If Frederick Travers went to sleep at night with very considerable doubts, as to the practicability of his plans regarding the O'Donoghues, his waking thoughts were very far from re-assuring him, and he heartily wished he had never engaged in the enterprize. Now, however, his honour was in a manner pledged; he had spoken so confidently of success, there was nothing for it but to go forward, and endeavour, as as well he might, to redeem his promise.
At the time we speak of, military men never for a moment divested themselves of the emblems of their career; the uniform and the sword, the plumed hat and the high boot, formed a costume not to be worn at certain periods and laid aside at others, but was their daily dress, varying merely in the degree of full or half dress, as the occasion warranted. There was no affectation of the happy freedom of “Mufti”—no pretended enjoyment of the incognito of a black coat and round hat; on the contrary, the king's livery was borne with a pride which, erring on the opposite side, suggested a degree of assumption and conscious importance in the wearer, which more or less separated the soldier from the civilian in bearing, and gradually originated a feeling of soreness on the part of the more humbly clad citizen towards the more favoured order.
A certain haughty, overbearing tone of manner, was then popular in the army, and particularly in those regiments which boasted of an unalloyed nobility among the officers. If they assumed an air of superiority to the rest of the service, so much the more did they look down upon the mere civilian, whom they considered as belonging to a very subordinate class and order of mankind. To mark the sense of this difference of condition in a hundred little ways, and by a hundred petty observances, was part of a military education, and became a more unerring test of the soldier in society, than even the cockade and the cross-belt. To suppose that such a line of conduct should not have inspired those against whom it was directed with a feeling of counter hatred, would be to disbelieve in human nature. The civilian, indeed, reciprocated with dislike the soldier's insolence, and, in their estrangement from each other, the breach grew gradually wider—the dominant tyranny of the one, and the base-born vulgarity of the other, being themes each loved to dilate upon without ceasing.
Now, this consciousness of superiority, so far from relieving Frederick Travers of any portion of the difficulty of his task, increased it tenfold. He knew and felt he was stooping to a most unwarrantable piece of condescension in seeking these people at all; and although he trusted firmly that his aristocratic friends were very unlikely to hear of proceedings in a quarter so remote and unvisited, yet how he should answer to his own heart for such a course, was another and a far more puzzling matter. He resolved, then, in the true spirit of his order, to give his conduct all the parade of a most condescending act, to let them see plainly, how immeasurably low he had voluntarily descended to meet them; and to this end he attired himself in his full field uniform, and with as scrupulous a care as though the occasion were a review before his Majesty. His costume of scarlet coat, with blue velvet facings, separating at the breast, so as to show a vest of white kerseymere, trimmed with a gold border—his breeches of the same colour and material, met at the knee by the high and polished boot, needed but the addition of his cocked hat, fringed with an edging of ostrich feathers, to set off a figure of singular elegance and symmetry. The young men of the day were just beginning to dispense with hair powder, and Fred wore his rich brown locks, long and floating, in the new mode—a fashion which well became him, and served to soften down the somewhat haughty carriage of his head. There was an air of freedom, an absence of restraint, in the military costume of the period, which certainly contributed to increase the advantages of a naturally good-looking man, in the same way as the present stiff, Prussian mode of dress, will, assuredly, conceal many defects in mould and form among less-favoured individuals. The loosely-falling flaps of the waistcoat—the deep hanging cuffs of the coat—the easy folds of the long skirt—gave a character of courtliness to uniform which, to our eye, it at present is very far from possessing. In fact, the graceful carriage and courteous demeanour of the drawing-room, suffered no impediment from the pillory of a modern stock, or the rigid inflexibility of a coat strained almost to bursting.
“Are you on duty, Fred?” said Sir Marmaduke, laughing, as his son entered the breakfast-room, thus carefully attired.
“Yes, sir; I am preparing for my mission; and it would ill become an ambassador to deliver his credentials in undress.”
“To what court are you then accredited?” said Sybella, laughing.
“His Majesty, The O'Donoghue,” interposed his father; “King of Glenflesk, Baron of Inchigeela, Lord Protector of—of half the blackguards in the county, I verily believe,” added he, in a more natural key.
“Are you really going to Carrig-na-curra, Fred?” asked Miss Travers, hurriedly; “are you going to visit our neighbours?”
“I'll not venture to say that such is the place, much less pretend to pronounce it after you, my dear sister, but I am about to wait on these worthy people, and, if they will permit me, have a peep at the interior of their stockade or wigwam, whichever it be.”
“It must have been a very grand thing in its day: that old castle has some fine features about it yet,” replied she calmly.
“Like Windsor, I suppose,” said Fred as he replied to her, and then complacently glanced at the well-fitting boot which ornamented his leg. “They'll not be over-ceremonious, I hope, about according me an audience.”
