404
“Worn and wasted, with beard unshaven for weeks long, and eyes glistening with the lustre of insanity, the expression of his features actually chilled the heart's blood of the old man, as he stood almost at his side, and unable to move away. For a second or two Hemsworth gazed on the other, as if some struggling effort of recognition was labouring in his brain; and then, with a mad struggle he exclaimed—
“They were too late; the Council gave but eight days. I suppressed the proclamation in the south. Eight days—after that, no pardon—in this world at least”—and a fearful grin of malice convulsed his features; then with an altered accent, and a faint smile, from which sickness tore its oft-assumed dissimulation, he said, “I did every thing to persuade him to surrender—to accept the gracious favour of the crown; but he would not—no, he would not!”—and, with another burst of laughter, he staggered back into the room, and fell helpless on the floor. Sir Archy was in no compassionate mood at the moment, and without bestowing a thought on the sufferer, he hastened down the path, and with all the speed of which he was capable, returned to Carrig-na-curra.
Sir Archy's manner, so precise and measured in every occasion of life, had undergone a very marked change before he arrived at Carrig-na-curra; exclamations broke from him at every moment, mingled with fervently expressed hopes, that he might not be yet too late to rescue Mark from his peril. The agitation of his mind and the fatigue of his exertions completely overcame him; and when he reached the house, he threw himself down upon a seat, utterly exhausted.
“Are you unwell, my dear uncle?” broke from Kate and Herbert together, as they stood at either side of his chair.
“Tired, wearied, heated, my dear children; nothing more. Send me Kerry here; I want to speak to him.”
Kerry soon entered, and Sir Archy, beckoning him to his side, whispered a few words rapidly into his ear. Kerry made no reply, but hastened from the room, and was soon after seen hurrying down the causeway.
“I see, my dear uncle,” whispered Kate, with a tremulous accent—“I see you have bad tidings for us this morning—he is worse.”
“Waur he canna be,” muttered Sir Archy, with a significance that gave the words a very equivocal meaning.
“But there is still hope. They told us yesterday that to-morrow would be the crisis of the malady—the twentieth day since his relapse.”
“Yes, yes!” said the old man, who, not noticing her remark, pursued aloud the track of his own reflections. “Entrapped—ensnared—I see it all now. And only eight days given!—and even of these to be kept in ignorance. Poor fellow, how you have been duped.”
“But this delirium may pass away, uncle,” said Kate, who, puzzled at his vague expressions, sought to bring him again to the theme of Hemsworth's illness.
“Then comes the penalty, lassie,” cried he, energetically. “The Government canna forgie a rebel, as parents do naughty children, by the promise of doing better next time. When a daring scheme—but wait a bit, here's Kerry. Come to the window, man; come over here,” and he called him towards him.
Whatever were the tidings Kerry brought, Sir Archy seemed overjoyed by them; and taking Herbert's arm, he hurried from the room, leaving the O'Donoghue and Kate in a state of utter bewilderment.
“I'm afraid, my sweet niece, that Hemsworth's disease is a catching one. Archy has a devilish wild, queer look about him to-day,” said the O'Donoghue, laughing.
“I hope he has heard no bad news, sir. He is seldom so agitated as this. But what can this mean? Here comes a chaise up the road. See, it has stopped at the gate, and there is Kerry hastening down with a portmantua.”
Sir Archy entered as she spoke, dressed for the road, and approaching his brother-in-law's chair, whispered a few words in his ear.
“Great heaven protect us!” exclaimed the O'Donoghue, falling back, half unconscious, into his seat. While, turning to Kate, Sir Archy took her hand in both of his, and said—
“My ain dear bairn, I have no secrets from you; but time is too short to say much now. Enough, if I tell you Mark is in danger—the greatest and most imminent. I must hasten up to Dublin and see the Secretary, and, if possible, the Lord Lieutenant. It may be necessary, perhaps, for me to proceed to London. Herbert is already off to the mountains, to warn Mark of his peril. If he can escape till I return, all may go well yet. Above all things, however, let no rumour of my journey escape. I'm only going to Macroom, or Cork, mind that, and to be back to-morrow evening, or next day.”
A gesture from Kerry, who stood on the rock above the road, warned him that all was ready; and, with an affectionate but hurried adieu, he left the room, and gaining the high road, was soon proceeding towards Dublin, at the fastest speed of the posters.
“Them's the bastes can do it,” said Kerry, as he watched them, with the admiration of a connoisseur; “and the little one wid the rat-tail isn't the worst either.”
“Where did that chaise come from, Kerry?” cried the O'Donoghue, who could not account for the promptitude of Sir Archy's movements.
“'Twas with Doctor Dillon from Macroom it came, sir; and it was to bring him back there again; but Sir Archibald told me to give the boy a pound note, to make a mistake, and come over here for himself. That's the way of it.”
While we leave the O'Donoghue and his niece to the interchange of their fears and conjectures regarding the danger which they both concurred in believing had been communicated to Sir Archy by Hemsworth, we must follow Herbert, who was now on his way to the mountains, to apprize Mark that his place of concealment was already discovered, and that measures for his capture were taken in a spirit that indicated a purpose of personal animosity.
