378
Hemsworth permitted the words to sink into his heart for a few seconds in silence, and then went on—
“So long as you trustedme, you were safe. I'd never expose you in open court.”
“No, sir, nor the Attorney-general neither. He said that all they wanted was my information on oath.”
“And you gave it!” exclaimed Hemsworth, in a voice of ill-dissembled anxiety.
“Not all out, sir,” said Lanty, with a shrewd glance of malicious intelligence. “I asked them for a copy, to read it over before I signed it, and they gave me one”—here he produced a roll of paper from his breast pocket, and showed it to Hemsworth—“and I'm to give it back to-morrow, with my name to it.”
“They've played you off well, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, while, carelessly opening the paper, he affected not to pay it any attention. “The lawyers have got round you nicely; and, faith, I always thought you a clever fellow before. Your evidence, so long as it was your own, was worth five thousand pounds, and I wouldn't give five for your chance of escape, now, that they know your secret.”
“What would you say if they didn't know it?” said Lanty, with a look of impudent familiarity, he had never ventured on before. “What would you say, now, if the best of my evidence was to come out yet?—that I never told one word about the French clipper that landed the muskets in Glengariff-bay, and left two pipes of wine at your own house the same night?”
“Ah! you'd try that game, would you?” said Hemsworth, with a smile of deadly malice; “but I've thought of that part, my honest Lanty. I've already given information on that very matter. You don't suppose that I afforded those fellows my protection for the sake of the bribe. No, faith!—but I made them pay for the very evidence that can any day convict them;—ay,themandyou; you, a paid spy of France, a sworn United Irishman, who have administered the oaths to eighteen soldiers of the Roscommon militia, and are at this moment under a signed and witnessed contract, bound to furnish horses for a French cavalry force on their landing here in Ireland. Are these truths, Mr. Lanty, or are they mere matters of fancy?”
“I'm a crown witness,” said Lawler, sturdily, “and if I speak out all I know, they're bound to protect me.”
“Who is to bind them?” said Hemsworth, jeeringly: “is it your friends, the United Irishmen, that you betrayed?—is it they are to watch over your precious life?—or do you think your claims are stronger with the other party, that you only swore to massacre? Where's the sympathy and protection to come from? Tell me that, for I'm curious on the point.”
Lanty turned a fierce look upon him—his eyeballs glared, and his nether lip shook convulsively, while his hands were firmly clenched together. Hemsworth watched these evidences of growing anger, but without seeming to regard them, when the key grated roughly in the lock, the door opened, and the gaoler called out, with a savage attempt at laughter—
“Time's up. I must turn you off, sir.”
“A short reprieve,” said Hemsworth, humouring the ruffian jest, and he pitched his purse into the fellow's hand.
“To settle family matters, I suppose,” said the turnkey, with a grin, as he retired, and closed the door once more.
The interruption seemed to offer a favourable opportunity to Hemsworth of giving an amicable turn to the interview, for with a changed voice, and a look of well-assumed friendship, he said—
“I have misspent my moments here sadly, Lanty. I came to befriend you, and not to interchange words of angry meaning. If I had been in Dublin, I'm certain you would never have fallen into this perilous position. Let us see how best to escape from it. This information—I see it is all confined to young O'Donoghue's business—is of no value whatever, until signed by you. It is just as if it were never spoken. So that, if you steadily determine not to sign it, you need give no reason whatever, but simply refuse when asked. Do this, and all's safe.”
“Couldn't they transport me?” said Lanty, in a feeble voice, but whose very accent betrayed the implicit trust he reposed in Hemsworth's answer.
“They'll threaten that, and worse, too; but never flinch; they've nothing against you save, your own evidence. When the time comes—mark me, I say, when the time comes—your evidence is worth five thousand pounds; but, now, all it will do is convict young O'Donoghue, and warn all the others not to go forward. I don't suppose you want that; the young fellow never did you any harm.”
“Never,” said Lanty, dropping his head with shame, for even in such a presence his conscience smote him.
“Very well—there's no use in bringing him to trouble. Keep your own counsel, and all will be well.”
“I'm just thinking of a plan I've a notion in my head will do well,” said Lanty, musingly. “I'm to see Father Kearney, the priest of Luke's Chapel, to-morrow morning—he's coming over to confess me. Well, when the Attorney-general and the others come for me to write my name, I'll just say that I daren't do it. I'll not tell why nor wherefore—sorra word more, but this, 'I dar'n't do it.' They'll think at once it's the priest set me against it. I know well what they'll say. That Father Kearney put me under a vow, and so they may. They'll scarcely gethimto say much about it, and I'll take care they won't make me.”
“That thought was worthy of you, Lanty,” said Hemsworth, laughing, “but take care that you don't swerve from your determination. Remember that there is no accusation against you—not a word nor a syllable of testimony. Of course they'll threaten you with the worst consequences. You'll be told of prosecutions for perjury, and all that. Never mind—wait patiently your time. When the hour arrives,I'llmake your bargain for you, and it will not be merely the evidence against an individual, but the disclosure of a great plot of rebellion, they must pay you for. Cockayne got four thousand pounds and a free pardon.Yourservices will rank far higher.”
“If they won't bring me up in open court,” said Lanty, timidly, “I'll do whatever they please.”
“For that very reason you must adhere to my advice. There, now, I perceive the fellow is about to lock up for the night, and I must leave this. You may want some money from time to time. I'll take means of sending whatever you stand in need of. For the present, ten pounds will, I suppose, be sufficient.”
Lanty took the money with a mixture of humility and sullenness. He felt it as a bribe rather than a gift, and he measured the services expected of him by the consideration they were costing. The turnkey's presence did not admit of further colloquy, and they parted in mutual suspicion and distrust, each speculating how far self-interest might be worked upon as the guiding principle to sway the other's actions.