“Not in the forenoon, I believe,” said Sir Marmaduke drily; for he was recalling the description old Roach had given him of his own reception by Kerry O'Leary, and which circumstance, by-the-by, figured somewhat ostentatiously in his charge to the old baronet.
“Oh, then, they receive early,” resumed Fred; “the old French style—the 'petit levée du roi'—before ten o'clock. Another cup of tea, Sybella, and then I must look after a horse.
“I have given orders already on that score. I flatter myself you'll rather approve of my stud; for, amongst the incongruities of Ireland, I have fallen upon an honest horse-dealer.”
“Indeed!” said the young man, with more interest than he had yet shown in the conversation; “I must cultivate that fellow, one might exhibit him with great success in London.”
“Unquestionably, Fred, he is a curiosity; for while he is a perfect simpleton about the value of an animal; an easy-tempered, good-natured, soft fellow—with respect to knowledge of a horse, his points, his performance, and his soundness, I never saw his equal.”
“I'll give him a commission to get me two chargers,” said Fred, delighted at the prospect of deriving so much benefit from his Irish journey. “What makes you look so serious, Sybella?”
“Was I so, Fred? I scarcely know—perhaps I was regretting,” added she archly, “that there were no ladies at Carrig-na-curra to admire so very smart a cavalier.”
Frederick coloured slightly and endeavoured to laugh, but the consciousness that his “bravery” of costume was somewhat out of place, worried him and he made no reply.
“You'll not be long, Fred,” said his father, “I shall want you to take a walk with me to the lake.”
“No, Fred—don't stay long away; it is not above two miles from tills at farthest.”
“Had I not better send a guide with you?”
“No, no; if the place be larger than a mud hovel, I cannot mistake it. So here comes our steed. Well, I own, he is the best thing I've yet seen in these parts;” and the youth opened the window, and stepped out to approach the animal. He was, indeed, a very creditable specimen of Lanty's taste in horse-flesh—the model of a compact and powerfully-built cob horse.
“A hundred guineas, eh?” said Fred, in a tone of question.
“Sixty—not a pound more,” said the old man in conscious pride. “The fellow said but fifty; I added ten on my own account.”
Frederick mounted the cob, and rode him across the grass, with that quiet hand and steady seat which bespeaks the judgment of one called upon to be critical. “A little, a very little over-done in the mouthing, but his action perfect,” said he, as he returned to the window, and held the animal in an attitude to exhibit his fine symmetry to advantage. “The prince has a passion for a horse of this class; I hope you have not become attached to him?”
“His Royal Highness shall have him at once, Fred, if he will honour you by accepting him.” And as he spoke, he laid a stress on theyou, to evince the pleasure he anticipated in the present being made by Frederick, and not himself.
“Now, then, with God and St. George!” cried Fred, laughingly, as he waved an adieu with his plumed hat, and cantered easily towards the high road.
It was a clear and frosty day in December, with a blue sky above, and all below bright and glittering in a thin atmosphere. The lake, clear as crystal, reflected every cliff and crag upon the mountain—while each island on its surface was defined with a crisp sharpness of outline, scarce less beautiful than in the waving foliage of summer. The many-coloured heaths, too, shone in hues more bright and varied, than usual in our humid climate; and the voices which broke the silence, heard from long distances away, came mellowed and softened in their tones, and harmonized well with the solitary grandeur of the scene. Nor was Frederick Travers insensible to its influence; the height of those bold mountains—their wild and fanciful outlines—the sweeping glens that wound along their bases—the wayward stream that flowed through the deep valleys, and, as if in sportiveness, serpentined their course, were features of scenery he had not witnessed before; while the perfect solitude awed and appalled him.
He had not ridden long, when the tall towers of the old castle of Carrig-na-curra caught his eye, standing proudly on the bold mass of rock above the road. The unseemly adjunct of farm-house and stables were lost to view at such a distance, or blended with the general mass of building, so that the whole gave the impression of extent and pretension to a degree he was by no means prepared for. These features, however, gradually diminished as he drew nearer; the highly-pitched roof, pierced with narrow windows, patched and broken—the crumbling battlements of the towers themselves—the ruinous dilapidation of the outer buildings, disenchanted the spectator of his first more favourable opinion; until at length, as he surveyed the incongruous and misshapen pile, with its dreary mountain back-ground, he wondered how, at any point of view, he should have deemed it other than the gloomy abode it seemed at that moment.
