284
“My dear brother,” said Kate, placing her arm around his neck. The boy started and looked up, and prepared as she was to see the traces of suffering there, she started at the ravages long days and nights of study and deep grief had left behind them: his eyes were sunk, and surrounded by dark circles, that made them seem quite buried beneath his brows; his forehead traversed by a net-work of blue veins, had that transparent thinness mental labour impresses, and his lips were thin and colourless; while on each cheek a burning spot of red looked like the mark of hectic. He made no answer; but the tears ran fast from his eyes, and his mouth quivered as he tried to say something.
She sat down beside him on the same chair, and bending her head, till the silken curls touched his very cheek, she spoke to him—not in words of encouragement or good cheer, for such her own instinct told her were inapplicable, but in the soft accents of affection, neither undervaluing the source of his grief, nor yet suffering him to be carried away by his own sense of his calamity. “Remember, my dear brother,” said she, “you are not less dear to our hearts for all this—remember that for the casualties of the world, and its chances, we can only do our utmost—that success is not for us to determine, but to strive for. Had you won to-day, some other must now have grieved like you, and who can tell if he could count as many fond and loving hearts to feel for and console him.”
“Oh, if you knew how I strived and longed—how I prayed for success,” said he, in a voice almost stifled by convulsive throbs.
“And it will come yet, Herbert. The tree is only the more fruitful when the knife has cut down to its very heart. Yours is not the nature to be deterred by one repulse, nor yours the name to be stamped with failure, because the contest is difficult. Ambitions are only noble when their path is steep. Who knows how indolent you might have become, had you found the prize too easily won. Come, come, Herbert, enough for the past; look forward now, and with good courage and hope. The next struggle will end differently; but, above all, wear a fair face before the world. I remember some French prisoners being brought into Courtray, who amused us so much by their gay and smiling air, and look of ease and satisfaction—their secret was, that defeat was never disgrace, save when it lowered the spirit, and made the heart droop. Theirs never failed, and I promise you we thought all the better of them.”
“But my uncle—who is to tell him——”
“Letmetell him. I see you have begun a letter already—”
“That was written last night,” said the boy, as the tears gushed forth afresh—“last night, when hope was almost certainty.”
“Then I'll finish it,” said Kate, taking up the half-written letter.
“Say to him—I would wish him to know all—say that I had beaten my opponents down to one, and that he, too, almost gave up the contest, when, somehow—I cannot now say exactly how or wherefore—I got into a dispute with the examiner about the meaning of a word in Terence; he seemed to enjoy the eagerness with which I defended my opinion for a time, and actually encouraged my persistence, until at length, my temper excited, and my brain on fire, I said something—I know not what—but it was evidently an offence, for he closed the book, and merely replied—'Enough, sir, I give your opponent the premium; his temper more than compensates for any deficiency in his scholarship; and I was beaten.” The last words evoked all his sorrow once more, and the youth burst into tears.
“That, then, I call unfair,” said Kate, passionately, “unless the gentleman were the arbiter of temperament, as well as talent. Come, Herbert, even this should reconcile you to your fortune: you have not failed unworthily.”
“But my uncle, Kate—my uncle will deem it far otherwise. To guard against this very error of my temper was almost the last pledge I made him, and here, in my first trial, see how I have kept my promise.”
“Leave the explanation to me, only promise one thing—and mind, Herbert, this is a pledge there must be no forgetting—do all in your power—spare nothing to win the next time. I care not whether you ever carry away another prize within these walls; but one you must have. Is this agreed?—give me your hand upon it. There, that's like your own self, and now don't waste another thought on what's bygone. The Travers invited you to dine with them to-day.”
“Oh, no—no.”
“No—I have not any intention to press you, only come soon to see us—to seeme.” She kissed his forehead tenderly as she spoke the last word, and glided rapidly from the room.
Kate O'Donoghue was more deeply affected by Herbert's failure than she had let appear to the youth, or even confessed to herself. It was not that the character of his ambition enlisted her sympathies, or engaged her interest. Far from it: she thought too meanly of such triumphs, and knew not how far they shed an influence on a future career. The habits of her education, all her early prejudices, disposed her to regard the life of a soldier as the only one becoming a gentleman. The passion for military glory, which the great victories of the Republic and the Consulate had spread throughout Europe, penetrated into every remote village of the continent, and even the prison-like walls of the convent did not keep out the spirit-stirring sounds of drum and trumpet, the tramp of marching hosts, and the proud clangor of war. It was a time when the soldier was every thing. There was but one path in life by which to win honour, rank, fame, and fortune. Even the humblest might strive, for the race was open to all; or, in the phrase of the period, every conscript left a spare corner in his knapsack for his future “baton de maréchal.”