Herbert knew little more than this, for it was no part of Sir Archy's plan to impart to any one his discovery of Hemsworth's treachery, lest, in the event of his recovery, their manner towards him would lead him to a change of tactique. Hemsworth was too cunning an adversary to concede any advantage to. Indeed, the only chance of success against him lay in taking the opportunity of his present illness, to anticipate his movements. Sir Archy, therefore, left the family at Carrig-na-curra in ignorance of this man's villainy, as a means of lulling him into security. The expressions that fell from him, half unconsciously, in the drawing-room, fortunately contributed to this end, and induced both the O'Donoghue and Kate to believe that, whatever the nature of the tidings Sir Archy had learned, their source was no other than Hemsworth himself, of whose good intentions towards Mark no suspicion existed.
Herbert's part was limited to the mere warning of Mark, that he should seek some more secure resting-place; but what kind the danger was, from whom or whence it came, the youth knew nothing. He was not, indeed, unaware of Mark's political feelings, nor did he undervalue the effect his principles might produce upon his actions. He knew him to be intrepid, fearless, and determined; and he also knew how the want of some regular pursuit or object in life had served farther to unsettle his notions and increase the discontent he felt with his condition. If Herbert did not look up to Mark with respect for the superior qualities of mind, there were traits in his nature that inspired the sentiment fully as strongly. The bold rapidity with which he anticipated and met a danger, the fertile resources he evinced at moments when most men stand appalled and terror-struck, the calmness of his spirit when great peril was at hand, showed that the passionate and wayward nature was the struggle which petty events create, and not the real germ of his disposition.
Herbert foresaw that such a character had but to find the fitting sphere for its exercise, to win an upward way; but he was well aware of the risks to which it exposed its possessor. On this theme his thoughts dwelt the entire day, as he trod the solitary path among the mountains; nor did he meet with one human thing along that lonely road. At last, as evening was falling, he drew near the glen which wound along the base of the mountain, and as he was endeavouring to decide on the path, a low whistle attracted him. This, remembering it was the signal, he replied to, and the moment after Terry crept from a thick cover of brushwood, and came towards him.
“I thought I'd make sure of you before I let you pass, Master Herbert,” cried he, “for I couldn't see your face, the way your head was hanging down. Take the little path to the left, and never turn till you come to the white-thorn tree—then straight up the mountain for a quarter of a mile or so, till you reach three stones, one over another. From that spot you'll see the shealing down beneath you.”
“My brother is there now?” said Herbert, enquiringly.
“Yes; he never leaves it long now; and he got a bit of a fright the other evening, when the French schooner came into the bay.”
“A French schooner here, in the bay?”
“Ay, just so; but with an English flag flying. She landed ten men at the point, and then got out to sea as fast as she could. She was out of sight before dark.”
“And the men—what became of them?”
“They staid an hour or more with Master Mark. One of them was an old friend, I think; for I never saw such delight as he was in to see your brother. He gave him two books, and some paper, and a bundle—I don't know what was in it—and then they struck off towards Kenmare Bay, by a road very few know in these parts.”
All these particulars surprised and interested Herbert not a little;—for although far from implicitly believing the correctness of Terry's tidings, as to the vessel being a French one, yet the event seemed not insignificant as showing that Mark had friends, who were aware of his present place of concealment. Without wasting further time, however, he bade Terry good-bye, and started along the path down the glen.
Following Terry's directions, Herbert found the path, which, in many places was concealed by loose furze bushes, evidently to prevent detection by strangers, and at last, having gained the ridge of the mountain, perceived the little shealing at a distance of some hundred feet beneath him. It was merely a few young trees, covered over with loose sods, which, abutting against the slope of the hill, opened towards the sea, from whence the view extended along thirty miles of coast on either hand.
At any other moment, the glorious landscape before him would have engrossed Herbert's entire attention. The calm sea, over which night was slowly stealing—the jutting promontories of rock, over whose sides the white foam was splashing—the tall dark cliffs, pierced by many a' cave, through which the sea roared like thunder—all these caught his thoughts but for a second, and already with bounding steps he hurried down the steep, where the next moment a scene revealed itself, of far deeper interest to his heart.
Through the roof of the shealing, from which, in many places, the dry sods had fallen, he discovered his brother, stretched upon the earthen floor of the hut, intently gazing on a large map, which lay widespread before him. The figure was indeed Mark's. The massive head, on either side of which, in flowing waves, the long and locky hair descended, there was no mistaking. But the costume was one Herbert saw for the first time. It was a simple uniform of blue and white, with a single silver epaulette, and a sword, hilted with the same metal. The shako was of dark fur, and ornamented with a large bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, whose gay and flaunting colours streamed with a strange contrast along the dark earthen floor. Amid all his terror for what these emblems might portend, his heart bounded with pride at the martial and handsome figure, as, leaning on one elbow, he traced with the other hand the lines upon the map. Unable to control his impatience longer, he cried out—
“Mark, my brother!” and the next moment they were in each other's arms.
411
“You passed Terry on the mountain? He was at his post, I trust?” said Mark, anxiously.
“Yes, but for his directions I could never have discovered the path.”
“All's well, then. Until I hear a certain signal from him, I fear nothing. The fellow seems neither to eat nor sleep. At least since I've been here, he has kept watch night and day in the mountains.”