“I'm scarcely sure of him yet,” said Hemsworth, as he slowly returned to his hotel. “They'll stop at nothing to terrify him into signing the informations, and if the prosecution goes on, and the young O'Donoghue is convicted, the plot is blown up. The others will escape, and all my long-projected disclosures to the Government become useless. Besides, I fail where failure is of more consequence. It was to little moment that I prevented a marriage between Travers and the girl, if I cannot make her my own; but yet, that alliance should have been thwarted on every ground of policy. It would have been to plant the Travers here on the very spot I destine for myself. No, no. I must take care that they never see Ireland more. Indeed this breaking off the marriage will prove a strong obstacle to their returning.” Thus did he review his plans, sometimes congratulating himself on the success of the past, sometimes fearing for the future, but always relying with confidence on the skill of his own negociations—an ingenuity that never yet had failed him in his difficulties.
The next day was the time appointed for Lanty's final examination, and on which he was to affix his name to the informations, and Hems-worth loitered in one of the offices of the Castle, where the gossip of the morning was discussed, in no common anxiety to hear how his “protege” had acquitted himself. As the clerks and underlings conversed among themselves on the dress or equipage of the officials who at intervals drove off towards the Park, Hemsworth, who affected to be engaged in reading a morning paper, overheard one remark to another—
“There's the devil to pay at the Council. That fellow they have in Newgate against Coyle and M'Nevin, and the rest of them, it seems, now refuses to confirm his informations. They have good reason to believe all he said was true, but they can't go on without him.”
“What's the meaning of that? He was willing enough yesterday.”
“They say a priest from Luke's Chapel was with him this morning, and forbid him, under any number of curses and anathemas in case of disobedience, to reveal a syllable against the 'United party.'”
“They can compel him, however. Don't you remember Cockayne did the very same thing about Jackson's business, and they brought him over to Lord Clonmel's house, and made him sign there?”
“That they did, but they'll not try the same game twice. Curran brought it out in the cross-examination, and made it appear that the witness was terrified by the crown by a threat of consequences to himself as an accomplice, and the point went very far with the jury in Jackson's favour.”
Hemsworth did not wait to hear more. The great fact that Lanty was firm, was all that he cared for, and, after a few casual remarks on the morning news, he strolled forth, with all the lazy indifference of an idle man.
Among the unexplained phenomena of the period is one very remarkable and, doubtless, pregnant circumstance—the species of lull or calm in the movements of the United Irish party, which was conspicuous throughout the entire of the summer and autumn of 1796. The spring opened on them with hopes high, and expectations confident. Tone's letters from Paris breathed encouragement; the embarrassments of England promised favourably for their cause; and many who wavered before, were found now willing to embrace the enterprize. To this state of ardent feeling succeeded an interval of doubt and uneasiness; conflicting statements were circulated, and mens' minds were shaken, without any apparent cause. A vague fear of betrayal and treachery gained ground; yet no one was able to trace this dread to any definite source. The result, however, was evident in the greater caution of all concerned in the scheme—a reserve, which seemed to threaten a total abandonment of the undertaking; such, at least, it appeared to those who, like Mark O'Donoghue, having few or no opportunities of intercourse with the leaders, were disposed to take their impressions from the surface of events. As for him, his correspondence had ceased with Lanty's treachery. He neither knew the real names nor addresses of those to whom he had formerly written, and had not a single acquaintance to whom he could look for advice and assistance.
All Sir Archy's endeavours to win his confidence had failed, not from any distrust either in his judgment or his good faith, but because Mark regarded his secret as a sacred depository, in which the honour of others was concerned; and however disposed to seek advice for himself, he would not compromise their safety for the sake of his own advantage. Unable to extort a confidence by entreaty, and well aware how little efficiency there lay in menace, Sir Archy abandoned the attempt, and satisfied himself by placing in Mark's hands Hemsworth's letter, significantly hinting his own doubts of the writer's integrity.
Mark sat himself down in the garden, to study the epistle; and however artfully conceived, the experience his own career opened, displayed the dishonesty of the writer at every line.
“I am the obstacle to his plans—my presence here is somehow a thwarting influence against him,” said he, as he folded up the paper. “I must remain at every hazard; nor is there much, so long as I bound my wanderings by these great mountains—he will be a bolder than Hemsworth who captures me here.”
Guided by this one determination, and trusting that time might clear up some of the mysteries that surrounded him, Mark waited, as men wait for an event that shall call upon their faculties or their courage for some unusual effort. The same reverses of fortune that had taught him distrust, had also inculcated the lesson of patience; but it was the patience of the Indian warrior, who will lie crouching in concealment for days long, till the moment of his vengeance has arrived. And thus, while to others he seemed an altered character, less swayed by rash impulses, and less carried away by anger, the curbed up passions became only more concentrated by repression. He mixed little with the others, rarely appearing save at meal times, and then, seldom taking any part in the conversation around. He did not absent himself from home, as before, for whole days or weeks long, but spent his time mostly in his own chamber, where he read and wrote for hours—strange and unusual habits for one who had never sought or found amusement save in the fatigues of the hunting-field. His manner, too, was no longer the same. Calmer and more self-possessed than before, he neither seemed to feel momentary bursts of high spirits or depression. The tone of his mind was indeed sad, but it was the sadness that indicated strength and constancy to endure, fully as much as it betrayed the pain of suffering. The altered features of his character impressed themselves on every thing he did; and there was an air of quiet gentleness in his demeanour, quite foreign to his former rough and abrupt manner. Upon none did these things make so great an impression as on Kate: her woman's tact enabled her to see them differently, and more correctly than the rest. She saw that a mighty change had come over him: that no mere check of disappointment, no baffled ambition, could have done this: neither could she attribute it to any feeling towards herself, for he was never more coolly distant than now. She guessed, then, rightly, that it was the first step towards freedom, of a mind enthralled by its own strong passions. It was the struggling energy to be free, of a bold and daring spirit, that learned at length to feel the lowering influences of ill-directed ambition. How ardently she wished that some career were open to him, now—some great path in life: she did not fear its dangers or its trials—his nature suggested any thing save fear! How sad to think, that energy like his should be suffered to wane, and flicker, and die out, for want of the occasion to display its blaze. She could not avoid communicating these thoughts to Sir Archy, who for some time past had watched the growing change in the youth's manner. The old man listened attentively as she spoke, and his glistening eye and heightened colour showed how her girlish enthusiasm moved him; and while some reminiscence of the past seemed to float before him, his voice trembled as he said—
“Alas! my sweet child, the world offers few opportunities like those you speak of, and our political condition rejects them totally. The country that would be safe, must give little encouragement to the darings of youthful energy. His rewards are higher here, who seeks out some path well trod and beaten, and tries by industry and superior skill to pass by those who follow it also. The talents men prize are those available for some purpose of every-day life. Gifts that make mankind wiser and happier, these, bring fame and honour; while the meteor brilliancy of mere heroism can attract but passing wonder and astonishment.”