193
The only figure Frederick Travers had seen, as he rode along, was that of a man carrying a gun in his hand, in a dress somewhat like a gamekeeper's, who, at some short distance from the road, moved actively across the fields, springing lightly from hillock to hillock with the step of a practised mountain walker, and seemingly regardless of the weight of a burden which he carried on one shoulder: so rapidly did he move, that Frederick found it difficult to keep pace with him, as the road was deeply cut up, and far from safe for horse travel. Curious to make out what he carried, Travers spurred eagerly forward; and, at last, but not without an effort, came within hail of him at the iron-barred gate which formed the outer entrance to the castle from the high road. The burden was now easily seen, and at once suggested to Frederick's mind the reason of the bearer's haste. It was a young buck, just killed; the blood still trickled from the wound in its skull.
“Leave that gate open, my good fellow,” cried Frederick, in a voice of command, as the other pushed the frail portal wide, and let it fall back heavily to its place again—“Do you hear me?—leave it open.”
“We always leap it when mounted,” was the cool reply, as the speaker turned his head round, and then, without deigning either another word or look, continued his way up the steep ascent.
Travers felt the rude taunt sorely, and would have given much to be near him who uttered it; but, whether disdaining to follow a counsel thus insolently conveyed, or, it might be, not over-confident of his horse, he dismounted, and, flinging wide the gate, rode quickly up the causeway—not, however, in time to overtake the other; for, although the way was enclosed by walls on both sides, he had disappeared already, but in what manner, and how, it seemed impossible to say.
“My father has omitted poaching, it would seem, in his catalogue of Irish virtues,” muttered the young man, as he rode through the arched keep, and halted at the chief entrance to the house. The door lay open, displaying the cheerful blaze of a pine-wood fire, that burned briskly within the ample chimney, in the keen air of a frosty morning. “I see I shall have my ride for my pains,” was Fred's reflection as he passed into the wide hall, and beheld the old weapons and hunting spoils arranged around the walls. “These people affect chieftainship, and go hungry to bed, to dream of fourteen quarterings. Be it so. I shall see the old rookery at all events;” and, so saying, he gave a vigorous pull at the old bell, which answered loudly in its own person, and, also, by a deep howl from the aged fox-hound, then lying at the fire in the drawing-room. These sounds soon died away, and a silence deep and unbroken as before succeeded. A second time, and a third, Travers repeated his summons, but without any difference of result, save that the dog no longer gave tongue;—it seemed as if he were becoming reconciled to the disturbance, as one that needed no farther attention from him.
“I must explore for myself,” thought Fred, and so, attaching his horse to the massive ring by which a chain used once to be suspended across the portal, he entered the house. Walking leisurely forward, he gained the long corridor; for a second or two he was uncertain how to proceed, when a gleam of light from the half-open door in the tower led him onward. As he drew near he heard the deep tones of a man's voice recounting, as it seemed, some story of the chase; the last words, at least, were—“I fired but one shot—the herd is wild enough already.” Travers pushed wide the door, and entered; as he did so, he involuntarily halted; the evidences of habits and tastes he was not prepared for, suddenly rebuked his unannounced approach, and he would gladly have retreated, were it now practicable.
“Well, sir,” said the same voice he heard before, and from a young man, who leaned with one arm on the chimney-piece, and with the other hand held his gun, while he appeared as if he had been conversing with a pale and sickly youth, popped and pillowed in a deep arm-chair. They were the only occupants of the room.
“Well, sir, it would seem you have made a mistake; the inn is lower down the glen—you'll see a sign over the door-way.”
The look which accompanied this insolent speech recalled at once to Frederick's mind the same figure he had seen in the glen; and, stung by impertinence from such a quarter, he replied—
“Have no fear, young fellow; you may poach every acre for twenty miles round—I have not tracked you on that score.”
“Poach!—tracked me!” reiterated Mark O'Donoghue, for it is needless to say it was he; and then, as if the ludicrous were even stronger in his mind than mere passion, he burst into a rude laugh; while the sick boy's pale face grew a deep crimson, as, with faltering accents, he said—
“You must be a stranger here, sir, I fancy.”
“I am so,” said Travers mildly and yielding at once to the respect ever due to suffering; “my name is Travers. I have come over here to enquire after a young gentleman who saved my sister's life.”
“Then you'vetrackedhim well,” interposed Mark, with an emphasis on the word. “Here he is.”
“Will you not sit down,” said Herbert, motioning with his wasted hand to a seat.
Frederick took his place beside the boy at once and said—“We owe you, sir, the deepest debt of gratitude it has ever been our fortune to incur; and if anything could enhance the obligation, it has been the heroism, the personal daring——”
“Hold there,” said Mark, sternly. “It's not our custom here to listen to compliments on our courage—we are O'Donoghues.”
“This young gentleman's daring was no common one,” answered Travers, as if stung by the taunt.