All she had ever seen of foreign society, partook of this character. For, strangely enough, on the ruin of an aristocracy, a new and splendid chivalry was founded—a chivalry, whose fascinations covered many a wrong, and made many a bad cause glorious by the heroism it evoked! The peaceful path in life was, then, in her estimate, the inglorious one. Still, her proud nature could not brook defeat in any thing. It was not without its influence upon the hearts and minds of her house, that the eagle figured as their crest. The soaring bird, with outstretched wing, careering high above his compeers, told of a race who once, at least, thought no ambition above their daring; and she was worthy of the haughtiest of her ancestors.
Too proud to enter into any detail of Herbert's failure, she dismissed the subject as briefly as she could, and made her appearance in the drawing-room without any perceptible change of manner; nor did she appear to take any notice of the announcement made by Sir Marmaduke to his son, that Hemsworth, who had just arrived from Scotland, would join the family circle at dinner. Kate had never seen him, but his name was long associated in her mind with anecdotes of oppression and cruelty to her uncle—of petty insults and annoyances which the letters from Carrig-na-curra used constantly to tell of, and of which her relatives abroad had often descanted in her hearing. The picture she had drawn of him in her own mind was not a flattering one—composed of features and ingredients which represented all that was base, low-minded, and treacherous—a vulgar sycophant, and a merciless tyrant. What was her astonishment, almost her chagrin, to discover, that Hemsworth entered the room a gentleman-like person, of about five-and-forty, tall, and well-formed, with regular features, rather melancholy in their expression than otherwise, and with a voice singularly low, soft, and pleasing, his manner a mixture of well-bred ease, and that excessive deference so often seen in those who have passed a long portion of life about persons of rank superior to their own, but without the slightest trace, that she could discover, of any thing subservient. With all her disposition to be critical, she could find little fault with either his manner or his conversation, nor could she detect any appearance of affectation. On the contrary, he seemed affable, like one who felt himself among friends, and need set no limits to his natural frankness. On the several topics he talked, he spoke with good sense and fairness; and even when the often agitated question of the state of Ireland was alluded to, he surprised Kate by the absence of any violent or exaggerated tone, speaking of the people in terms of kindliness and even affection—lauding the native virtues of their character, and dwelling with pleasure on the traits which advantageously distinguish them from the peasantry of other lands.
She listened at first with suspicion and distrust, then, by degrees, with interested attention, and, at last, with actual delight, to the narrative he gave of the social condition of Ireland; in which he laboured to show that a mistaken estimate of the people by England—a misconception of the national character, a contempt of it, perhaps—had perpetuated usages, which, by their injustice, had excited the hatred and animosity of the country, and led to that condition of insulting depreciation on one side, and proud defiance on the other, which the two people exhibited towards each other.
So well and ably did he sustain his part—so powerfully support each position by reference to some fact with which his ample memory supplied him—that Sir Marmaduke was eventually obliged to confess himself vanquished, though unconvinced—who ever was, when worsted?—and Frederick, chagrined at the favour Kate bestowed on the speaker, merely remarked as he concluded—
“Very conclusive and satisfactory, I have no doubt, it is; but, in my mind, all you have said goes to prove, that we English are a very inferior nation, and very unworthily placed in rule and governance over a people so much our superiors.”
Kate's eyes flashed with an unwonted fire, and for an instant she felt almost unable to control the temptation to answer this taunt; but a quiet smile of half acquiescence on Hemsworth's face so adequately expressed what she wished but dared not say, that she merely returned the smile, and was silent.
Had Hemsworth's whole object been on that evening to disabuse Kate O'Donoghue of her dislike to him—to obliterate all memory of the wrongs with which she had heard him charged towards her family—he could not have chosen a more successful path. There was the very degree of firmness and decision she admired in the manner he gave his opinions, and yet all the courtesy of one who would not be supposed capable of advancing them as incontrovertible or irrefutable. They were merely his sentiments—his mode of seeing and estimating particular events, of which another might judge differently. For all he advanced he was ready to show his reasons—they might be shallow, they might be inconclusive—but they werehis, and, fortunately for his chance of winning her favour, they wereheropinions also.
“So you think we shall have no outbreak, Hemsworth,” said Sir Marmaduke, as they sat at tea.
“I scarcely go so far,” said he, gravely. “There are too many reasons for an opposite fear, to say so much, even if the Secretary of State did not assure us that the danger is over. The youth of Ireland will always be dangerous, when left without a career, or a road to their ambition; and from them, any peril that may now be apprehended will certainly come. Many young men of the best families of the country, whose estates are deeply incumbered—heavy mortgages and large dowries weighing them down—are ready to join in any bold attempt which promises a new order of things. They see themselves forgotten in the distribution of all patronage—excluded from every office—-sometimes for reasons of religion—sometimes for family, even for a mere name's sake. They are ready to play a bold game, where losing is only quicker ruin, and to gain would be a glorious victory.”