“He always loved you, Mark.”
“He did so; but now it is not me he thinks of. His whole heart is in the cause—higher and nobler than a mere worthless life like mine.”;
“Poor fellow! he is but half-witted at best,” said Herbert.
“The more reason for his fidelity now,” said Mark, bitterly. “The men of sense are traitors to their oaths, and false to their friends. The enterprise cannot reckon, save on the fool or the madman. I know the taunt you hint at, as——”
“My dearest brother,” cried Herbert, with streaming eyes.
“My own dear Herbert, forgive me,” said Mark, as he flung his arm round his neck. “These bursts of passion come over me after long and weary thoughts. I am tired to-day. Tell me, how are they all at Carrig-na-curra?”
“Well, and, I would say, happy, Mark, were it not for their anxieties about you. My uncle heard some news to-day so threatening in its nature, that he has set out for Dublin post haste, and merely wrote these few lines, which he gave me for you before he started.”
Mark read the paper twice over, and then tearing it, threw the fragments at his feet, while he muttered—
“I cannot, I must not leave this.”
“But your safety depends on it, Mark—so, my uncle pressed upon me. The danger is imminent, and, he said, fatal.”
“So would it be, were I to leave my post. I cannot tell you, Herbert—I dare not reveal to you what our oath forbids me:—but here I must remain.”
“And this dress, Mark—why increase the risk you run by a uniform which actually designates treason?”
“Who will dare to tell me so?” cried Mark, impetuously. “The uniform is that of a French grenadier—the service whose toil is glory, and whose cause is liberty. It is enough that I do not wear it without authority. You can satisfy yourself on that head soon. Read this,” and he unfolded a paper, which, bearing the arms and seal of the French Republic, purported to be a commission as Lieutenant in Hoche's own regiment of grenadiers, conferred on Mark O'Donoghue in testimony of esteem for his fidelity to the cause of Irish independence. “You are surprised that I can read the language, Herbert,” said he, smiling; “but I have laboured hard this summer, and, with Kate's good aid, have made some progress.”
“And is your dream of Irish independence brought so low as this, Mark—that the freedom you speak of must be won by an alien's valour?”
“They are no aliens, whose hearts beat alike for liberty. Language, country, seas may divide us, but we are brothers in the glorious cause of humanity. Their swords are with us now, as would be ours for them, did the occasion demand them. Besides, we must teach the traitors, boy, that we can do without them—that if her own sons are false, Ireland has friends as true; and then, woe to them who have betrayed her. Oh, my brother, the brother of my heart, how would I kneel in thankfulness to heaven, if the same hopes that stirred within me were yours also. If the genius you possess were enlisted in the dear cause of your own country—if we could go forth together, hand in hand, and meet danger side by side, as now we stand.”
“My love for you would make the sacrifice, Mark,” said Herbert, as the tears rolled heavily along his cheek; “but my convictions, my reason, my religion, alike forbid it.”
“Your religion, Herbert?—did I hear you aright?”
“You did. I am a Protestant.”
Mark fell back as his brother spoke; a cold leaden tinge spread over his features, and he seemed like one labouring against the sickness of an ague.
“Oh, is it not time!” cried he, as he clasped his hands above his head, and shook them in an agony of emotion—“is it not time to strike the blow, ere every tie that bound us to the land should be rent asunder; rank, place, wealth, and power they have despoiled us of; our faith degraded, our lineage scoffed, and now the very links of blood divided—We have not brothers left us!”
Herbert bent down his head upon his knees, and wept bitterly.
“Who will tell me I have not been tried, now?” continued Mark, in a strain of impassioned sorrow—“deceived on every hand—robbed of my heritage—my friends all false—my father”—he stopped short, for at the moment Herbert looked up, and their eyes met.
“What of our father, Mark?”
“My brain was wandering then,” said Mark, in a broken voice. “Once more I ask forgiveness: we are brothers still; if we be but true of heart to Him who knows all hearts, He will not suffer us to be divided. Can you remain a while with me, Herbert?—I know you don't mind a rough bivouac.”
“Yes, Mark, I'll not leave you. All is well at home, and they will guess what cause detained me.” So saying, the two brothers sat down side by side, and with hands clasped firmly in each other, remained sunk in silent thought.
The whole night through they talked together. It was the first moment, for many a long year, since they had unburdened their hearts like brothers, and in the fulness of their affection the most secret thoughts were revealed, save one topic only, of which neither dared to speak, and while each incident of the past was recalled, and friends were mentioned, Mark never once alluded to Kate, nor did Herbert utter the name of Sybella Travers.
Of his plans for the future, Mark made no secret; he had accepted a commission in the French army, on the understanding that an invasion of Ireland was determined on, in the event of which, his services would be of some value. He hoped to reach France by the schooner, which, after landing her cargo near the mouth of the Shannon, was to return at once to Cherbourg; once there, he was to enter the service, and learn its discipline.
“I have made my bargain with them; my face is never to turn from England, till Ireland be free; after that I am theirs, to march on the Rhine or the Danube—where they will. Personal ambition I have none!—to serve as a simple grenadier in the ranks of that army, that shall first plant the standard of liberty here; such is my only compact. Speak to me of defeat or disaster, if you will; but do not endeavour to persuade me against an enterprise I have resolved to go through with, nor try to argue with me, where my impulses are stronger than my reason.”