“My brother will scarce feel flattered by your telling him so,” was Mark's haughty answer; and for some seconds Frederick knew not how to resume the conversation; at last, turning to Herbert, he said—
“May I hope that, without offending you, we may be permitted in some shape to express the sentiment I speak of; it is a debt which cannot be requited; let us at least have some evidence that we acknowledge it.”
“It is the more like some of our own,” broke in Mark with a fierce laugh; “we have parchments enough, but we never pay. Your father's agent could tell you that.”
Frederick gave no seeming attention to this speech, but went on—“When I say there is nothing in our power we would deem enough, I but express the feelings of my father and myself.”
“There, there,” cried Mark, preventing Herbert who was about to reply, “you've said far more than was needed for a wet jacket and a few weeks' low diet. Let us have a word about the poaching you spoke of.”
His fixed and steady stare—the rigid brow, by which these words were accompanied, at once proclaimed the intention of one who sought reparation for an insult, and so instantly did they convey the sentiment, that Travers, in a second, forgot all about his mission, and, starting to his feet, replied in a whisper, audible but to Mark—
“True, it was a very hazardous guess; but when, in England, we meet with a fustian jacket and a broken beaver, in company with a gun and a game-bag, we have little risk in pronouncing the owner a game-keeper or a poacher.”
Mark struck his gun against the ground with such violence as shivered the stock from the barrel, while he grasped the corner of the chimney-piece convulsively with the other hand. It seemed as if passion had actually paralysed him: as he stood thus, the door opened, and Kate O'Donoghue entered. She was dressed in the becoming half-toilette of the morning, and wore on her head one of those caps of blue velvet, embroidered in silver, which are so popular among the peasantry of Rhenish Germany. The light airiness of her step as she came forward, unconscious of a stranger's presence, displayed her figure in its most graceful character. Suddenly her eyes fell upon Frederick Travers, she stopped and courtesied low to him, while he, thunderstruck with amazement at recognizing his fellow traveller so unexpectedly, could scarcely return her salute with becoming courtesy.
“Mr. Travers,” said Herbert, after waiting in vain for Mark to speak; “Mr. Travers has been kind enough to come and enquire after me. Miss O'Donoghue, sir;” and the boy, with much bashfulness, essayed in some sort the ceremony of introduction.
“My cousin, Mr. Mark O'Donoghue,” said Kate, with a graceful movement of her hand towards Mark, whose attitude led her to suppose he was not known to Travers.
“I have had the honour of presenting myself already,” said Frederick, bowing; but Mark responded not to the inclination, but stood still with bent brow and clenched lip, seemingly unconscious of all around him, while Kate seated herself, and motioned to Travers to resume his place. She felt how necessary it was she should atone, by her manner, for the strange rudeness of her cousin's; and her mind being now relieved of the fear which first struck her, that Frederick's visit might be intended for herself, she launched freely and pleasantly into conversation, recurring to the incidents of the late journey, and the fellow-travellers they had met with.
If Kate was not sorry to learn that “the Lodge” was tenanted by persons of such condition and class, as might make them agreeable neighbours, Travers, on the other hand, was overjoyed at discovering one of such attractions within an easy visiting distance, while Herbert sat by, wondering how persons, so little known to each other, could have so many things to say, and so many topics which seemed mutually interesting. For so it is; they who are ignorant of the world and its habits, can scarcely credit the great extent of those generalities which form food for daily intercourse—nor with what apparent interest people can play the game of life, with but counterfeit coinage. He listened at first with astonishment, and afterwards with delight, to the pleasant flippancy of each, as in turn they discussed scenes, and pleasures, and people, of whom he never so much as heard. The “gentillesse” of French manner—would that we had a name for the thing in English—imparted to Kate's conversation a graceful ease our more reserved habits rarely permit; and while in her costume and her carriage there was a certain coquetry discernible, not a particle of affectation pervaded either her opinions or expressions. Travers, long accustomed to the best society of London, had yet seen scarcely anything of the fascination of foreign agreeability, and yielded himself so insensibly to its charm, that an hour slipped away unconsciously, and he totally forgot the great object of his visit, and lost all recollection of the luckless animal he had attached to the door ring—luckless, indeed, for already a heavy snow-drift was falling, and the day had assumed all the appearance of severe winter.
“You cannot go now, sir,” said Herbert, as Frederick rose to take his leave;—“there's a heavy snow-storm without;” for the boy was so interested in all he heard, he could not endure the thought of his departure.
“Oh! it's nothing,” said Travers, lightly. “There's an old adage—'Snow should not scare a soldier.'”
“There's another proverb in the French service,” said Kate, laughing, as she pointed to the blazing hearth—“'Le soldat ne tourne pas son dos au feu.'”