“But what could a few rash and desperate young men like these effect against a power so great and so consolidated as England?”
“Little, perhaps, as regards the overthrow of a Government; but a world of injury to the prospect of future quiet. The rebellion of a week—ay, a day—in Ireland, will sow the seeds of fifty years of misery, and retard the settlement of peaceful relations at least another century. Had the Minister made the same concessions here he was glad to accord to Scotland—had he, without insulting a nationality, converted it into a banner under which loyalty was only rendered more conspicuous—you might have, perchance, seen a different order of things in Ireland.”
“For the life of me, I cannot see the evils and wrongs these people labour under. I have a very large Irish acquaintance in London, and pleasanter, happier fellows cannot exist than they are.”
“All the young men of family in Ireland are not in the Guards,” said Hemsworth, with a smile, which, with all its blandishment, very thinly covered over the sarcasm of his remark.
Frederick's face flushed angrily, and he turned away without speaking.
“Should we not ask pardon of the ladies for this subject of our conversation?” said Hemsworth. “I am sure neither Miss Travers nor Miss O'Donoghue deem the topic interesting or amusing.”
“On the contrary, sir, I believe I may reply for both of us,” said Kate, “whatever concerns the fortunes of a country we have so near at heart, has all our sympathy; and, as an Irish girl, I feel grateful for your explanation of motives which, while I appreciate, I should still be unable so satisfactorily to account for.”
“How happy I am to meet my countrywoman's approval,” said Hemsworth, bowing courteously, and with a marked emphasis directing his speech to Kate.
The manner in which he spoke the words was so palpably intended for herself, that she felt all the charm of a flattery to which the disparity of their years imparted force.
Soon after tea, Sir Marmaduke retired with Hemsworth to his study. Frederick took his leave at the same time, and Sybella and Kate were left alone together.
“I have a long letter to write this evening, my dear Sybella,” said Kate, after they had talked some time. “Poor Herbert has failed in his examination, and I have promised to break the news to my uncle. Not so difficult a task as the poor boy deems, but one to which he is himself unequal.”
“Does he then feel it so deeply?” said Sybella, timidly.
“Too much, as regards the object of the ambition; but no more than he ought as a defeat. It is so bad to be beaten, Sybella,” said she, with a sharp distinctness on each word. “I shall hate the sight of that University until he carries off the next prize; and then—then I care not whether his taste incline him for another effort;” and so saying, she embraced her friend, and they parted for the night.
The epistle which Kate had promised to conclude was in itself a lengthy one—written at different intervals during the week before the examination, and containing a minute account of his progress, his hopes and his fears, up to that very moment. There was little in it which could interest any but him to whom it was addressed, and to whom every allusion was familiar, and the reference to each book and subject thoroughly known—what difficulties he had found here, what obscurity there—how well he had mastered this, how much he feared he might have mistaken the other—until on the evening of the first day's examination, when the following few lines, written with a trembling hand, appeared:—
“They say I shall gain it. H——— called my translationof Horace a brilliant one, and asked the Vice-Provost tolisten to my repeating it. I heard. I gave it in blankverse. Oh, my dearest uncle, am I deceiving myself, anddeceiving you? Shall I be able to write thus to-morrownight?”Then came one tremulous line, dated, “Twelve o'clock:”—“Better and better—I might almost even now say, victory;but my heart is too much excited to endure a chance.”“And it remains for me, my dear uncle,” wrote Kate afterthese words, “to fulfil the ungrateful task of bearing badtidings; and I, who have never had the good fortune tobring you happiness, must now speak to you of misfortune.—My dear cousin has failed.”
She followed these few lines by the brief narrative Herbert had given her—neither seeking to extenuate his errors, nor excuse his rashness—well knowing in her heart that Sir Archy would regard the lesson thus conveyed, an ample recompense for the honour of a victory so hardly lost.