In this strain Mark spoke, and while Herbert listened in sorrow, he knew too well his brother's nature, to offer a word of remonstrance in opposition to his determination.
Mark, on his side, led his brother to talk of many of his own plans for the future, where another and a very different ambition was displayed.
Herbert had entered the lists where intellect and genius are the weapons, and in his early triumphs had conceived that passion for success, which once indulged, only dies with life itself. The day broke upon them, thus conversing, and already the sunlight was streaming over the western ocean, as they lay down side by side, and slept.
The paroxysm which Sir Archibald had witnessed, formed the crisis of Hemsworth's malady; and on the evening of the same day, his disease had so far abated of its violence, that his delirium had left him, and excessive debility was now the only symptom of great danger remaining. With the return of his faculties, came back his memory, clear and unclouded, of every incident up to the very moment of his accident; and as he lay, weak and wasted on his bed, his mind reverted to the plans and projects of which his illness had interrupted the accomplishment. The excitement of the theme seemed rather to serve than be hurtful to him; and the consciousness of returning health gave a spring to his recovery; fatigue of thought induced deep sleep, and he awoke on the following day refreshed and recruited.
The lapse of time in illness is, probably, one of the most painful thoughts that await upon recovery. The lethargy in which we have been steeped simulates death; while the march of events around us show how insignificant our existence is, and how independently of us the work of life goes on.
When Wylie was summoned to his master's bed-side, the first question put to him was, what day of the month it was? and his astonishment was, indeed, great, as he heard it was the 16th of December, and that he had been above two months on a sickbed.
“Two months here!” cried he; “and what has happened since?”
“Scarcely anything, sir,” said Wylie, well knowing the meaning of the question. “The country is quiet—the people tranquil. Too much so, perhaps, to last. The young O'Donoghue has not been seen up the glen for several weeks past; but his brother passes frequently from Carrig-na-curra to the coast, and back again, so that there is little doubt of his still being in his old hiding-place. Talbot—Barrington I mean—has been here again, too.”
“Barrington!—-what brings him back? I thought he was in France.”
“The story goes that he landed at Bantry with a French agent. One thing is certain, the fellow had the impudence to call here and leave his card for you, one day I was at Macroom.”
“That piece of boldness bodes us no good,” said Hemsworth. “What of the others? Who has called here from Carrig-na-curra?”
“A messenger every day; sometimes twice in the same day.”
“A messenger!—not one of the family?”
“For several weeks they have had no one to come. Sir Archy and the younger brother are both from home.”
“Where, then, is Sir Archy?” said Hemsworth, anxiously.
“That would seem a secret to every one. He left this one morning at a moment's notice, taking the chaise that brought the doctor here. The post-boy pretended he was discharged; but I say that the excuse was made up, and that the fellow was bribed. On reaching Macroom, the old man got fresh horses, and started for Cork.”
“And what's the report in the country, Wylie?”
“There are two stories. One, that he heard some rumours of an accusation against himself, for intriguing with the United people, and thought best to get over to Scotland for a while.”
“That's folly; what is the other rumour?”
“A more likely one,” said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd glance beneath his half-closed eye-lids. “They say that he determined to go up to Dublin, and see the Lord Lieutenant, and ask him for a free pardon for Mark.”
Hemsworth sprung up in the bed at these words, as if he had been stung.
“And who says this, Wylie?”
“I believe I was the first that said so myself,” said Wylie, affecting modesty; “when Kerry told me, that the old man packed up a court dress and a sword.”
“You're right, Sam; there's not a doubt of it. How long is this ago?”
“Five weeks on Tuesday last.”
“Five weeks!—five weeks lost already! And have you heard what has been done by him?—what success he's met with?”
“No, sir; but you can soon know something about it yourself.”
“How do you mean?—I don't understand you.”
“These are the only two letters he has written as yet. This, one came on Saturday. I always went down in the mornings to Mary M'Kelly's, before the bag came in, and as she could not read over well, I sorted the letters for her myself, and slipped in these among your own.”
Hemsworth and his companion exchanged looks. Probably never did glances more rapidly reveal the sentiments of two hearts. Each, well knew the villainy of the ether; but Hemsworth for the first time saw himself in another's power, and hesitated how far the advantage of the discovery was worth the heavy price he should pay for it; besides that the habits of his life made him regard the breach of confidence, incurred in reading another man's letter, in a very different light from his underbred associate, and he made no gesture to take them from his hand.
“This has an English post-mark,” said Wylie, purposely occupying himself with the letter, to avoid noticing Hemsworth's hesitation.
“You have not broken the seals, I hope,” said Hemsworth, faintly.
“No, sir; I knew better than that,” replied Wylie, with well-assumed caution. “I knew your honour had a right to it, if you suspected the correspondence was treasonable, because you're in the Commission, and it's your duty; but I could'nt venture it, of myself.”
“I'm afraid your law is not very correct, Master Wylie,” said Hemsworth, who felt by no means certain as to the sincerity of the opinion.
“It's good enough for Glenflesk, anyhow,” said the fellow, boldly; for he saw that in Hemsworth's present nervous condition, audacity might succeed where subserviency would not.