199
“I accept the augury,” cried Frederick, laughing heartily at the witty misapplication of the phrase, and resumed his seat once more.
“Cousin Kate plays chess,” said Herbert, in his anxiety to suggest a plausible pretext for delaying Frederick's departure.
“And I am passionately fond of the game; would you favour me so far?”
“With pleasure,” said she smiling; “I only ask one condition, 'point se grace'—no giving back—the O'Donoghues never take or give quarter—isn't that so, Mark? Oh! he's gone,” and now for the first time it was remarked that he had left the apartment.
In a few moments after, they had drawn the little marquetrie table close to the fire, and were deeply interested in the game.
At first, each party played with a seeming attention, which certainly imposed on Herbert, who sat eagerly watching the progress of the game. Frederick Travers was, however, far more occupied in observing his antagonist than in the disposition of his rooks and pawns. While she, soon perceiving his inattention, half suspected that he did not deem her an enemy worth exerting his skill upon, and thus, partly in pique, she bestowed more watchfulness than at first.
“So, Mademoiselle,” cried Travers at length, recurring to his game, “I perceive you have only permitted me to advance thus far, to cut off my retreat for ever. How am I to save myself now?”
“It's hard to say, Sir Captain. It's the old tactique of Celts and Saxons on both sides; you would advance into the heart of the enemy's country, and as, unhappily, the men in ivory are truer than the natives were here, and won't take bribes to fight against their fellows, you must e'en stand or fall by your own deservings.”
“Come, then, the bold policy for ever. Check.”
“And you lose your castle.”
“And you your bishop!”
“We must avenge the church, sir. Take care of your queen.”
“'Parbleu,' Mademoiselle, you are a fierce foe. What say you, if we draw the battle?”
“No, no, cousin Kate; continue, and you win it.”
“Be it so. And now for my turn,” said Travers, who was really a first-rate player, and at length began to feel interested in the result.
The move he made exhibited so much of skill, that Kate foresaw that the fortune of the day was about to change. She leaned her brow upon her hand, and deliberated long on the move; and at length, lifting her head, she said—
“I should like much to beat you—but in fair fight, remember—no courtesy nor favour.”
“I can spare neither,” said Travers, smiling.
“Then, defeat is no dishonour. There's my move.”
“And mine,” cried Fred, as rapidly.
“What prevents my taking you? I see nothing.”
“Nor I either,” said he, half chagrined, for his move was an oversight.
“You are too proud to ask quarter—of course, you are—or I should say, take it back.”
“No, Kate, no,” whispered Herbert, whose excitement was at the highest.
“I must abide my fortune,” said Frederick, bowing; “and the more calmly, as I have won the game.”
“Won the game! How?—where?”
“Check!”
“How tauntingly he says it now,” said Kate, while her eyes sparkled brilliantly. “There is too much of the conqueror in all that.”
Frederick's glance met hers at the instant, and her cheek coloured deeply.
Who knows the source of such emotions, or of how much pleasure and pain they are made up! “And yet, I have not won,” said he, in a low voice.
“Then, be it a drawn battle,” said Kate. “You can afford to be generous, and I can't bear being beaten—that's the truth of it.”
“If I could but win!” muttered Travers, as he rose from the table; and whether she overheard the words, and that they conveyed more than a mere allusion to the game, she turned hastily away, and approached the window.
“Is that snow-ball your horse, Captain Travers?” said she, with a wicked smile.
“My father's favourite cob, by Jove!” exclaimed Frederick; and, as if suddenly aroused to the memory of his lengthy visit, made his 'adieus' with more confusion than was exactly suitable to a fashionable Guardsman—and departed.
“I like him,” said Herbert, as he looked out of the window after him. “Don't you, cousin Kate?”
But cousin Kate did not reply.
When Mark O'Donoghue left the room, his passion had become almost ungovernable—the entrance of his cousin Kate had but dammed up the current of his anger—and, during the few moments he still remained afterwards, his temper was fiercely tried by witnessing the courtesy of her manner to the stranger, and the apparent intimacy which subsisted between them. “I ought to have known it,” was the expression he muttered over and over to himself—“I ought to have known it! That fellow's gay jacket and plumed hat are dearer to her woman's heart, than the rude devotion of such as I am. Curses be on them, they carry persecution through every thing—house, home, country, rank, wealth, station—ay, the very affection of our kindred they grudge us! Was slavery ever like this?” And with these bitter words, the offspring of bitterer thoughts, he strode down the causeway, and reached the high road. The snow was falling fast—a chilling north wind drove the thin flakes along—but he heeded it not. The fire of anger that burned within his bosom defied all sense of winter's cold; and with a throbbing brow, and fevered hand, he went, turning from time to time to look up at the old castle, whence he expected each moment to see Travers take his departure. Now he hurried eagerly onward, as if to reach some destined spot—now he would stop, and retrace his steps, irresolutely, as though half determined to return home.