“It is to you he looks for comfort—to you, sir, whom hisefforts were all made to please, and for whose praise hisweary nights and toilsome days were offered. You, who knowmore of the human heart than I do, can tell how far sosevere a discouragement may work for good or evil on hisfuture life; for myself, I feel the even current ofprosperity is but a sluggish stream, that calls for noefforts to stem its tide; and were his grief over, I'drather rejoice that he has found a conflict, because hemay now discover he has courage to meet it.“Even I, to follow a theme as dispiriting, even I, growweary of pleasure, and tired of gaiety. The busy world ofenjoyment leaves not a moment free for happiness, andalready I am longing to be back in the still valley ofGlenflesk. It is not that Dublin is not very brilliant, orthat society has less of agreeability than I expected—bothhave exceeded my anticipations; nor is it, that I have notbeen what we should call in France 'successful' in my'debut'—far from that, I am the fashion, or, rather, halfthe fashion—Sybella dividing public favour with me;—but,somehow, nobody contradicts me here—no one has courage totell me I'm wrong—no one will venture to say, what you haveoften said, and even oftener looked, that 'I talked of whatI knew nothing;' and, in fact, my dear uncle, every one isso very much in love with me, that I am beginning to detestthem, and would give the world to be once more at home,before I extend the hatred to myself, which I mustinevitably end by doing, if nobody anticipates me in thesentiment.“You told me I should prove faithless to you. Well, I haverefused heaven knows how many 'brilliant offers,' for sucheven the proposers called them. Generals of fourscore,guardsmen of twenty, dignitaries in the church, sergeantslearned in the law, country gentlemen in hordes, twobaronets, and one luckless viscount, have asked for thevalueless hand that writes these lines; and yet—and yet,my dear chevalier, I shall still write myself at the bottomof this page, Kate O'Donoghue. I have no doubt you are veryvain of my constancy, and will be so when you read this;and it is right you should be, for, I promise you, in my'robe, couleur de cerise,' looped with white roses, and my'chapeau de paysanne,' I am a very pretty person indeed—atleast, it seems a point the twelve judges agree upon, andthe Master of the Rolls tells me, 'that with such long eye-lashes I might lift my eyes very high indeed.'“And now, my dear, kind uncle, divide your sorrow betweenyour niece who is dying of vanity, and your nephew who issick of grief—continue your affection to both—and believeme, in all sincerity of heart, your own fond and faithful,“Kate O'Donoghue.”“I have met Hems worth, and, strange to say, found him bothpleasant and agreeable.”
Such were the concluding lines of an epistle, in which few, who did not possess Sir Arches acuteness, could successfully trace any thing of the real character of the writer.
At the time we speak of, Clontarf was the fashionable watering-place of the inhabitants of Dublin; and although it boasted of little other accommodation than a number of small thatched cabins could afford, and from which the fishermen removed to give place to their more opulent guests, yet, thither the great and the wealthy of the capital resorted in summer, to taste the pleasures of a sea side, and that not inferior one, the change of life and habit, entailed by altered circumstances and more restricted spheres of enjoyment.
If, with all the aid of sunshine and blue water, waving foliage and golden beach, this place had an aspect of modest poverty in its whitened walls and net-covered gardens in summer, in winter its dreariness and desolation were great indeed. The sea swept in long waves the narrow road, even to the doors of the cabins, the muddy foam settling on the window sills, and even drifting to the very roofs; the thatch was fastened down with strong ropes, assisted by oars and spars, to resist the wild gale that generally blew from the south-east. The trim cottages of summer were now nothing but the miserable hovels of the poor, their gardens waste, their gay aspect departed; even the stirring signs of life seemed vanished; few, if any, of the inhabitants stirred abroad, and save some muffled figure that moved past, screening his face from the beating storm, all was silent and motionless. The little inn, which in the summer time was thronged from morning till night, and from whose open windows the merry laugh and the jocund sound of happy voices poured, was now fast shuttered up, and all the precautions of a voyage were taken against the dreaded winter; even to the sign of a gigantic crab, rudely carved in wood and painted red, every thing was removed, and a single melancholy dip candle burned in the bar, as if keeping watch over the sleeping revelry of the place.
If such were the gloomy features without, within doors matters wore a more thriving aspect. In a little parlour behind the bar a brisk fire was burning, before which stood a table neatly prepared for supper; the covers were laid for two, but the provision of wine displayed seemed suited to a larger number. The flashy-looking prints upon the walls shone brightly in the ruddy blaze; the brass fender and the glasses sparkled in its clear light, and even to the small, keen eyes of Billy Corcoran, the host, who kept eternally running in and out, to see all right, every thing presented a very cheering contrast to the bleak desolation of the night without.
It was evident that Mr. Corcoran's guests were behind time; his impatience was not to be mistaken. He walked from the kitchen to the parlour and back again without ceasing, now, adding a turf to the fire, now, removing the roasting chickens a little farther from the blaze, and anon, bending his ear to listen if perchance he could catch the sound of approaching wheels. He had sat down on every chair of the parlour, he had taken a half glass out of each decanter on the table, he had sharpened every knife in turn, and in fact resorted to every device to cheat time, when suddenly the sound of a carriage was heard on the road, and the next moment he unbarred the door and admitted two persons, whose dripping hats and soaked great coats bore evidence to the downpour without.
“Well, Billy,” said the first who entered, “this rain will beat down the wind at last, and we shall be able to get some fish in the market.”