“By which you mean that we have the case in our own hands, Wylie; well, you're not far wrong in that; still, I cannot break open a letter.
“Well, then, I'm not so scrupulous when my master's interests are concerned;” and so saying, he tore open each in turn, and threw them on the bed. “There, sir, you can transport me for the offence whenever you like.”
“You are a strange fellow, Sam,” said Hemsworth, whose nerves were too much shaken by illness, to enable him to act with his ordinary decision, and he took up one of the letters, and perused it slowly. “This is merely an announcement of his arrival in Dublin; he has waited upon, but not seen the Secretary—-finds it difficult to obtain an audience—press of parliamentary business for the new session—no excitement about the United party. What tidings has the other? Ha!—. what's this?”—-and his thin and haggard face flushed scarlet. “Leave me, Sam; I must have a little time to consider this. Come back to me in an hour.”
Wylie said not a word, but moved towards the door; while in his sallow features a savage smile of malicious triumph shone.
As Hemsworth flattened out the letter before him on the bed, his eyes glistened and sparkled with the fire of aroused intelligence: the faculties which, during his long illness, had lain in abeyance, as if refreshed and invigorated by rest, were once more excited to their accustomed exercise; and over that face, pale and haggard by sickness, a flush of conscious power stole, lighting up every lineament and feature, and displaying the ascendancy of mental effort over mere bodily infirmity.
“And so this Scotchman dares to enter the list withme,” said he, with a smile of contemptuous meaning; “let him try it.”
A little lower down the valley than the post occupied by Terry as his look-out, was a small stream, passable by stepping-stones; this was the usual parting place of the two brothers, whenever Herbert returned home for a day or so, and this limit Mark rarely or never transgressed, regarding it as the frontier of his little dominion. Beside this rivulet, as night was falling, Mark sat, awaiting with some impatience his brother's coming, for already the third evening had passed in which Herbert promised to be back, and yet he had not come.
Alternately stooping to listen, or straining his eyes to see, he waited anxiously; and while canvassing in his mind every possible casualty he could think of to account for his absence, he half resolved on pushing forward down the glen, and, if necessary, venturing even the whole way to Carrig-na-curra. Just then a sound caught his ear—he listened, and at once recognized Terry's voice, as, singing some rude verse, he came hastening down the glen at his full speed.
“Ha! I thought you'd be here,” cried he, with delight in his countenance; “I knew you'd be just sitting there on that rock.”
“What has happened, then, Terry, that you wanted me?”
“It was a message a man in sailor's clothes gave me for your honour this morning, and, somehow, I forgot to tell you of it when you passed, though he charged me not to forget it.”
“What is it, Terry?”
“Ah, then, that's what I misremember, and I had it all right this morning. Let me think a bit.”
Mark repelled every symptom of impatience, for he well knew how the slightest evidences of dissatisfaction on his part would destroy every chance of the poor fellow regaining his memory, and he waited silently for several minutes. At last, thinking to aid his recollection, he said—
“The man was a smuggler, Terry?”
“He was, but I never saw him before. He came across from Kinsale, over the mountains. Botheration to him, why didn't he say more, and I wouldn't forget it now.” “Have patience, you'll think of it all by-and-by.”
“Maybe so. He was a droll-looking fellow, with a short cutlash at his side, and a hairy cap on his head; and he seemed to know yer honour well, for he said—
“'How is the O'Donoghues—don't they live hereabouts?”
“'Yes,' says I, 'a few miles down that way.'
“'Is the eldest boy at home,” says he.
“'Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't,' says I, for I wouldn't tell him where you were.
“'Could you give him a message,' says he, from a friend?'
“'Av it was a friend,' says I.
“'A real friend,' says he. 'Tell him—just tell him——'
“There it is now—divil a one o' me knows what he said.”
Mark suffered no sign of anger to escape him, but sat without speaking a word, while Terry recapitulated every sentence in a muttering voice, to assist him in remembering what followed.
“I have it now,” said he at last; and clapping his hands with glee, he cried out, “them's the very words he said—
“'Tell Mr. Mark, it's a fine sight to see the sun rising from the top of Hungry Mountain; and if the wind last, it will be worth seeing tomorrow.'”
“Were those his words?” asked Mark eagerly.
“Them, and no other—I have it all in my head now.”
“Which way did he take when he left you?”
“He turned up the glen, towards Googawn Barra, and I seen him crossing the mountain afterwards; but here comes Master Herbert;” and at the same instant he was seen coming up the valley at a fast pace.
When the first greetings were over, Herbert informed Mark that a certain stir and movement in the glen and its neighbourhood far the last few days had obliged him to greater caution; that several strangers had been seen lurking about Carrig-na-curra; and that in addition to the military posted at Mary's, a sergeant's guard had that morning arrived at “the Lodge,” and taken up their quarters there. All these signs of vigilance combined to make Herbert more guarded, and induced him to delay for a day or two his return to the shealing.
“Hemsworth has been twice over at our house,” continued Herbert, “and seems most anxious about you; he cannot understand why we have not heard from my uncle. It appears to me, Mark, as if difficulties were thickening around us; and yet this fear may only be the apprehension which springs from mystery. I cannot see my way through this dark and clouded atmosphere.”
