine peeped between the iron bars.
“Tear-and-ounds! ye scoundrel! you're not going to fire a bullet at me?”
“'Tis slugs they are,” was the reply, as Kerry adjusted the piece, and seemed to take as good an aim as the darkness permitted; “divil a more nor slugs, as you'll know soon. I'll count three, now, and may I never wear boots, if I don't blaze, if you're not gone before it's over. Here's one,” shouted he, in a louder key.
“The saints protect me, but I'll be murdered,” muttered old Roach, blessing himself, but unable from terror to speak aloud, or stir frozen the spot.
“Here's two!” cried Kerry, still louder.
“I'm going!—I'm going! give me time to leave this blasted place; bad luck to the day and the hour I ever saw it.”
“It's too late,” shouted Kerry. “Here's three!” and as he spoke bang went the piece, and a shower of slugs and duck-shot came peppering over the head and counter of the old pony; for in his fright, Roach had fallen on his knees to pray. The wretched quadruped, thus rudely saluted, gave a plunge and a kick, and then wheeled about with an alacrity long forgotten, and scampered down the causeway with the old gig at his heels, rattling as if it were coming in pieces. Kerry broke into a roar of laughter, and screamed out—
“I'll give you another yet, begorra! that's only a true copy; but you'll get the original now, you ould varmint!”
A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, was the only response; for in his fear he thought the contents of the piece were in his body.
“Musha, I hope he isn't dead,” said Kerry, as he opened the wicket cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. “Mister Cassidy—Mister James, get up now—it's only joking I was.—Holy Joseph! is he kilt?” and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. “By all that's good, I've done for the sheriff,” said he, as he stood over the body. “Oh! wirra, wirra! who'd think a few grains of shot would kill him.”
“What's the matter here? who fired that shot?” said a deep voice, as Mark O'Donoghue appeared at Kerry's side, and snatching the lantern, held it down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor.
“I'm murdered! I'm murdered!” was the faint exclamation of old Roach. “Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O'Leary murdered me.”
“Where are you wounded? where's the ball?” cried Mark, tearing open the coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety..
“I don't know, I don't know; it's inside bleeding I feel.”
“Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you; you're frightened, that's all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we'll help him in.”
But Kerry had fled; the idea of the gallows had just shot across his mind, and he never waited for any further disclosures about his victim; but deep in the recesses of a hay-loft he lay cowering in terror, and endeavouring to pray. Meanwhile Mark had taken the half lifeless body on his shoulder, and with the ease and indifference he would have bestowed upon an inanimate burden, coolly earned him into the parlour, and threw him upon a sofa.
“What have you got there, Mark?” called out the O'Donoghue, as the young man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa.
“Old Roach, of Killarney,” answered Mark sullenly. “That confounded fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of slugs at him—that's certain; but I don't think there's much mischief done.” As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor's throat. “You're nothing the worse, man,” added he, roughly; “you've given many a more dangerous dose yourself, I'll be bound, and people have survived it too.”
“I'm better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something better; but may I never leave this spot if I don't prosecute that scoundrel, O'Leary. It was all malice—I can swear to that.”
“Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy.”
“No, no—don't tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. He filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it.”
“Come, come, Roach, don't be angry; it's all past and over now; the fellow did it for the best.”
“Did it for the best! Fired a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow-creature for the best!”
“To be sure he did,” broke in Mark, with an imperious look and tone. “There's no harm done, and you need not make such a work about it.”
“Where's the pony and the gig, then?” called out Roach, suddenly remembering the last sight he had of them.
“I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty kettles at his tail. They'll stop him at last; and if they shouldn't, I don't suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn't worth a five pound note—no, even giving the owner into the bargain,” muttered he, as he turned away.
The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon Roach; as if galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust his hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his invariable signal for close action. “What, sir, do you tell me that my conveniency, with the pony, harness and all—”
“Have patience, Roach,” interposed the old man; “Mark was but jesting. Come over and join us here.” At the same instant the door was flung suddenly wide, and Sir Archy rushed in, with a speed very unlike his ordinary gait. “There's a change for the better,” cried he, joyfully; “the boy has made a rally, and if we could overtake that d——d auld beestie, Roach, and bring him back again, we might save the lad.”
“The d——d auld beestie,” exclaimed Roach, as he sprung from the sofa and stood before him, “is very much honoured by your flattering mention of him.” Then turning towards the O'Donoghue, he added—“Take your turn out of me now, when you have me; for, by the Father of Physic, you'll never see Denis Roach under this roof again.”