“You mistake Mark, my dear uncle—you undervalue the change that is worked in his character. He is not deficient in ability, if he but suffer himself to rely upon it, rather than on the casual accidents of fortune. If Herbert were but here——”
“Herbert comes home to-night. I had thought to keep my secret for a surprise, but you have wrested it from me.”
“Herbert coming home! Oh, how happy you have made me! The brothers once more together, how much each may benefit the other. Nay, uncle, you must not smile thus. Superior as Herbert is in the advantages that training and study impart, Mark has gifts of determination and resolve, as certain to win success. But, here he comes—may I not tell him of Herbert's coming?”
Sir Archy smiled and nodded, and the happy girl was the next moment at Mark's side, relating with delight her pleasant news.
Mark listened with pleasure to the intelligence. Any little jealousy he once felt for acquirements and attainments above his own, had long since given way to a better and more brotherly feeling; and he ardently desired to meet and converse with him again.
“And yet, Kate, how altered may he be from what we knew him, who is to say the changes time may not have wrought in him?”
“Such are not always for the worse, Mark,” said Kate, timidly, for she felt how the allusion might be taken.
A slight tinge of red coloured Mark's cheek, and his eye was lighted with a look of pleasure. He felt the flattery in all its force, but did not dare to trust himself with a reply.
“I wonder,” said he, after a lengthened pause—“I wonder how Herbert may feel on seeing, once more, our wild glen. Will these giant rocks and bold ravines appeal to his heart with the same sympathies as ever; or will the habits of the life he has left, cling to him still, and make him think this grandeur only desolation?”
“You did not feel so, surely, Mark?” said Kate, as she turned upon him a look of affectionate interest.
“Me?—I think so? No! This valley was to me a place of rest—a long sought-for haven. I came not here from the gay and brilliant world, rich in fascinations and pleasures. I had not lived among the great and learned, to hear the humble estimate they have of our poor land. I came back here like the mariner whose bark puts back shattered by the storm, and baffled by the winds, unable to stem the tide that leads to fortune. Yes, shipwrecked in every thing.” “Herbert, Herbert,” cried Kate.
At the same moment a chaise, advancing at full gallop, turned from the road into the avenue towards the house. The boy caught sight of the figures in the garden, flung open the door, and springing out, rushed towards them.
“My dear, dear Kate,” was his first exclamation, as he kissed her affectionately; his next, in a tone of unqualified surprise, was—“What a fine fellow you have grown, Mark!” and the two brothers were locked in each other's arms.
The sentiment which thus burst from him in the first moment of surprise, was the very counterpart of Mark's own feeling on beholding Herbert. Time had worked favourably for both. On the elder brother, the stamp of manhood more firmly impressed, had given an elevation to the expression of his features, and a character of composure to his air; while with Herbert, his career of study alternating with a life passed among cultivated and polished circles, had converted the unformed stripling into a youth of graceful and elegant demeanour. The change was even greater in him than in his brother. In the one case it was, as it were, but the growth and development of original traits of character; in the other, new and very different features were distinguishable. His thoughts, his expressions, his very accent was changed; yet through this his old nature beamed forth, bright, joyous, and affectionate as ever. It was the same spirit, although its flights were bolder and more daring—the same mind, but its workings more powerful and more free. The one had placed his ambition so high, he scarcely dared to hope; the other had already tasted some of the enjoyments of success—life had even already shed around him some of its fascinations, and quickened the ardour of his temper. A winner in the race of intellect, he experienced that thrilling ecstasy which acknowledged superiority confers; he knew what it was to feel the mastery over others, and, even now, the flame of ambition was lighted in his heart, and its warm glow tingled in his veins and throbbed in every pulse. In vain should they who knew him once, seek for the timid, bashful boy, that scarcely dared to make an effort from very dread of failure. His flashing eye and haughty brow told of victory; still around his handsome mouth the laughing smile of happy youth showed that no ungenerous feeling, no unworthy pride, had yet mingled with his nature.
“They tell me you have swept the University of its prizes, Herbert—is not this so?” said Mark, as he leaned his arm affectionately on his shoulder.
“You would think but poorly of my triumphs, Mark,” replied Herbert, with a smile. “The lists I fight in, peril not life or limb.”
“Still, there is honour in the game,” said Mark. “Wherever there is success on one side, and failure on the other—wherever there is hope to win, and dread to lose—there, the ambition is never unworthy.”
“But what of you, Mark? Tell me of yourself. Have you left a buck in the glen, or is there a stray grouse on the mountain? What have you been doing since we met?”
Mark coloured and looked confused, when Kate, coming to the rescue, replied—
“How can you ask such a question, Herbert? What variety does life afford in this quiet valley? Is it not the very test of our happiness, that we can take no note of time? But here comes my uncle.”
Herbert turned at the words, and rushed to meet the old man.
“Have you won baith, Herbert,” cried he—“baith premiums? Then I must gie you twa hands, my dear boy,” said he, pressing him in a fond embrace. “Were the competitors able ones? Was the victory a hard one? Tell me all, every thing about it.”
And the youth, with bent down head and rapid utterance, related, in a low voice, the event of his examination.
“Go on, go on,” said Sir Archy M'Nab, aloud—“tell me what followed.”
And Herbert resumed in the same tone as before.
“Ha!” cried Sir Archy, in an accent of irrepressible delight, “so they said your Latin smacked of Scotland. They scented Aberdeen in it. Well, boy, we beat them—they canna deny that. The prize is ours—the better that it was hardly fought for.”