“Never fret about the dangers that come like shadows, Herbert. Come up the mountain with me to-morrow at sunrise, and let us take counsel from the free and bracing air of the peak of old Hungry.”
Herbert was but too happy to find his own gloomy thoughts so well combatted, and in mutual converse they each grew lighter in heart; and when at last, wearied out, they lay down upon the heather of the shealing, they slept without a dream.
It was still dark as midnight when Mark awoke and looked at his watch—it wanted a quarter of four. The night was a wild and gusty one, with occasional showers of thin sleet, and along the shore the sea beat heavily, as though a storm was brewing at a distance off.
The message of the smuggler was his first thought on waking, but could he venture sufficient trust in Terry's version to draw any inference from it? Still, he resolved to ascend the mountain, little favourable as the weather promised for such an undertaking. It was not without reluctance that Herbert found himself called upon to accompany his brother. The black and dreary night, the swooping wind, the wet spray, drifting up to the very shealing, were but sorry inducements to stir abroad; and he did his utmost to persuade him to defer the excursion to a more favourable moment.
“We shall be wet through, and see nothing for our pains, Mark,” said he, half sulkily, as the other overruled each objection in turn.
“Wet we may possibly be,” said Mark; “but with the wind, northing by west, the mist will clear away, and by sunrise the coast will be glorious; it is a spring-tide, too, and there will be a sea running mountains high.”
“I know well we shall find ourselves in a cloud on the top of the mountain; it is but one day in a whole year any thing can be seen favourably.”
“And who is to say this is not that day? It is my birth-day, Herbert—a most auspicious event, when we talk of fortunate occurrences.”
The tone of sarcasm he spoke these words in, silenced Herbert's scruples, and without further objection he prepared to follow Mark's guidance.
The drifting rain, and the spongy heavy ground in which at each moment the feet sank to the very instep, made the way toilsome and weary, and the two brothers seldom spoke as they plodded along the steep ascent.
Mark's deep pre-occupation of mind took away all thought of the dreary road; but Herbert followed with reluctant steps, half angry with himself for compliance with what he regarded as an absurd caprice. The way was not without its perils, and Mark halted from time to time to warn his brother of the danger of some precipice, or the necessity to guard against the slippery surface of the heather. Except at these times, he rarely spoke, but strode on with firm step, lost in his own reflections.
“We are now twelve hundred feet above the lake, Herbert,” said he, after a long silence on both sides, “and the mountain at this side is like a wall. This same island of ours has noble bulwarks for defence.”
Herbert made no reply; the swooping clouds that hurried past, heavily charged with vapour, shut out every object; and to him the rugged path was a dark and cheerless way. Once more they continued their ascent, which here became steeper and more difficult at every step; and although Mark was familiar with each turn and winding of the narrow track, more than once he was obliged to stop, and consider the course before him. Herbert, to whom these interruptions were fresh sources of irritation, at length exclaimed—
“My dear Mark, have we not gone far enough yet, to convince you that there is no use in going farther. It is dark as midnight this moment—you yourself are scarcely certain of the way—there are precipices and gulleys on every side—and grant that we do reach the top for sunrise, what shall we be able to see amid the immense masses of cloud around us?”
“No, Herbert, that same turning back policy it is, which thwarts success in life. Had you yourself followed such an impulse, you had not gained the honours that are yours. Onward, is the word of hope to all. And what if the day should not break clearly, it is a fine thing to sit on the peak of old Hungry, with the circling clouds wheeling madly below you, to hear the deep thundering of the sea far, far away, and the cry of the curlew mingling with the wailing wind—to feel yourself high above the busy world, in the dreary region of mist and shadow. If at such times as this the eye ranges not over leagues of coast and sea, long winding valleys and wide plains, the prophetic spirit fostered by such agencies looks out on life, and images of the future flit past in cloudy shapes and changing forms. There, see that black mass that slowly moves along, and seems to beckon us with giant arm. You'd not reject an augury so plain.”
“I see nothing, and if I go on much farther this way, I shall feel nothing either, I am so benumbed with cold and rain already.”
“Here, then, taste this—I had determined to give you nothing until we reached the summit.”
Herbert drained the little measure of whiskey, and resumed his way more cheerily.
“There is a bay down here beneath where we stand—a lovely little nook in summer, with a shore like gold, and waves bright as the greenest emerald. It is a wild and stormy spot to-day—no boat could live a moment there; and so steep is the cliff, this stone will find its way to the bottom within a minute.”
And as Mark spoke he detached a fragment of rock from the mountain, and sent it bounding over the edge of the precipice, while Herbert, awe-struck at the nearness of the peril, recoiled instinctively from the brink of the cliff.
“There was a ship of the Spanish Armada wrecked in that little bay—they show you still some mounds of earth upon the shore they call the Spaniards' graves,” said Mark, as he stood peering through the misty darkness into the depth below. “The peasantry had lighted a fire on this rock, and the vessel, a three-decker, decoyed by the signal, held on her course, in shore, and was lost. Good heavens!” cried he, after a brief pause, “why has this fatality ever been our lot? Why have we welcomed our foes with smiles, and our friends with hatred and destruction? These same Spaniards were our brethren and our kindred, and the bitter enemies of our enslavers; and even yet we can perpetuate the memory of their ruin, as a thing of pride and triumph. Are we for ever to be thus, or is a better day to dawn upon us?”