“Degraded, insulted, outraged on the very hearth of my father's house!” cried he, aloud, as he wrung his hands in agony, and gave his passion vent. Again he pressed forward, and at last arrived at that part of the glen, where the road seems escarped between the two mountains, which rise several hundred feet, like walls, on either side. Here he paused, and after examining the spot for some seconds, he muttered to himself, “He has no choice here, but stand or turn!” and so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat two pistols, examined the priming of each, and then replaced them. The prospect of speedy revenge seemed to have calmed his vindictive spirit, for now he continued to walk backwards and forwards, at a slow pace, like a sentinel on his post, pausing occasionally to listen if a horse's hoofs could be heard upon the road, and then resuming his walk once more. A rustling sound in the brushwood above his head once startled him, but the granite cliffs that overhung the road prevented his seeing from what it proceeded, and his heart was now bent on a very different object than the pursuit of the deer. At that moment, the proudest of the herd might have grazed in safety, within pistol-shot of him, and he had not deigned to notice it. Thus passed an hour—a second—and a third succeeded—and, already, the dull shadows of approaching night were falling—yet, no one came. Tortured with strange conjectures, Mark saw the day waning, and yet no sight nor sound of him he looked for. Let not poets speak of the ardent longing of a lover's heart, as in throbbing eagerness he waits for her, whose smile is life and hope, and heaven. Compared with the mad impatience of him who thirsts for vengeance, his passion is but sluggish apathy. It is the bad, that ever calls forth the sternest energies of human nature. It is in crime, that men transcend the common attributes of mankind. Here was one, now, who would have given his right hand beneath the axe, for but one brief moment of vengeance, and have deemed years of suffering cheaply bought, for the mere presence of his enemy before him.
“He must have guessed my meaning when I left the room;” was the taunting expression he now uttered, as his unsated anger took the shape of an insolent depreciation of his adversary. “An Irishman would not need a broader hint!”
It grew darker—the mountains frowned heavily beneath the canopy of clouds, and night was rapidly approaching, when, from the gloom of his almost extinguished hope, Mark was suddenly aroused. He heard the tramp of a horse's feet; the dull reverberation on the deep snow filled the air, and sometimes they seemed to come from the opposite part of the glen, when the pace slackened, and, at last, the sounds became almost inaudible.
“There is yet enough of daylight, if we move into the broad road,” was Mark's soliloquy, as he stooped his ear to listen—and at the instant, he beheld a man leading his horse by the bridle, while he himself seemed seeking along the road-side, where the snowdrift had not yet fallen, as if for some lost object. A glance, even by the imperfect light, and at some thirty paces off showed Mark it was not him he sought, and were it not that the attitude attracted his curiosity, he had not wasted a second look on him; but the horseman by this time had halted, and was scraping with his whip-handle amid the pebbles of the mountain rivulet.
“I'll never see it again—it's no use!” was the exclamation of the seeker, as he gathered up his reins, and prepared to mount.
“Is that Lanty Lawler?” cried Mark, as he recognised the voice; “I say, did you meet with a young officer riding down the glen, in the direction of Carrig-na-curra?”
“No, indeed, Mr. Mark—I never saw living thing since I left Bantry.”
The young man paused for a few seconds—and then, as if anxious to turn all thought from his question, said, “What have you lost thereabouts?”
“Oh, more than I am worth in the world!” was the answer, in a deep, heart-drawn sigh—“but, blessed heaven! what's the pistols for? Oh, Master Mark, dear—sure—sure——”
“Sure what?” cried the youth, with a hoarse laugh—“Sure, I'm not turned highway robber! Is that what you want to say? Make your mind easy, Lanty—I have not reached that point yet; though, if indifference to life might tempt a man, I'd not say it is so far off.”
“'Tis a duel, then,” cried Lanty quickly; “but, I hope you wouldn't fight without seconds. Oh, that's downright murder—what did he do to you?—was it one of the fellows you met in Cork?”
“You are all wrong,” said Mark, sullenly. “It is enough, however, that neither of us seem to have found what he was seeking. You have your secret; I have mine.
“Oh, faix, mine is soon told—'twas my pocket-book, with as good as seventy pounds in goold, I lost here, a three weeks ago, and never set eyes on it since; and there was papers in it—ay, faix, papers of great value—and I darn't face Father Luke without them. I may leave the country, when he hears what happened.”
“Where are you going now?” said Mark, gloomily.