And thus they continued for some time to talk, as they walked side by side through the garden; the old man's firm step and joyous look telling of the pride that filled his heart, while Herbert poured forth in happy confidence the long-treasured thoughts that crowded his brain; nor did they cease their converse, till Kerry came to summon the youth to his father's room.
“He's awake now,” said Kerry, gazing with undisguised rapture on the tall and handsome youth; “and it's a proud man he ought to be this day, that has the pair like ye.”
The young men smiled at the flattery, and arm in arm took then-way towards the house.
Once again assembled beneath that old roof, the various members of the family seemed more than ever disposed to make present happiness atone for any troubles of the past. Never was the old O'Donoghue so contented;—never did Sir Archy feel a lighter heart. Herbert's spirits were buoyant and high as present success and hope could make them; and Kate, whatever doubts might secretly have weighed upon her mind, did her utmost to contribute to the general joy;—while Mark, over whose temperament a calmer and less variable habit of thought prevailed, seemed at least more reconciled to his fortunes.
The influences of tranquillity that prevailed over the land appeared to have breathed their soothing sway over that humble dwelling, where life rolled on like an unruflled stream, each day happy with that monotony of enjoyment, so delicious to all whose minds have ever been tortured by the conflicting cares of the world.
For many a year long the O'Donoghue had not been so free from troubles. The loan he had contracted on Kate's fortune had relieved him from his most pressing embarrassments, and left him money enough to keep other creditors at bay. Sir Archy felt already he had received the earnest of that success he so ardently desired for Herbert, and in the calm of political life, hoped that the rash scheme in which Mark had em-. barked was even now becoming forgotten; and that the time was not far remote when no memory of it would be treasured against him. His own experience taught him, that sage lessons may be gathered from the failures and checks of youthful ambition, and in the changed features of Mark's character he augured most favourably for the future. But of all those on whom happier prospects shone, none revelled in the enjoyment so much as Herbert. The fascinations of that new world, of which he had only caught a glimpse, hung over him like a dream. Life opened for him at a moment when he himself had won distinction, while a new passion stirred his heart, and stimulated hope to the utmost. Kate, his companion throughout every day, was not slow to perceive the lurking secret of his thoughts, and soon led him to confide them to her. Herbert had never heard of Frederick Travers's attachment to his cousin, still less, suspected he had made a proposal of marriage to her. The studied avoidance of their names among his own family was a mystery he could not solve, and he referred to Kate for the explanation.
“How strange, Kate,” said he, one day, as they wandered along the glen somewhat further than usual, “how singular is this silence respecting the Travers's! I can make nothing of it. If I speak of them, no one speaks again—if I allude to them, the conversation suddenly stops. Tell me, if you know it, the secret of all this.”
Kate blushed deeply, and muttered something about old and half-remembered grudges, but he interrupted her quickly, saying—
“This can scarcely be the reason;—at least their feelings show nothing of the kind towards us. Sybella talks of you as a sister nearest to her heart. Sir Marmaduke never spoke of you, but with the warmest terms of affection, and if the gay Guardsman did not express himself on the subject, perhaps it was because he felt the more deeply.”
Kate's cheek grew deeper scarlet, and her breathing more hurried, but she made no reply.
“Myexplanation,” continued Herbert, more occupied with his own thoughts than attentive to his companion, “is this;—and, to be sure, it is a very sorry explanation which elucidates nothing;—that Hemsworth is somehow at the bottom of it all. Sybella told me what persuasions he employed to prevent her father returning to Glenflesk; and when every thing like argument failed, that he actually, under pretence of enlarging the house, rendered the existing part uninhabitable.”
“But what object could he have in this?” said Kate, who felt that Herbert was merely nourishing the old prejudices of his family against Hemsworth. “He is anxious for the peace and welfare of this country—he grieves for the poverty and privations of the people, and whether he be correct or not, deems the remedy, the residence amongst them of a cultivated and wealthy proprietary, with intelligence to perceive, and ability to redress their grievances.”
“Very true, Kate,” replied Herbert; “but don't you see that in these very requisites of a resident gentry, he does not point at the Travers family, whose ignorance of Ireland he often exposed when affecting to eulogise their knowledge. The qualities he recommends he believes to be his own.”
“No, Herbert, you wrong him there,” said she, warmly; “he told me himself the unceasing regret he suffered, that, in his humble sphere, all efforts for the people's good were ineffectual—that, wanting the influence which property confers, benefits from his hands became suspected, and measures of mere justice were regarded as acts of cruelty and oppression.”
“Well, I only know that such is Frederick Travers's opinion of him,” said Herbert, not a little piqued at Kate's unexpected defence of their ancient enemy. “Frederick told me himself that he would never cease until his father promised to withdraw the agency from him. Indeed, he is only prevented from pressing the point, because Hemsworth has got a long lease of part of the estate, which they desire to have back again on any terms. The land was let at a nominal rent, as being almost valueless. The best part of the valley it turns out to be!—the very approach to 'the Lodge' passes through it—so that, as Frederick says, they could not reach their hall-door without a trespass, if Hemsworth pleased to turn sulky.”
Kate felt there might be another and more correct explanation of Frederick's dislike, but she did not dare to hint at it.
“You are too favourable in your opinion of Hemsworth, Kate. Sy-bella said as much to me herself.”
“Sybella said so?” said Kate, as a flush, half of shame, half of displeasure, mantled her cheek.
“Yes,” cried Herbert, for he felt that he was in a difficulty, and there was no way out save the bold one, of right through it; “yes, she saw what you did not, that Hemsworth had dared to lift his eyes to you——that all his displays of patriotic sentiment were got up to attract your favourable notice, and that in his arguments with Frederick about Ireland, his whole aim was to expose the Guardsman's ignorance, and throw ridicule upon it, neither seeking to convey sound notions, nor combat erroneous impressions.”
“Captain Travers was but too easy a mark for such weapons,” said Kate, angrily, “It was his pleasure to make Ireland the object of his sarcasm.”