“Sorra bit, sir,” said Billy, as he assisted the speaker to remove his wet garments, leaving the other stranger to his own devices. “The wind is coming more round to the east, and I know from the noise on the Bull we'll have plenty of it. I was afeard something happened you, sir; you're an hour behind the time you said yourself.”
“Very true—so I am. I was detained at a dinner party, and my friend here also kept me waiting a few minutes for him.”
“It was not my fault,” interposed the other; “I was ready when——”
“Never mind—it was of no consequence whatever; the only misfortune was, we could find no coach, and were forced to put up with a car, and got wet for our pains; but the supper, Bill—the supper.”
“Is smoking hot on the table,” was the reply; and as he opened the door into the parlour, the fact declared itself to their senses.
The strangers were soon seated at the meal, and like men who could relish its enjoyment not the less for the merit of what they had quitted without doors. It is not necessary to consume much time in presenting them to our readers; they are both already known to him. One was Mr. Hemsworth; the other no less a person than Lanty Lawler, the horse-dealer. One only remark is necessary. Familiar as these characters already are, they here appeared in aspect somewhat different from what they have hitherto exhibited. Hemsworth, no longer the associate of fashionable company, had exchanged his silken deferential manner for an air of easy confidence that seemed to fit him even better; Lanty, on the other hand, had lost all his habitual self-possession, looked abashed and sheepish, and seemed for all the world, as though he were in the hands of one, who could dispose of his destiny as he willed it. All the got up readiness of his wit, all his acquired frankness were now gone, and in their place a timid hesitating manner that bespoke the most abject fear and terror; it was evident, too, that he struggled hard to conceal these signs of trepidation. He ate voraciously of all before him, and endeavoured by the pre-occupation of the table to cover his real sentiments at the moment; he drank, too, freely, filling a large goblet to the brim with sherry several times during the meal; nor was this unnoticed by Hemsworth, who at last interposed in a calm, but commanding tone, as he laid his hand on the decanter—
“A pipe of it, if you please, Lanty; you may have a whole bank of the Guadalquiver for your own drinking at another time; but now, if you please, let us have calm heads and cool judgments. It is some time since we met, and it may be longer ere we have another opportunity like the present.”
“Very true, sir,” said Lanty, submissively, as he pushed his untasted glass before him. “It was the wetting I was afeard of; my clothes were soaked through.”
Hemsworth paid no attention to the excuse, but sat for some minutes deeply sunk in his reflections; then lifting his head suddenly, he said—
“And so these papers have never been found?”
“Never, sir. I did my best to get them. I spent days at the place, and had others looking besides. I said I'd give five guineas—and you know what a reward that is down there—to the man who would bring them to me; but from that hour to this, I never set eyes on them.”
“While he was speaking these words, Hemsworth's eyes never turned from him. They were fixed on him, not with any expression of severity or harshness, neither did the glance indicate suspicion. It was a steady, passionless stare, rather like one seeking an explanation, than prejudging a motive.
“You were quite certain that they were the papers we wanted?”
“Sure I opened them—sure I read the writing myself, when I took them out of the old man's desk.”
“They had better have remained there,” said Hemsworth to himself, but loud enough for the other to hear; then rallying quickly, he added, “no matter, however, we have evidence enough of another kind. Where are the letters Mark wrote to the Delegates.”
“I think Mr. Morrissy has most of them, sir,” said Lanty, hesitatingly; “he is the man that keeps all the writings.”
“So he may he, Lanty; but you have some of them yourself: three or four are as good as thirty or forty, and you have as many as that—aye, and here in your pocket, too, this minute. Come, my worthy friend, you may cheat me in horse flesh, whenever I'm fool enough to deal with you; but at this game I'm your master. Let me see these letters.”
“How would I have them, Captain, at all,” said Lanty, imploringly; “sure you know as well as me, that I'm not in the scheme at all.”
“Save so far as having a contract to mount five hundred men of the French on their landing in Ireland, the money for which you have partly received, and for which I hold the check, countersigned by yourself, Master Lanty. Very pretty evidence in a Court of justice—more than enough to hang you, that's all.”
“There's many a one sould a horse, and didn't know what use he was for,” replied Lanty, half rudely.
“Very true; but a contract that stipulates for strong cattle, able to carry twelve stone men with full cavalry equipments, does not read like an engagement to furnish plough horses.” Then altering his tone, he added, “No more of this, sir, I can't afford time for such fencing. Show me these letters—show me, that you have done something to earn your own indemnity, or by G—d, I'll let them hang you, as I'd see them hang a dog.”