“I'm going as far as Mary's, for the night. Maybe you'd step down there, and take a bit of supper? When the moon rises, the night will take up fine.”
The young man turned without speaking, and bent his steps in the direction Lanty was travelling.
The horse-dealer was too well versed in human nature to press for a confidence, which he foresaw would be, at last, willingly extended to him; he therefore walked along at Mark's side, without uttering a word, and seeming to be absorbed in his own deep musings. His calculation was a correct one. They had not gone many paces forward, when young O'Donoghue unburthened his whole heart to him—told him, with all the eloquent energy of a wounded spirit, of the insult he had received in his own home, before his younger brother's face. He omitted nothing in his description of the overbearing impertinence of Frederic Travers's manner—with what cool assurance he had entered the house, and with what flippant carelessness he treated his cousin Kate.
“I left home, with an oath, not to return thither unavenged,” said be, “nor will I, though this time luck seems against me. Had he but come, I should have given him his choice of pistols, and his own distance. My hand is true from five paces to thirty; but he has not escaped me yet.”
Lanty never interrupted the narrative, except to ask from time to time some question, the answer to which was certain to develope the deeper indignation of the youth. A low muttering commentary, intended to mean a heartfelt sympathy with his wrongs, was all he suffered to escape his lips; and, thus encouraged in his passionate vehemence, Mark's wrath became like a phrenzy.
“Come in now,” said Lanty, as he halted at the door of Mary's cabin, “but don't say a word about this business. I have a thought in my head that may do you good service, but keep a fair face before people—do you mind me?”
There was a tone of secrecy and mystery in these words Mark could not penetrate; but, however dark their meaning, they seemed to promise some hope of that revenge his heart yearned after, and with this trust he entered the house.
Mary received them with her wonted hospitality—Lanty was an expected guest—and showed how gratified she felt to have young O'Donoghue beneath her roof.
“I was afeard you were forgetting me entirely, Mr. Mark,” said she—“you passed the door twice, and never as much as said, God save you, Mary.”
“I did not forget you, for all that, Mary,” said he, feelingly. “I have too few friends in the world to spare any of them; but I've had many things on my mind lately.”
“Well, and to be sure you had, and why wouldn't you? 'Tis no shame of you to be sad and down-hearted—an O'Donoghue of the ould stock—the best blood in Kerry, wandering about by himself, instead of being followed by a troop of servants, with a goold coat-of-arms worked on their coats, like your grandfather's men—the heavens be his bed. Thirty-eight mounted men, armed, ay and well armed, were in the saddle after him, the day the English general came down here to see the troops that was quartered at Bantry.”
“No wonder we should go afoot now,” said Mark, bitterly.
“Well, well—it's the will of God,” ejaculated Mary, piously, “and who knows what's in store for you yet?”
“That's the very thing I do be telling him,” said Lanty, who only waited for the right moment to chime in with the conversation. “There's fine times coming.”
Mary stared at the speaker with the eager look of one who wished to derive a meaning deeper than the mere words seemed to convey, and then, checking her curiosity at a gesture from Lanty, she set about arranging the supper, which only awaited his arrival.
Mark ate but little of the fare before him, though Mary's cookery was not without its temptations; but of the wine—and it was strong Burgundy—he drank freely. Goblet after goblet he drained with that craving desire to allay a thirst, which is rather the symptom of a mind fevered by passion than by malady. Still, as he drank, no sign of intoxication appeared; on the contrary, his words evinced a tone of but deeper resolution, and a more settled purpose than at first, when he told how he had promised never to leave his father, although all his hopes pointed to the glorious career a foreign service would open before him.
“It was a good vow you made, and may the saints enable you to keep it,” said Mary.
“And for the matter of glory, maybe there's some to be got nearer home, and without travelling to look for it,” interposed Lanty.
“What do you mean?” said Mark, eagerly.
“Fill your glass. Take the big one, for it's a toast I'm going to give you—are you ready? Here now, then—drink—
A stout heart and mind,And an easterly wind,And the Devil behind The Saxon.”
Mark repeated the doggerel as well as he was able, and pledged the only sentiment he could divine, that of the latter part, with all his enthusiasm.
“You may tell him what you plaze, now,” whispered Mary in Lanty's ear; for her ready wit perceived that his blood was warmed by the wine, and his heart open for any communication.