“So Hemsworth contrived it!” cried Herbert, eagerly, for it was a subject of which he had long been anxious to speak, and one he had heard much of from Sybella. “I know well the game he played, and how successfully too.”
Kate blushed deeply; for a moment she believed that her own secret was known to Herbert, but the next instant she was reassured that all was safe.
“Sybella told me how he actually lay in wait for opportunities to entice Frederick into discussion before you, well knowing the themes that would irritate him, and calculating how far petty refutations, and half-suppressed sneers would embarrass and annoy him—the more, because Frederick saw how much more favourably you regarded Hemsworth's sentiments than his own; and, indeed, sometimes I fancied, Kate, it was a point the Guardsman was very tender about;—nay, sweet cousin, I would not say a word to offend you.”
“Then, do not speak of this again, Herbert,” said she, in a low voice.
“It is a luckless land,” said Herbert, sighing. “They who know it well are satisfied with the cheap patriotism of declaiming on its wrongs. They who feel most acutely for its sorrows, are, for the most part, too ignorant to alleviate them. I begin to think my uncle is quite right—that the best thing we could do would be to make a truce—to draw the game—for some twenty or thirty years, and try if the new generation might not prove wiser in expedients than their fathers.”
“A luckless land, indeed!” said Mark, who, coming up at the moment, had overheard the last words. “You were right to call it so—where the son of an O'Donoghue sees no more glorious path to follow than that of a hollow compromise!”
Kate and Herbert started as he spoke, and while her face flashed with an emotion of mingled pride and shame, Herbert looked abashed, and almost angry at the reproach.
“Forgive me, Herbert,” said Mark, in a voice of deep melancholy. “Not even this theme should sow a difference between us. I came to bid you good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Mark?” cried Kate, starting with terrified surprise.
“Going to leave us, Mark!” exclaimed Herbert, in an accent of true sorrow.
“It is but for a few days—at least I hope that it will be no more,” said Mark. “But I have received intelligence that makes it necessary for me to remain in concealment for a short time. You see, Herbert,” said he, laughing, “that your theory has the advantage on the score of prudence. Had I followed it, the chances are, I should not have occupied the attention of his Majesty's Privy Council.”
“The Privy Council! I don't understand this, Mark.”
“Perhaps this is the easiest mode of explaining it,” said Mark, as he unfolded a printed paper, headed “Treason—Reward for the apprehension of Mark O'Donoghue, Esq., or such information as may lead to his capture.” “Is that enough? Come, come—I have no time for long stories just now. If you want to hear mine about the matter, you must visit me at my retreat—the low shealing at the west of Hungry Mountain. At least, for the present I shall remain there.”
“But is this necessary, Mark? Are you certain that any thing more is meant than to threaten?” said Kate.
“I believe that Carrig-na-curra will be searched by a military force to-night, or to-morrow at farthest—that the bribe has tempted three or four—none of our people—don't mistake me—to set on my track. If my remaining would spare my father's house the indignity of a search—or if the country had any better cause at heart than that of one so valueless as I am, I would stay, Kate——”
“No, no, Mark. This were but madness, unworthy of you, unjust to all who love you.”
The last few words were uttered so faintly, as only to be heard by him alone; and as she spoke them a heavy tear rolled down her cheek, now pale as marble.
“But surely, Mark,” said Herbert, who never suspected any thing of his brother's intrigues, “this must proceed on mere falsehood. There is no charge against you—you, whose life of quiet retirement here can defy any calumny.”
“But not deny the truth,” said Mark, with a sorrowful smile. “Once for all, I cannot speak of these things now. My time is running fast; and already my guide, yonder, looks impatient at my delay. Remember the shealing at the foot of the mountain. If there be any mist about, you have but to whistle.”
“Is poor Terry your guide, then?” said Kate, affecting to smile with some semblance of tranquillity.
“My guide and my host both,” said Mark, gaily, “It's the only invitation I have received for Christmas, and I accept it most willingly, I assure you.”
An impatient gesture of Terry's hand, as he stood on a small pinnacle of rock, about fifty feet above the road, attracted Mark's attention, and he called out—
“Well!—what is it?”
“The dragoons!” shouted Terry, in a terrified voice. “They're crossing the ford at Caher-mohill, two miles off—eight, nine, ten—ay, there's twelve now, over; and the fellow in the dark coat, he's another. Wait! they're asking the way: that's it, I'm sure. Well done!—my blessing be an ye this day, whoever ye are. May I never! if he's not sending them wrong! They're down the glen towards Killarney;” and as he finished speaking he sprang from the height, and hastened down the precipice at a rate that seemed to threaten destruction at every step.
“Even so, Terry. We have not more time than we need. It's a long journey to the west of the mountain; and so, good-bye, my dear cousin. Good-bye, Herbert. A short absence it will be, I trust;” and, tearing himself away hurriedly, lest any evidence of emotion might be seen, the young man ascended the steep pathway after Terry; nor did he turn his head round, until distance enabled him to look down unnoticed, when again he cried out “Farewell! Remember the west side of Hungry!” and waving his cap, disappeared, while Herbert and his cousin wended their sorrowful way homeward.
When Kate arrived at home, she found a note awaiting her, in Hemsworth's hand-writing, and marked “haste.” Guessing at once to what it must refer, she broke the seal, with an anxious heart, and read:—
“My dear Madam,“I have been unable to retard any longer the course ofproceedings against your cousin. It would seem that thecharges against him are far more grave and menacing thaneither of us anticipated, at least so far as I can collectfrom the information before me. The Privy Council hasdetermined on arresting him at once. Orders to support thewarrant by a military force have been transmitted toofficers commanding parties in different towns of the south,and there is no longer a question of the intentions of thecrown regarding him. But one, of two, chances is now open tohim—to surrender and take his trial—or, should he, as hemay, without any imputation on his courage, dread this, tomake his escape to the coast, near Kenmare, where a luggerwill lie off, on Wednesday night. By this means he will beable to reach some port in France or Flanders; or,probably, should the wind change, obtain protection fromsome of the American vessels, which are reported as cruisingto the westward.“In making this communication to you, I need scarcelyobserve the implicit faith I repose in the use you make ofit. It is intended to be the means of providing for yourcousin's safety—but should it, by any accident, fall underother eyes than yours, it would prove the inevitable ruin ofyour very devoted servant,“Wm. Hemsworth.”