The O'Donoghue laughed till his face streamed with the emotion, and he rocked in his chair like one in a convulsion. “Look, Archy,” cried he—“see now!—hear me, Roach,” were the only words he could utter between the paroxysms, while M'Nab, the very picture of shame and confusion, stood overwhelmed with his blunder, and unable to say a word.
“Let us not stand fooling here,” said Mark, gruffly, as he took the Doctor's arm; “come and see my brother, and try what can be done for him.”
With an under-growl of menace and rage, old Roach suffered himself to be led away by the young man, Sir Archy following slowly, as they mounted the stairs.
Although alone, the O'Donoghue continued to laugh over the scene he had just witnessed; nor did he know which to enjoy more—the stifled rage of the Doctor, or the mingled shame and distress of M'Nab. It was, indeed, a rare thing to obtain such an occasion for triumph over Sir Archy, whose studied observance of all the courtesies and proprieties of life, formed so strong a contrast with his own careless and indifferent habits.
“Archy will never get over it—that's certain, and begad he shan't do so for want of a reminder. The d——d auld beestie!” and with the words came back his laughter, which had not ceased as Mark re-entered the room. “Well, lad,” he cried, “have they made it up—what has Sir Archy done with him?”
“Herbert's better,” said the youth, in a low deep voice, and with a look that sternly rebuked the heartless forgetfulness of his father.
“Ah! better, is he? Well, that is good news, Mark; and Roach thinks he may recover?”
“He has a chance now; a few hours will decide it. Roach will sit up with him till four o'clock, and then, I shall take the remainder of the night, for my uncle seems quite worn out with watching.”
“No, Mark, my boy, you must not lose your night's rest; you've had a long and tiresome ride to-day.”
“I'm not tired, and I'll do it,” replied he, in the determined tone of his self-willed habit—one, which his father had never sought to control, from infancy upwards. There was a long pause after this, which Mark broke, at length, by saying—“So, it is pretty clear now that our game is up—the mortgage is foreclosed. Hemsworth has noticed the Ballyvourney tenants not to pay us the rents, and the ejectment goes on.”
“What of Callaghan?” asked the O'Donoghue, in a sinking voice.
“Refused—flatly refused to renew the bills. If we give him five hundred down,” said the youth, with a bitter laugh, “he says, he'd strain a point.”
“You told him how we were circumstanced, Mark? Did you mention about Kate's money?”
“No,” said Mark, sternly, as his brows met in a savage frown. “No, sir, I never said a word of it. She shall not be made a beggar of, for our faults. I told you before, and I tell you now, I'll not suffer it.”
“But hear me, Mark. It is only a question of time. I'll repay——”
“Repay!” was the scornful echo of the young man, as he turned a withering glance at his father.
“Then there's nothing but ruin before us,” said the O'Donoghue, in a solemn tone—“nothing!”
The old man's head fell forward on his bosom, and, as his hands dropped listlessly down at either side, he sat the very impersonation of overwhelming affliction, while Mark, with heavy step and slow, walked up and down the roomy chamber.
“Hemsworth's clerk hinted something about this old banker's intention of building here,” resumed he, after a long interval of silence.
“Building where?—-over at 'the Lodge?'”
“No, here—at Carrig-na-curra—throwing down this old place, I suppose, and erecting a modern villa instead.”
“What!” exclaimed the O'Donoghue, with a look of fiery indignation. “Are they going to grub us out, root and branch? Is it not enough to banish the old lords of the soil, but they must remove their very landmarks also?”
“It is for that he's come here, I've no doubt,” resumed Mark; “he only waited to have the whole estate in his possession, which this term will give him.”
“I wish he had waited a little longer—a year, or at most, two, would have been enough,” said the old man, in a voice of great dejection, then added, with a sickly smile—“You have little affection for the old walls, Mark.”
The youth made no reply, and he went on—“Nor is it to be wondered at. You never knew them in their happy days! but I did, Mark—ay, that I did. I mind the time well, when your grandfather was the head of this great county—when the proudest and the best in the land stood uncovered when he addressed them, and deemed the highest honour they could receive, an invitation to this house. In the very room where we are sitting, I've seen thirty guests assembled, whose names comprised the rank and station of the province; and yet, all—every man of them, regarded him as their chief, and he was so, too—the descendant of one who was a king.”
The animated features of the young man, as he listened, encouraged the O'Donoghue, and he went on. “Thirty-seven thousand acres descended to my grandfather, and even that was but a moiety of our former possessions.”
“Enough of this,” interrupted Mark rudely. “It is but an unprofitable theme. The game is up, father,” added he, in a deep stern voice, “and I, for one, have little fancy to wait for the winner to claim the stakes. Could I but see you safely out of the scrape, I'd be many a mile away, ere a week was over.”