Lanty hesitated but a second, then drawing his chair close to Mark's, he said—
“I'm going now to putmylife in your hands, but I can't help it. When Ireland is about to strike for liberty, it is not an O'Donoghue should be last in the ranks. Swear to me you'll never mention again what I'll tell you—swear it on the book.” Mary, at the same moment, placed in his hand a breviary, with a gilt cross on the binding, which Mark took reverently, and kissed twice. “That's enough—your word would do me, but I must obey them that's over me;” and so saying, Lanty at once proceeded to lay before the astonished mind of young O'Donoghue, the plan of France for an invasion of Ireland—not vaguely nor imperfectly, not in the mere language of rumour or chance allusion, but with such aids to circumstance and time, as gave him the appearance of one conversant with what he spoke on. The restoration of Irish independence—the resumption of forfeited estates—the return of the real nobility of the land to their long-lost-position of eminence and influence, were themes he descanted upon with consummate skill, bringing home each fact to the actual effect such changes would work in the youth's own condition, who, no longer degraded to the rank of a mere peasant, would once again assert his own rightful station, and stand forth at the head of his vast property—the heir of an honoured name and house. Lanty knew well, and more too, implicitly believed in all the plausible pretension of French sympathy for Irish suffering, which formed the cant of the day. He had often heard the arguments in favour of the success of such an expedition—in fact, the reasons for which its failure was deemed impossible. These he repeated fluently, giving to his narrative the semblance of an incontestible statement, and then he told him that from Brest to Dublin was “fifty hours' sail, with a fair wind”—that same “easterly breeze,” the toast alluded to, that the French could throw thirty, nay, fifty thousand troops into Ireland, yet never weaken their own army to any extent worth speaking of—that England was distracted by party spirit, impoverished by debt, and totally unable to repel invasion, and, in fact, that if Ireland would be but “true to herself,” her success was assured.
He told, too, how Irishmen were banded together in a sworn union to assert the independence of their country, and that such as held back. or were reluctant in the cause, would meet the fate of enemies. On the extent and completeness of the organization, he dwelt with a proud satisfaction, but when he spoke of large masses of men trained to move and act together, Mark suddenly interrupted him, saying—
“Yes, I have seen them. It's not a week since some hundreds marched through this glen at midnight.”
“Ay, that was Holt's party,” said Mary, composedly; “and fine men they are.”
“They were unarmed,” said Mark.
“If they were, it is because the general didn't want their weapons.”
“There's arms enough to be had when the time comes for using them,” broke in Mary.
“Wouldn't you show him—” and Lanty hesitated to conclude a speech, the imprudence of which he was already aware of.
“Ay will I,” said Mary. “I never mistrusted one of his name;” and with that, she rose from the fire-side, and took a candle in her hand, “Come here a minute, Master Mark.” Unlocking a small door in the back wall of the cabin, she entered a narrow passage which led to the stable, but off which, a narrow door, scarcely distinguishable from the wall, conducted into a spacious vault, excavated in the solid rock. Here were a vast number of packing-oases, and boxes, piled on each other, from floor to roof, together, with hogsheads and casks of every shape and size. Some of the boxes had been opened, and the lids laid loosely over them. Removing one of these, Mary pointed to the contents, as she said—
209
“There they are—French muskets and carabines. There's pistols in that case; and all them, over there, is swords and cutlasses. 'Tis pike-heads that's in the other corner; and the casks has saddles and holsters and them kind of things.”
Mark stooped down and took up one of the muskets. It was a light and handy weapon, and bore on its stock the words—“Armée de la Sambre et Meuse”—for none of the weapons were new.
“These are all French,” said he, after a brief pause.
“Every one of them,” replied Mary, proudly; “and there's more coming from the same place.”
“And why can we not fight our own battles, without aid from France?” said Mark, boldly. “If we really are worthy of independence, are we not able to win it?”
“Because there's traitors among us,” said Mary—replying before Lanty could interpose—“because there's traitors that would turn again us if we were not sure of victory; but when they see we have the strong hand, as well as the good cause, they'll be sure to stand on the safe side.”
“I don't care for that,” said Mark. “I want no such allies as these. I say, if we deserve our liberty, we ought to be strong enough to take it.”
“There's many think the same way as yourself,” said Lanty, quietly. “I heard the very words you said from one of the delegates last week. But I don't see any harm in getting help from a friend when the odds is against you.”
“But I do; and great harm too. What's the price of the assistance?—tell me that.”
“Oh, make your mind easy on that score. The French hate the English, whether they love us or no.”
“And why wouldn't they love us,” said Mary, half angry at such a supposition, “and we all Catholics? Don't we both belong to the ould ancient church? and didn't we swear to destroy the heretics wherever we'd find them? Ay, and we will, too!”
“I'm with you, whatever come of it,” said Mark, after a few seconds of thought. “I'm with you; and if the rest have as little to live for, trust me, they'll not be pleasant adversaries.”
Overjoyed at this bold avowal, which consummated the success they desired, they led Mark back into the cabin, and pledged, in a bumper, the “raal O'Donoghue.”