“And they will not believe this man's integrity?” exclaimed Kate, as she finished reading the note. “He who jeopardies his own station and character for the sake of one actually his enemy! Well,theirinjustice shall not involvemyhonor.” “Was it you brought this letter?” said she to Wylie, who stood, hat in hand, at the door.
“Yes, my lady, and I was told there might, perhaps, be an answer.”
“No—there is none; say 'very well'—that I have read it. Where is Mr. Hemsworth?”
“At Macroom. There was a meeting of magistrates there, which delayed him, and he wrote this note, and sent me on, instead of coming himself.”
“Say, that I shall be happy to see him—that's enough,” said Kate, hurriedly, and turned back again into the house.
Through all the difficulties that beset her path hitherto, she had found Sir Archy an able and a willing adviser; but now, the time was come, when not only must she act independently of his aid, but, perhaps, in actual opposition to his views—taking for her guidance one distrusted by almost every member of her family. Yet what alternative remained—how betray Hemsworth's conduct in a case which, if known, must exhibit him as false to the Government, and acting secretly against the very orders that were given to him? This, she could not think of, and thus by the force of circumstances, was constrained to accept of Hemsworth as an ally. Her anxious deliberations on this score were suddenly interrupted by the sound of horses galloping on the road, and as she looked out, the individual in question rode up the causeway, followed by his groom.
The O'Donoghue was alone in the drawing-room, musing over the sad events which necessitated Mark's concealment, when Hemsworth entered, heated by a long and fast ride.
“Is your son at home, sir—your eldest son?” said he, as soon as a very brief greeting was over.
“If you'll kindly ring that bell, which my gout won't permit me to reach, we'll inquire,” said the old man, with a well-affected indifference.
“I must not create any suspicion among the servants,” said Hemsworth, cautiously, “I have reason to believe that some danger is impending over him, and that he had better leave this house for a day or two.”
The apparent frankness of the tone in which he spoke, threw the O'Donoghue completely off his guard, and taking Hemsworth's hand, he said—
“Thank you sincerely for this, the poor boy got wind of it this morning, and I trust before now, has reached some place of safety for the present—but what steps can we take? is there anything you can advise us to do?—I'm really so bewildered by all I hear, and so doubtful of what is true and what false, that I'm incapable of an opinion. Here comes the only clear head amongst us. Kate, my sweet child, Mr. Hemsworth, like a kind friend, has come over about this affair of Mark's—will you and Sir Archy talk it over with him?”
“I beg your pardon for the interruption, sir, but I must recall to your memory that I am a magistrate, charged with your son's arrest, and if by an unguarded expression,” here he smiled significantly, “I have betrayed my instructions—I rely on your honour not to expose me to the consequences.”
The O'Donoghue listened, without thoroughly comprehending the distinction the other aimed at, and then, as if disliking the trouble of a thought that puzzled him—he shook his head and muttered, “Aye, very well—be it so—my niece knows these matters better than I do.”
“I agree with that opinion, perfectly,” said Hemsworth, in an undertone, “and if Miss O'Donoghue will favor me with her company for a few minutes in the garden, I may be able to assist her to a clear understanding of the case.” Kate smiled assentingly, and Hemsworth moved towards the door and opened it; and then, as if after a momentary struggle with his own diffidence, he offered her his arm; this Kate declined, and they walked along, side by side.
They had nearly reached the middle of the garden before Hemsworth broke silence. At last he said, with a deep sigh—“I fear we are too late Miss O'Donoghue. The zeal, real or affected, of the country magistrates, has stimulated them to the utmost. There are spies over the whole country—he will inevitably be taken.”
Rate re-echoed the last words in an accent of deep anguish, and was silent.
“Yes,” resumed he, “escape is all but impossible—for even if he should get to sea, there are two cruisers on the look-out for any suspicious sail.
“And what if he were to surrender and stand his trial,” said Kate, boldly.
Hemsworth shook his head sorrowfully, but never spoke. “What object can it be with any Government to hunt down a rash, inexperienced youth, whose unguarded boldness has led him to ruin? On whom would such an example tell, or where would the lesson spread terror, save beneath that old roof yonder, where sorrows are rife enough already?”
“The correspondence with France—that's his danger. The intercourse with the disturbed party at home might be palliated by his youth—the foreign conspiracy admits of little apology.” “And what evidence have they of this?”
“Alas! but too much—the table of the Privy Council was actually covered with copies of letters and documents—some, written by himself—almost all, referring to him as a confidential and trusty agent of the cause. This cannot be forgiven him! When I heard a member of the Council say, 'Jackson's blood is dried up already,' I guessed the dreadful result of this young man's capture.”
Kate shuddered at these words, which were uttered in a faint tone, tremulous through emotion. “Oh, God,” she cried, “do not let this calamity fall upon us. Poverty, destitution, banishment, anything, save the death of a felon!”
Hemsworth pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, and looked away, as the young girl, with upturned face, muttered a brief but fervent prayer to heaven.
“But you, so gifted and experienced in the world's ways,” cried she, turning on him a glance of imploring meaning—“can you not think of anything? Is there no means, however difficult and dangerous, by which he might be saved? Could not the honor of an ancient house plead for him? Is there no pledge for the future could avail him.”
“There is but one such pledge—and that”—here he stopped and blushed deeply, and then, as if by an effort, resumed—“Do not, I beseech you, tempt me to utter what, if once spoken, decides the destiny of my life?”
He ceased, and she bent on him a look of wondering astonishment. She thought she had not heard him aright, and amid her fears of some vague kind, a faint hope struggled, that a chance of saving Mark yet remained. Perhaps, the mere expression of doubt her features assumed, was more chilling than even a look of displeasure, for Hemsworth's self possession, for several minutes, seemed to have deserted him; when, at last recovering himself, he said—
“Pray, think no more of my words, I spoke them rashly. I know of no means of befriending this young man. He rejected my counsels when they might have served him. I find how impossible it is to win confidence from those whose prejudices have been fostered in adverse circumstances. Now, I am too late—my humble task is merely to offer you some advice, which the day of calamity may recall to your memory. The Government intends to make a severe example of his case. I heard so much, by accident, from the Under Secretary. They will proceed, in the event of his conviction—of which there cannot be a doubt—to measures of confiscation regarding his property—timely intervention might be of service here.”