Lanty became lividly pale, as Hemsworth was speaking; a slight convulsive tremor shook his lip for a moment, and he seemed struggling to repress a burst of passion, as he held the chair with either hand; but he uttered not a word. Hemsworth leisurely drew forth his watch, and placed it on the table before him, saying—
“It wants eleven minutes of one o'clock; I'll give you to that hour to make up your mind, whether you prefer five hundred pounds in your hand, or take your place in the dock with the rest of them; for, mark me, whether we have your evidence or not, they are equally in our hands. It is only an economy of testimony I'm studying here, and I reserve my other blackguards for occasions of more moment.”
The taunt would appear an ill-timed one at such a minute; but Hemsworth knew well the temperament of him he addressed, and did not utter a syllable at random. Lanty still preserved silence, and looked as though doggedly determined to let the minutes elapse without speaking; his head slightly sunk on his chest, his eyes bent downwards, he sat perfectly motionless. Hemsworth meanwhile refilled his glass, crossed his arms before him, and seemed awaiting, without impatience, the result of the other's deliberation. At length the hand approached the figure; it wanted but about half a minute of the time, and Hems-worth, taking up the watch from the table, held it before Lanty's eyes, as he said—
“Time is nearly up, Master Lawler; do you refuse?”
“I only ask one condition,” said Lanty, in a faint whisper.
“You shall make no bargains: the letters, or———. It is too late now;” and with these words he replaced his watch in his pocket, and rose from the table.
Lanty never moved a muscle, while Hemsworth approached the fireplace, and rang the bell. In doing so, he turned his back to the horse-dealer, but commanded a view of him through means of the little glass above the chimney. He stood thus for a few seconds, when Lanty—in whose flashing eyes, and darkened colour, inward rage was depicted—suddenly thrust his arm into the breast of his coat. Hems-worth turned round at once, and seizing the arm in his powerful grasp, said in a cool, determined voice—
“No, no, Lanty; I'm armed, too.
“It was the pocket-book I was feeling for, sir,” said Lanty, with a sickly effort at a smile, while he drew forth a black leather case, and handed it towards Hemsworth. “They are all there—seventeen letters—besides two French commissions, signed by young Mark, and a receipt for four hundred pounds in French gold.”
“You must find it hard to get bullets for those pistols I gave you, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, in a tranquil voice. “I forgot to let you have the bullet-mould with them. Remind me of it to-morrow or next day.”
Lanty muttered a faint “I will,” but looked the very picture of abject misery as he spoke.
“Let me see them, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, in a manner, as calm and unconcerned as could be. “If I don't mistake, they are nearly a quarter of an inch in the bore.”
“About that same, sir,” replied Lawler, while he drew forth the two pistols from the same breast-pocket he had taken the letters.
Hemsworth first examined one, and then the other, leisurely, passing the ramrod into each in turn, and then opening the pans, inspected the priming, adjusting the powder carefully with his finger. “You spoil such pistols as these, by loading with two bullets, Lanty,” said he, as he handed them back to him. “The bore is too perfect for such course usage. Now, this is a less delicate weapon, and will bear harder usage,” and he drew forth a short pistol, containing four revolving barrels, each as wide as the bore of a musket. Lanty gazed in astonishment and terror at the murderous implement, into which the hand fitted by a handle like that of a saw. Hemsworth played the spring by which the barrels moved, with a practised finger, and seemed to exult in the expression of Lanty's terror, as he watched them. Then quickly replacing the weapon, he resumed—“Well, I am glad, for your own sake, that you are more reasonable. You ought to know, that I never place dependence on only one man, for any single service. Such would be merely to play the part of slave, instead of master. But, first of all, how did you become possessed of these letters?”
“I was charged by Mark to deliver them to the Delegates, and as they never saw his hand-writing, I just copied the letters, and kept all the originals, so that he has received his answers regularly, and never suspects what has happened.”
“All right so far—and the younger brother—what of him?” “Oh, he is too much under old M'Nab's influence to be caught. I wouldn't say but that he's a Protestant this minute.”
“You appear to be greatly shocked at your suspicion, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, smiling. “Well, well; we must hope for the best; and now as to this other fellow—where and how can I see him—this Talbot I mean?”
“Ay, that's the puzzle,” replied Lanty, with a greater appearance of ease in his manner than before. “You never can meet him when you look for him; but he's at your elbow every day, twenty times, if you don't want him.”
“Could you not manage a meeting for me with him, down here, Lanty?—I'll take care of the rest.”
“I don't think so; he's a wary fellow; he gave me a fright once or twice already, by a word he let drop. I am not easy in his company at all.”
“False or true, he would be an immense service to us,” said Hemsworth, musingly. “If I only could see and speak with him, I'd soon convince him that he incurred no risk himself. It's a bad sportsman shoots his decoy duck, Lanty,” and he pinched his cheek good-humouredly as he spoke. Lanty endeavoured to laugh, but the effort was a feeble one. Meanwhile, the host, now summoned for the second time, made his appearance, and by Hemsworth's orders, the car was brought round to the door; for, severe as the night was, he determined to return to the city.