Herbert, who by experience knew how much more excited Mark became by even the slightest opposition, forbore to speak, and again they pursued their way.
They had continued for some time thus, when Mark, taking Herbert's arm, pointed to a dark mass which seemed to loom straight above their heads, where, towering to a considerable height, it terminated in a sharp pinnacle.
“Yonder is the summit, Herbert—courage for a quarter of an hour more, and the breach is won.”
The youth heaved a heavy sigh, and muttered—
“Would it were so.”
If Herbert became dispirited and worn out by the dark and dreary way, where no sight nor sound relieved the dull monotony of fatigue, Mark's spirit seemed to grow lighter with every step he went. As if he had left his load of care with the nether world, his light and bounding movement, and his joyous voice, spoke of a heart which, throwing off its weight of sorrow, revelled once more in youthful ecstasy.
“You who are a poet, Herbert, tell me if you have faith in those instinctive fancies which seem to shadow forth events.”
“If you mean to ask me whether, from my present sensations, I anticipate a heavy cold, or a fit of rheumatism, I say, most certainly,” replied Herbert, half doggedly.
Mark smiled, and continued—
“No, those are among the common course of events. What I asked for was an explanation of my own feelings at this moment. Why, here upon this lone and gloomy mountain, a secret whispering at my heart tells me to hope—that my days and nights of disaster are nigh oyer—and that the turning point of my life is at hand, eyen as that bold peak above us.”
“I must confess, Mark, this is a strange time and place for such rose-coloured visions,” said Herbert, as he shook the rain from his soaked garments; “myimagination cannot carry me to such a lofty flight.”
Mark was too intent upon his own thoughts to bestow much attention on the tone and spirit of Herbert's remark, and he pressed forward towards the summit with every effort of his strength. After a brief but toilsome exertion he reached the top, and seated himself on a little pile of stones that marked the point of the mountain. The darkness was still great; faint outlines of the lesser mountains beneath could only be traced through the masses of heavy cloud that hung, as it were, suspended above the earth; while over the sea an unusual blackness was spread. The wind blew with terrific force around the lofty peak where Mark sat, and in the distant valleys he could hear the sound of crashing branches as the storm swept through the wood; from the sea itself, too, alow booming noise arose, as the caves along the shore re-echoed to the swelling clangour of the waves.
Herbert at last reached the spot, but so exhausted by the unaccustomed fatigue, that he threw himself down at Mark's feet, and with a wearied sigh exclaimed—
“Thank heaven, there is no more of it.”
“Day will not break for half an hour yet,” said Mark, pointing westward; “the grey dawn always shows over the sea. I have seen the whole surface like gold, before the dull mountains had one touch of light.”
The heavy breathing of the youth, as he lay with his head on Mark's knees, attracted him; he looked down, and perceived that Herbert had fallen into a calm and tranquil sleep.
“Poor fellow,” cried Mark, as he smoothed the hair upon his brow, “this toil has been too much for him.”
Placing himself in such a position as best to shelter his brother from the storm, Mark sat awaiting the breaking dawn. The hopes that in the active ascent of the mountain were high in his heart, already began to fail; exertion had called them forth, and now, at he sat silently amid the dreary waste of darkness, his spirit fell with every moment. One by one the bright visions he had conjured up faded away, his head fell heavily on his bosom, and thoughts gloomy and dark as the dreary morning crowded on his brain.
As he remained thus deep sunk in sad musings, the grey dawn broke over the sea, and gradually a pinkish hue stained the sky eastward. The rain, which up to this time drifted in heavy masses, ceased to fall; and instead of the gusty storm, blowing in fitful blasts, a gentle breese rolled the mists along the valleys, as if taking away the drapery of Night at the call of Morning. At first the mountain peaks appeared through the dense clouds; and then, by degrees, their steep sides, begirt with rock, and fissured with many a torrent. At length the deep valleys and glens began to open to the eye, and the rude cabins of the peasants, marked out by the thin blue wreath of smoke that rose into the air, ere it was scattered by the fresh breeze of morning. Over the sea the sunlight glittered, tipping the glad waves that danced and sported towards the shore, and making the white foam upon the breakers look fairer than snow itself. Mark looked upon the scene thus suddenly changed, and shaking his brother's arm, he called out—
“Awake, Herbert! see what a glorious day is breaking. Look, that is Sugarloaf, piercing the white cloud; and yonder is Castletown. See how the shore is marked out in every jutting point and cliff. I can see the Kenmare river as it opens to the sea.”
“It is indeed beautiful,” exclaimed Herbert, all fatigue forgotten in the ecstasy of the moment. “Is not that Garran Thual, Mark, that rears its head above the others?”
But Mark's eyes were turned in a different direction, and he paid no attention to the question.
“Yes,” cried Herbert, still gazing intently towards, the land, “and that must be Mangerton. Am I right, Mark?”
“What can that mean?” said Mark, seizing Herbert's arm, and pointing to a distant point across Bantry Bay. “There, you saw it then.”
“Yes, a bright flash of flame. See, it burns steadily now.” “Ay, and there's another below Beerhaven, and another yonder at the Smuggler's Rock.”