This additional threat of misfortune did not seem to present so many terrors to Kate's mind as he calculated on its producing. She stood silent and motionless, and appeared scarcely to notice his words.
“I feel how barbarous such cruelty is to an old and inoffensive parent,” said Hemsworth, “whose heart is rent by the recent loss of a son.”
“He must not die,” said Kate, with a hollow voice, and her pale cheek trembled with a convulsive motion. “Mark must be saved. What was the pledge you hinted at?”
Hemsworth's eyes flashed, and his lip curled with an expression of triumph. The moment, long sought, long hoped for, had at length arrived, which should gratify both his vengeance and his ambition. The emotion passed rapidly away, and his features assumed a look of subdued sorrow.
“I fear, Miss O'Donoghue,” said he, “that my hope was but like the straw which the drowning hand will grasp at; but, tortured as my mind has been by expedients, which more mature thought has ever discovered to be impracticable, I suffered myself to believe that possible, which my own heart forbids me to hope for.”
He waited a few seconds to give her an opportunity of speaking, but she was silent, and he went on—
“The guarantee I alluded to would be the pledge of one, whose loyalty to the Government stands above suspicion; one, whose services have met no requital, but whose reward only awaits the moment of demanding it; such a one as this might make his own character and fortune the recognizance for this young man's conduct, and truck the payment of his own services for a free pardon.”
“And who is there thus highly placed, and willing to befriend us.”
Hemsworth laid his hand upon his heart, and bowing with deep humility, uttered, in a low, faint voice—
“He who now stands before you!”
“You,” cried Kate, as clasping her hands in an ecstacy, she fixed her tearful eyes upon him. “You would do this?” Then growing suddenly pale, as a sick shudder came over her, she said, in a deep and broken voice, “At what price, sir?”
The steady gaze she fixed upon him seemed to awe and abash him, and it was with unfeigned agitation that he now spoke.
“A price which the devotion of a life long could not repay. Alas! a price I dare no more aspire to, than hope for.”
“Speak plainly, sir,” said Kate, in a firm, collected tone, “this is not a moment for misconception. What part have I to play in this compact, for by your manner I suppose you include me in it?”
“Forgive me, young lady, I have not courage to place the whole fortunes of my life upon one cast; already I feel the heaviness of heart that heralds in misfortune. I would rather live on with even this faint glimmer of hope than with the darkness of despair for ever.” His hands dropped powerless at his side, his head fell forward on his bosom, and as if without an effort of his will, almost unconsciously his lips muttered the words, “I love you.”
Had the accents been the sting of an adder they could not have called up an expression of more painful meaning than flashed over Kate's features.
“And this, then, is the price you hinted at—this was to be the compact.”
The proud look of scorn she threw upon him evoked no angry feeling in his breast, he seemed overwhelmed by sorrow, and did not dare even to look up.
“You judge me hardly, unfairly too; I never meant my intercession should be purchased—humble as I am, I should he still more unworthy, had I harhoured such a thought; my hope was this, to make my intervention available, I should show myself linked with the fortunes of that house I tried to save—it should be a case, where, personally, my own interest was at stake, and where my fortune, all I possessed in the world was in the scale, if you consented”—here he hesitated, faltered, and finally became silent, then passing his hands across his eyes, resumed more rapidly—“but I must not speak of this; alas! that my tongue should have ever betrayed it; you have forced my secret from me, and with it my happiness for ever—forget this, I beseech you forget that, even in a moment so unguarded, I dared to lift my eyes to the shrine my heart has worshipped. I ask no pledge, no compact, I will do my utmost to save this youth; I will spare no exertion or influence I possess with the Government; I will make his pardon the recompense due to myself, but if that be impossible, I will endeavour to obtain connivance at his escape, and all the price I ask for this is, your forgiveness of my presumption.”
Kate held out her hand towards him, while a smile of bewitching loveliness played over her features; “this is to be a friend indeed,” said she.
Hemsworth bent down his head till his lips rested on her fingers, and as he did so, the hot tears trickled on her hand, then suddenly starting up, he said, “I must lose no time; where shall I find your cousin?—in what part of the country has he sought shelter?”
“The shealing at the foot of Hungry mountain, he mentioned to Herbert as the rendezvous for the present.”
“Is he alone—has he no companion?”
“None, save, perhaps, the idiot boy who acts as his guide in the mountains.”
“Farewell then,” said Hemsworth, “you shall soon hear what success attends my efforts; farewell”—and, without waiting for more, he hastened from the spot, and was soon heard descending the causeway at a rapid pace.
Kate stood for a few moments lost in thought, and as the sound of the retreating hoofs aroused her, she looked up, and muttering to herself, “It was nobly done,” returned with slow steps to the house.
As Hemsworth spurred his horse, and urged him to his fastest speed, expressions of mingled triumph and vengeance burst from him at intervals—“Mine at last,” cried he—“mine in spite of every obstacle,—-Fortune is seldom so kind as this—vengeance and ambition both gratified together—me, whom they dispised for my poverty, and my low birth—that it should be my destiny to crush them to the dust!” These words were scarcely uttered, when his horse, pressed beyond his strength, stumbled over a rut in the road, and fell heavily to the ground, throwing his rider under him.
For a long time no semblance of consciousness returned, and the groom, fearing to leave him, had to wait for hours until a country car should pass, in which his wounded master might be laid. There came one by at last, and on this Hemsworth was laid, and brought back to “the Lodge.” Before he reached home, however, sense had so far returned, as, that he felt his accident was attended with no serious injury; the shock of the fall was the only circumstance of any gravity.