“You are coming back to town, too, Lanty?” said he, in a tone of inquiry.
“No, sir; I'm going to stop here with Billy, if your honour has no objection?”
“None whatever. Remember to let me see you on Tuesday, when I shall have every thing in readiness for your journey south—till then, good bye;” so saying, and handing Corcoran two guineas in gold, for he paid liberally, Hemsworth mounted the car, and drove off.
Lanty looked after him, till the darkness shut out the view, and then buttoning his rough coat tightly around his throat, set out himself towards town, muttering as he went—“I wish it was the last I was ever to see of you.”
We must beg of our reader to retrace his steps once more to the valley of Glenflesk, but only for a fleeting moment. When last we left Carrig-na-curra it was at night, the party were at supper in the old tower, and Kerry stood outside, rehearsing to himself for the tenth time the manner in which he should open his communication. The sound of Mark's voice, raised above its ordinary pitch, warned him that his mission might not be without danger, if perchance any thing on his part might offend the youth. None knew better than Kerry the violent temper of the young O'Donoghue, and how little restraint he ever put upon any scheme he thought of to vent his humour on him who crossed him. It was an account of debtor and creditor then with him, how he should act; on the one side lay the penalties, on the other the rewards of his venture—how was he to escape the one and secure the other? A moment's reflection suggested the plan.
“I'll not go in, divil a step, but I'll tell I was convarsin' with them this half hour, and that the rope and the bit of lead is a new way they do have for catching mermaids and other faymale fishes in the Bay; and sure if I only say that there's an act of Parlimint agin doin' it, she'll not only believe it all, but she'll keep the saycret to her dying bed;” and with this profound reflection on Mrs. Branagan's character, and a face of very well got up surprise, Kerry re-entered the kitchen to announce his discovery.
It is not our intention to dwell on the scene that followed; we have merely adverted to the fact inasmuch as that on the trivial circumstance of Kerry's resolve depended the discovery of a plot, which, if once known to M'Nab, would immediately have been communicated to the Government. The fates willed it otherwise, and when the party separated in the old tower, Sir Archy was as little satisfied concerning Talbot's character as ever, and as eager to ascertain whence and wherefore he came, and with what intention he had made Mark's acquaintance. With many a wily scheme for the morrow, the old man went to rest, determining to spare no pains to unravel the mystery—a fruitless resolve after all, for when day broke, Talbot and Mark were already away, many miles on the road to Dublin.
The O'Donoghue's first act on completing his arrangements with Swaby, was to place at Mark's disposal a sum of five hundred pounds, an amount far greater than ever the young man had at any time possessed in his life. Talbot, to whom the circumstance was told by Mark, readily persuaded him to visit Dublin, not merely for the pleasures and amusements of the capital, but that he might personally be made known to the Delegates, and see and confer with those who were the directors of the threatened rebellion.. Talbot understood perfectly the kind of flattery which would succeed with the youth, and by allusion to his ancient lineage, his more than noble blood, the rights to which he was entitled, and to which he would unquestionably be restored, not only stimulated his ardour in the cause, but bound him in a debt of gratitude to all who encouraged him to engage in it.
Mark's character, whatever its faults, was candid and frank in every thing; he made no secret to his new friend of his present unhappiness, nor did he conceal that an unpaid debt of vengeance with respect to young Travers weighed heavily on his spirits. It was the first time in his life he had tasted the bitterness of an insult, and it worked like a deadly poison within him, sapping the springs of his health and rendering miserable the hours of his solitude; the thought rarely left him day or night, how was he to wipe out this stain? When Talbot, therefore, spoke of a visit to the capital, Mark cheerfully acceded, but rather from a secret hope that some opportunity might arise to gratify this cherished passion, than from any desire of witnessing the splendour of the metropolis; and while the one pictured the glittering scenes of festive enjoyment to which youth and money are the passports, the other darkly ruminated on the chances of meeting his enemy and provoking him to a duel.
It was on the evening of the third day after they left Carrig-na-curra that they drew near the capital, and after a promise from Mark that in every thing he should be guided by his friend, nor take any step without his counsel and advice, they both entered the city.
“You see, Mark,” said Talbot, as after passing through some of the wider and better lighted thoroughfares, they approached a less frequented and more gloomy part of the town; “you see, Mark, that the day is not come when we should occupy the place of honour, an humble and quiet hotel will best suit us for the present, but the hour is not very distant, my boy, when the proudest mansion of the capital will throw wide its doors to receive us. The Saxon has but a short tenure of it now.”