“You would not leave me, boy!” cried the old man, as he grasped the youth's hands in his, and gazed on him with streaming eyes. “You would not desert your poor old father. Oh, no—no, Mark; this would not be like you. A little patience, my child, and death will save you that cruelty.”
The young man's chest heaved and fell like a swelling wave; but he never spoke, nor changed a muscle of his rigid features.
“I have borne all misfortunes well till now,” continued the father. “I cared little on my own account, Mark; my only sorrow was for you; but so long as we were together, boy—so long as hand in hand we stood against the storm, I felt that my courage never failed me. Stay by me, then, Mark—tell me that whatever comes, you'll never leave me. Let it not be said, that when age and affliction fell upon the O'Donoghue, his son—the boy of his heart—deserted him. You shall command in every thing,” said he, with an impassioned tone, as he fixed his eyes upon the youth's countenance. “I ask for nothing but to be near you. The house—the property—all shall be yours.”
“What house—what property—do you speak of?” said Mark, rudely. “Are we not beggars?”
The old man's head dropped heavily; he relinquished the grasp of his son's hand, and his outstretched arm fell powerless to his side. “I was forgetting,” murmured he, in a broken voice—“it is as you say—you are right, Mark—you must go.”
Few and simple as the words were, the utterance sunk deep into the young man's heart; they seemed the last effort of courage wrung from despair, and breathed a pathos he was unable to resist.
“I'll not leave you,” said he, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper: “there's my hand upon it,” and he wrung in his strong grasp the unresisting fingers of the old man. “That's a promise, father, and now let us speak no more about it.”
“I'll get to my bed, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, as he pressed his hands upon his throbbing temples. It was many a day since anything like emotion had moved him, and the conflict of passion had worn and exhausted him. “Good-night, my boy—my own boy;” and he fell upon the youth's shoulder, half choked with sobs.
As the O'Donoghue slowly ascended the stairs, towards his bedroom, Mark threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands. His sorrow was a deep one. The resolve he had just abandoned, had been for many a day the cherished dream of his heart—his comfort under every affliction—his support against every difficulty. To seek his fortune in some foreign service—to win an honourable name, even though in a strange land, was the whole ambition of his life; and so engrossed was he in his own calculations, that he never deigned a thought of what his father might feel about it. The poverty that eats its way to the heart of families seldom fails to loosen the ties of domestic affection. The daily struggle, the hourly conflict with necessity, too often destroy the delicate and trustful sense of protection that youth should feel towards age. The energies that should have expanded into homely affection and mutual regard, are spent in warding off a common enemy; and with weary minds and seared hearts the gentler charities of life have few sympathies. Thus was it here. Mark mistook his selfishness for a feeling of independence; he thought indifference to others meant confidence in himself—and he was not the first who made the mistake.
Tired with thinking, and harassed with difficulties, through which he could see no means of escape, he threw open the window, to suffer the cool night air to blow upon his throbbing temples, and sat down beside the casement, to enjoy its refreshing influence. The candles had burned down in the apartment, and the fire, now reduced to a mere mass of red embers, scarce threw a gleam beyond the broad hearth-stone. The old tower itself flung a dark shadow upon the rock, and across the road beneath it, and, except in the chamber of the sick boy, in a distant part of the building, not a light was to be seen.
The night was calm and star-lit: a stillness almost painful reigned around. It seemed as if exhausted nature, tired with the work of storm and hurricane, had sunk into a deep and wearied sleep. Thousands of bright stars speckled the dark sky; yet the light they shed upon the earth, but dimly distinguished mountain and valley, save where the' calm surface of the lake gave back their lustre, in a heaven, placid and motionless as their own. Now and then, a bright meteor would shoot across the blue vault, and disappear in the darkness; while in tranquil splendour, the planets shone on, as though to say, the higher destiny is to display an eternal brightness, than the brilliancy of momentary splendour, however glittering its wide career.
The young man gazed upon the sky. The lessons which, from human lips, he had rejected with scorn and impatience, now sunk deeply into his nature, from those silent monitors. The stars looked down, like eyes, into his very soul, and he felt as if he could unburthen his whole heart of its weary load, and make a confidence with heaven.
“They point ever downwards,” said he to himself, as he watched the bright streak of the falling stars, and moralized on their likeness to man's destiny. But as he spoke, a red line shot up into the sky, and broke into ten thousand glittering spangles, shedding over glen and mountain, a faint but beauteous gleam, scarce more lasting than the meteor's flash. It was a rocket sent up from the border of the Bay, and was quickly answered by another from the remote end of the Glen. The youth started, and leaning out from the window, looked down the valley; but nothing was to be seen or heard—all was silent as before, and already the flash of the signals, for such they must have been he could not doubt, had faded away, and the sky shone in its own spangled beauty.