The medical man of Macroom was soon with him, and partly confirmed his own first impressions, but strictly enjoining rest and quiet, as in the event of any unusual excitement, the worst consequences might ensue. Hemsworth bore up under the injunction with all the seeming fortitude he could muster, but in his heart he cursed the misfortune that thus delayed the hour of his long-sought vengeance.
“This may continue a week, then?” cried he, impatiently.
The doctor nodded an assent.
“Two—three weeks, perhaps?”
“It will be a month, at least, before I can pronounce you out of danger,” said the physician, gravely.
“A month! Great Heaven!—a month! And what are the dangers you apprehend, in the event of my not submitting?”
“There are several, and very serious ones—-inflammation of the brain, fever, derangement even.”
“Yes, and are you sure this confinement will not drive me mad?” cried he, passionately; “will you engage that my brain will hold out against the agonizing thoughts that will not cease to torture me all this while?—or can you promise that events shall stand still for the moment when I can resume my place once more among men?”
The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only a more certain evidence of the truth of the medical fears; and, without venturing on any direct reply, the doctor gave some directions for his treatment, and withdrew.
The physician's apprehensions were well founded. The first few hours after the accident seemed to threaten nothing serious, but as night fell, violent headache and fever set in, and before day-break, he was quite delirious.
No sooner did the news reach Carrig-na-curra, than Kerry was dispatched to bring back tidings of his state; for, however different the estimation in which he was held by each, one universal feeling pervaded all—of sorrow for his disaster, Day after day, Sir Archy or Herbert went over to inquire after him; but some chronic feature of his malady seemed to have succeeded, and he lay in one unvarying condition of lethargic unconsciousness.
In this way, week after week glided over, and the condition of the country seemed like that of the sick man—one of slumbering apathy. The pursuit of Mark, so eagerly begun, had, as it were, died out. The proclamations of reward, torn down by the country people on their first appearance, were never renewed, and the military party, after an ineffectual search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards towards Tralee, and soon after returned to head-quarters. Still, with all these signs of security, Mark, whose short experience of life, had taught him caution, rarely ventured near Carrig-na-curra, and never passed more than a few moments beneath his father's roof.
While each had a foreboding that this calm was but the lull that preludes a storm, their apprehensions took very different and opposing courses, Kate's anxieties increased with each day of Hemsworth's illness; she saw the time gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, and yet knew not how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, coupling the activity with which Mark's pursuit was first undertaken, with the sudden visit of Hemsworth to the country, and the abandonment of all endeavours to capture him, which followed on Hemsworth's accident, felt strong suspicion that the agent was the prime mover in the whole affair, and that his former doubts, were well founded regarding him; while Herbert, less informed than either on the true state of matters, formed opinions, which changed and vacillated with each day's experience.
In this condition of events, Sir Archy had gone over one morning alone, to inquire after Hemsworth, whose case, for some days preceding, was more than usually threatening—symptoms of violent delirium having succeeded to the dead lethargy in which he was sunk. Buried deeply in his conjectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, and how far his motives tallied with honourable intentions, the old man plodded wearily on, weighing every word he could remember that bore upon events, and carefully endeavouring to divest his mind of every thing like a prejudice. Musing thus, he accidentally diverged from the regular approach, and turned off into a narrow path, which led to the back of “the Lodge;” nor was he aware of his mistake, till he saw, at the end of the walk, the large window of a room he remembered as belonging to the former building.. The sash was open, but the curtains, were drawn closely, so as to intercept any view from within or without. He observed these things, as fatigued by an unaccustomed exertion, he seated himself, for some moments' rest, on a bench beneath the trees.
A continuous, low, moaning sound soon caught his ear; he listened, and could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of a sick man, accompanied as it was by long-drawn sighs. There were voices, also, of persons speaking cautiously together, and the words, “He is asleep at last,” were plainly audible, after which the door closed, and all was still.
The solemn awe which great illness inspires was felt in all its force by the old man, as he sat like one spell-bound, and unable to depart. The labouring respiration that seemed to bode the ebb of life, made his own strong heart tremble, for he thought how, in his last hours, he might have wronged him. “Oh! if I have been unjust—if I have followed him to the last with ungenerous doubt—forgive me, Heaven; even now my own heart is half my accuser;” and his lips murmured a deep and fervent prayer, for that merciful benevolence, which, in his frail nature, he denied to another. He arose from his knees with a spirit calmed, and a courage stronger, and was about to retire, when a sudden cry from the sick room arrested his steps. It was followed by another more shrill and piercing still, and then a horrid burst of frantic laughter: dreadful as the anguish-wrung notes of suffering—how little do they seem in comparison, with the sounds of mirth from the lips of madness!
“There—there,” cried a voice, he at once knew as Hemsworth's—“that's him, that's your prisoner—make sure of him now; remember your orders, men!—do you hear; if they attempt a rescue, load with ball, and fire low—mind that, fire low. Ah! you are pale enough now;” and again the savage laughter rung out. “Yes, madam,” continued he, in a tone of insolent sarcasm, “every respect shall be shown him—a chair in the dock—a carpet on the gallows. You shall wear mourning for him—all the honeymoon, if you fancy it. Yes,” screamed he, in a wild and frantic voice, “this is like revenge! You struck me once—you called me coarse plebeian, too! We shall be able to see the blood you are proud of—aye, the blood! the blood!”—and then, as if worn out by exhaustion, he heaved a heavy sigh, and fell into deep moaning as before.
Sir Archy, who felt in the scene a direct acknowledgment of his appeal to Heaven, drew closer to the window, and listened. Gradually, and like one awaking from a heavy slumber, the sick man stretched his limbs, and drew a long sigh, whose groaning accent spoke of great debility and then, starting up in his bed, shouted— “It is, it is the King's warrant—who dares to oppose it. Ride in faster, men—faster; keep together here, the west side of the mountain. There—there, yonder, near the beach. Who was that spoke of pardon? Never; if he resists, cut him down. Ride for it, men, ride;” and in his mad excitement, he arose from his bed, and gained the floor. “There—that's him yonder; he has taken to the mountains; five hundred guineas to the hand that grasps him first,” and he tottered to the window, and tearing aside the curtain, looked out.