“I don't see any reason for secrecy,” said Mark, half-doggedly, “we have good names and a good purse, why then must we betake ourselves to this gloomy and desolate quarter.”
“Because I am the guide,” said Talbot, laughing; “and, if that's not reason enough, that's the only one I will give you just now, but come, here we are, and I do not think you will complain of your entertainment.” And as he spoke, the carriage entered the spacious court-yard of an old fashioned inn, which, standing in Thomas-street, commanded a view of the river through one of the narrow streets leading down to the quay.
“This was the fashionable house some fifty years back,” said Talbot as he assisted his friend to alight; “and though the heyday of its youth is over, there are many generous qualities in its good old age—not your father's cellar can boast a better bottle of Burgundy.”
Talbot's recommendation was far from being unmerited, the “Black Jack” as the inn was named, was a most comfortable house of the old school, with large, low-ceilinged rooms, wide stairs, and spacious corridors; the whole, furnished in a style, which, though far from pretending to elegance or fashion, possessed strong claims for the tired traveller, seeking rest and repose. Here then our young travellers alighted. Talbot being received with all the courteous urbanity due to an old acquaintance; the landlord himself appearing to do the honours of the house, and welcome a valued guest.
“We must get our host, Billy Crossley, to sup with us, Mark. No one can tell us so much of how matters are doing here, for, however it happens, Billy knows all the gossip of the day, fashionable, political, or sporting, he keeps himself up to what is going forward everywhere.” And so saying, Talbot at once hastened after the landlord to secure his company for the evening.
Billy was somewhat fastidious about bestowing his agreeability in general, but on the present occasion, he acceded at once, and in less than half-an-hour, the three were seated at a meal, which would not have disgraced an hotel of more pretensious exterior. Mr. Crossley doing the honours of the table, like a host entertaining his friends.
“I scarcely had expected to see you so soon, Mr. Talbot,” said he, when the servants had left the room, and the party drew round the fire. “They told me you would pass the winter in the country.”
“So I had intended, Billy, but as good luck would have it, I made an acquaintance in the south, which changed my plans, my friend, Mr. O'Donoghue here, and as he had never seen the capital, and knew nothing of your gay doings, I thought I'd just take a run back, and show him at least, the map of the land.”
“My service to you, sir,” said Billy, bowing to Mark; “it would be hard to have got a better guide than you have in Master Harry. I can assure you, so far as wickedness goes, he's a match for any thing here—from the Royal Barracks to Trinity College.”
“Flattery, gross flattery, Bill. I was your own pupil, and you can't help partiality.”
“You are a most favourable specimen of private tuition, there's no doubt of it,” said Crossley, laughing, “and I have reason to be proud of you. Did Mr. O'Donoghue ever hear of your clearing out Hancey Hennessy at hazard—the fellow that carried the loaded dice?”
“Have done, Bill. None of these absurd stories now.”
“Nor what a trick you played Corny Mehan at the spring meeting with the roan cob that knew how to limp when you wanted him?—as great a devil as himself, Mr. O'Donoghue. You'd swear the beast had a bad blood spavin if you saw him move, and he all the time a three-quarter bred horse, without a stain or a blemish about him.”
Talbot seemed for a second or two somewhat uneasy at these familiar reminiscences of his friend Crossley, not knowing precisely how Mark might take them; but when he saw that a hearty laugh was the reception they met with, he joined in the mirth as freely as the others.
“The best of all was the Wicklow steeple-chase; sorrow doubt about it, that was good fun;” and Crossley laughed till his eyes streamed again with the emotion.
“You must tell me that,” said Mark.
“It was just this:—Mister Henry there had a wager with Captain Steevens of the staff, that he'd reach the course before him, each starting at the same moment from Quin's door at Bray. Well, what does he do, but bribes one of the boys to let him ride postillion to Steevens' chaise, because that way he was sure to win his wager. All went right. The bluejacket and boots fitted him neatly—they were both new—got on purpose for the day; and Mr. Talbot lay snug in the stable, waiting for the chaise to be ordered round, when down comes the word, 'Number four, two bays, you're wanted;' and up he jumps into the saddle, and trots round to the door, afraid of his life to look round, and keeping his chin sunk down in his cravat to hide his face. He never once looked back, but let the boys harness the cattle without saying a word.
“'My lord says you're to drive slow,' said one of the boys.
“He looked round, and what did he see, but an old man in the chaise with a horse-shoe wig, and in the full dress of a bishop.
“'Who is he at all?' said Talbot.
“'The Bishop of Cloyne,' whispered the boy; 'he's going up to the Levee.'
“By my conscience, he is not,” said Talbot, for at that moment he spied Steevens starting from the door at a round trot, and with that he turned the bishop's horses sharp round, laid the whip heavily over them, and took the lead towards Wicklow.