“They are smugglers!” muttered Mark, as he sank back in his chair; for in that wild district such signals were employed without much fear, by those who either could trust the revenue as accomplices, or dare them by superior numbers. More than once it had occurred to him to join this lawless band, and many a pressing invitation had he received from the leaders to do so; but still, the youth's ambition, save in his darkest hours, took a higher and a nobler range: the danger of the career was its only fascination to him. Now, however, all these thoughts were changed: he had given a solemn pledge to his father never to leave him; and it was with a feeling of half apathy he sat, pondering over what cutter it might be that had anchored, or whose party were then preparing to land their cargo.
“Ambrose Denner, belike,” muttered he to himself, “the Flemish fellow, from the Scheldt—a greedy old scoundrel too, he refused a passage to a poor wretch that broke the jail in Limerick, because he could not pay for it. I wish the people here may remember it to him. Maybe its Hans 'der Teufel,' though, as they call him; or Flahault—he's the best of them, if there be a difference. I've half a mind to go down the Glen and see;” and while he hesitated, a low, monotonous sound of feet, as if marching, struck on his ear; and as he listened, he heard the distant tramp of men, moving in, what seemed, a great number. These could not be the smugglers, he well knew: reckless and fearless as they were, they never came in such large bodies as these noises portended.
There is something solemn in the sound of marching heard in the stillness of the night, and so Mark felt it, as with cautious breathing he leaned upon the window, and bent his ear to listen. Nearer and nearer they came, till at last the footfalls beat loudly on the dull ground as, in measured tread, they stepped. At first a dark moving mass, that seemed to fill the narrow road, was all he could discern, but as this came closer, he could perceive that they marched in companies of divisions, each headed by his leader, who, from time to time, stepped from his place, and observed their order and precision. They were all country people; their dress, as well as he could discern, the common costume of every day, undistinguished by any military emblem. Nor did they carry arms; the captains alone wore a kind of white scarf over the shoulder, which could be distinctly seen, even by the imperfect light. They, alone, carried swords, with which they checked the movements from time to time. Not a word was uttered in the dense ranks—not a murmur broke the stillness of the solemn scene, as that host poured on. The one command, “Right shoulders forward—wheel!” being given at intervals, as the parties defiled beneath the rock, at which place the road made an abrupt turning.
So strange the spectacle, so different from all he had ever witnessed or heard of, the youth, more than once half doubted lest, a wearied and fevered brain had not called up the illusion; but as he continued to gaze on the moving multitude, he was assured of its reality; and now was he harassed by conjectures what it all should mean. For nearly an hour—to him it seemed many such—the human tide flowed on, till at length the sounds grew fainter, and the last party moved by, followed, at a little distance, by two figures on horseback. Their long cloaks concealed the wearers completely from his view, but he could distinctly mark the steel scabbards of swords, and hear their heavy clank against the horses' flanks.
Suffering their party to proceed, the horsemen halted for a few seconds at the foot of the rock, and as they reined in, one called out to the other, in a voice, every syllable of which fell distinctly on Mark's ears—
“That's the place, Godfrey; and even by this light you can judge of its strength.”
“But why is he not with us?” said the other hastily. “Has he not an inheritance to win back—a confiscation to wipe out?”
“True enough,” said the first speaker; “but eighty winters do not improve a man's nerve for an hazardous exploit. He has a son though, and, as I hear, a bold fellow.”
“Look to him, Harvey: it is of moment that we should have one so near the Bay. See to this quickly. If he be like what you say, and desires a command—” The rest was lost in the sound of their retreating hoofs, for already the party resumed their journey, and were in a few minutes hidden from his view.
With many a conflicting doubt, and many a conjecture, each wilder than the other, Mark pondered over what he had seen, nor noted the time as it slipped past, till the grey tint of day-dawn warned him of the hour. The rumbling sounds of a country cart just then attracted his attention, and he beheld a countryman, with a little load of turf, on his way to the market at Killarney. Seeing that the man must have met the procession, he called aloud—
“I say, my good man, where were they all marching, to-night—those fellows?”
“What fellows, your honour?” said the man, as he touched his hat obsequiously.
“That great crowd of people—you could not help meeting them—there was no other road they could take.”
“Sorra man, woman, or child I seen, your honour, since I left home, and that's eight miles from this,” and so saying he followed his journey, leaving Mark in greater bewilderment than before.