And while he was yet speaking, the three fires blazed out, and continued to burn brilliantly in the grey light of the morning. The dark mist that moved over the sea gave way before the strong breeze, and the tall spars of a large ship were seen as a vessel rounded the point, and held on her course up Bantry Bay. Even at the distance Mark's experienced eye could detect that she was a ship of war—her ports, on which the sun threw a passing gleam, bristled with guns, and her whole trim and bearing bespoke a frigate.
“She's a King's ship, Mark, in pursuit of some smuggler,” said Herbert; “and the fires we have seen were signals to the other. How beautifully she sails along; and see, is not that another?”
Mark made no reply, but pointed straight out to sea, where now seven sail could be distinctly reckoned, standing towards the Bay with all their canvas set. The report of a cannon turned their eyes towards the frigate, and they perceived that already she was abreast of Whitty Island, where she was about to anchor.
“That gun was fired by her: and see, there goes her ensign. What does that mean, Mark?”
“It means Liberty, my boy!” screamed Mark, with a yell that sounded like madness. “France has come to the rescue! See, there they are—eight—nine of them!—and the glorious tricolor floating at every mast! Oh, great heaven! in whose keeping the destinies of men and kingdoms lie, look favourably upon our struggle now. Yes, my brother, I was right—a brighter hour is about to shine upon our country! Look there—think of those gallant fellows that have left home and country to bring freedom across the seas, and say, if you will be less warm in the cause than the alien and the stranger. How nobly they come along! Herbert, be with us—be of us, now!”
“Whatever be our ills, here,” said Herbert sternly, “I know of no sympathy to bind us to France; nor would I accept a boon at such hands, infidel and blood-stained as she is.”
“Stop, Herbert; let us not here, where we may meet for the last time, interchange aught that should darken memory hereafter. My course is yonder.”
“Farewell, then, Mark; I will not vainly endeavour to turn you from your rash project. The reasons that seemed cold and valueless in the hour of tranquil thought, have few chances of success in the moment of your seeming triumph.”
“Seeming triumph!” exclaimed Mark, as a slight change coloured his cheek. “And will you not credit what your eyes reveal before you? Are these visions? Was that loud shot a trick of the imagination? Oh! Herbert, if the loyalty you boast of, have no better foundation than these fancies, be with your country—stand by her in the day of her peril.”
“I will do so, Mark, and with no failing spirit either,” said Herbert, as he turned away, sad and sorrow-struck.
“You would not betray us,” cried Mark, as he saw his brother preparing to descend the mountain.
“Oh, Mark, you should not have said this.”
And in a torrent of tears he threw himself upon his brother's bosom. For some minutes they remained close locked in each other's arms, and then Herbert, tearing himself away, clasped Mark's hand in both of his, and kissed it. The last “Good-bye” broke from each lip together, and they parted.
Mark remained on the spot where his brother had left him, his eyes fixedly directed towards the Bay, where already a second ship had arrived—a large three-decker, with an admiral's pennon flying from the mast-head. The first burst of wild enthusiasm over, he began to reflect on what was next to be done. Of course he should lose no time in presenting himself to the officers in command of the expedition, and making known to them his name, and the place he occupied in the confidence of his countrymen. His great doubt was, whether he should not precede this act by measures for assembling and rallying the people, who evidently would be as much taken by surprise as himself at the sudden arrival of the French.
The embarrassment of the position was great; for although deeply implicated in the danger of the plot, he never had enjoyed either intimacy or intercourse with its leaders. How then should he satisfy the French that his position was such as entitled him to their confidence? The only possible escape to this difficulty was by marshalling around him a considerable body of the peasantry, ready and willing to join the arms and follow the fortunes of the invaders.
“They cannot long distrust me with a force of three hundred men at my back,” exclaimed Mark aloud, as he descended the mountain with rapid strides. “I know every road through these valleys—every place where a stand could be made, or an escape effected. We will surprise the party of soldiers at Mary M'Kelly's, and there, there are arms enough for all the peasantry of the country.”
Thus saying, and repeating to himself the names of the different farmers whom he remembered as true to the cause, and on whose courage and readiness he depended at this moment, he hastened on.
“Holt at the cross-roads promised eighteen, all armed with fire-locks. M'Sweeny has six sons, and stout fellows they are, every man of them ready. Then, there are the O'Learys, but there's a split amongst them—confound their petty feuds, this is no time to indulge them. They shall come out, and they must—ah! hand in hand, too, though they have been enemies this twelvemonth. Black O'Sullivan numbers nigh eighty—pike-men every one of them. Our French friends may smile at their ragged garments, but our enemies will scarce join in the laugh. Carrig-na-curra must be occupied, it is the key of the glen. 'The Lodge' we'll burn to the ground: but no, we must not visit the sin of the servant on the master. Young Travers behaved nobly to me there is a wild time coming, and let us, at least, begin our work in a better spirit, for bloodshed soon teaches cruelty.”
Now, muttering these short and broken sentences, now, wondering what strength the French force might be—how armed—how disposed for the enterprise—what spirit prevailed among the officers, and what hopes of success animated the chiefs—Mark moved along, eager for the hour to come when the green flag should be displayed, and the war-cry of Ireland ring in her native valleys.