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CHAPTER XXVI. A LAST EVENING AT HOME

With the experience of past events to guide us, it would appear now that a most unaccountable apathy existed in the English Cabinet of the period, with regard to the plan of invasion meditated against Ireland by France; nor is it easy to determine whether this indifference proceeded more from ignorance of the danger, or that amount of information concerning it, which disposed the Minister to regard it as little important.

From whatever cause proceeding, one thing is sufficiently clear – the emissaries of France pervaded the country in every part without impediment or molestation; statistical information the most minute was forwarded to Paris every week; the state of popular opinion, the condition of parties, the amount of troops disposable by Government – even the spirit which animated them, were reported and commented on, and made the subject of discussion in the “bureau” of the War Minister of France. To such an extent was this system carried, that more than once the French authorities became suspicious regarding the veracity of statements, from the very facility with which their details were communicated, and hinted, that such regularity in correspondence might be owing to the polite attentions of the English Cabinet; and to this distrust is in a great measure to be attributed the vacillating and hesitating policy which marked their own deliberations.

Tone’s letters show the wearisome toil of his negociation; the assurances of aid obtained after months of painful, harrassing solicitation, deferred or made dependent on some almost impossible conditions; guarantees demanded from him which he neither could nor would accord; information sought, which, were they in actual possession of the country, would have been a matter of difficult acquisition; and after all, when the promised assistance was granted, it came coupled with hints and acknowledgements that the independence of Ireland was nothing in their eyes, save as inflicting a death blow to the power and greatness of England.

In fact, neither party was satisfied with the compact long before the time of putting it in operation arrived. Meanwhile the insurgents spared no efforts to organize a powerful body among the peasantry, and, at least numerically, to announce to France, a strong and effective cooperation. Such reports were necessary to enable Tone to press his demand more energetically; and although he never could have deceived himself as to the inutility of such undisciplined and almost unarmed masses, still they looked plausible on paper, and vouched for the willingness of the people to throw off the yoke of England.

It is now well known, that the French party in Ireland was really very small. The dreadful wrongs inflicted on the Roman Catholic church during the Revolution could not be forgotten or forgiven by that priesthood, who were their brethren; nor could it be supposed that they would lend a willing aid to further a cause which began its march to freedom over the ashes of their church. Such as were best capable of pronouncing on the project – those educated in France – were naturally fearful of a repetition at home of the horrible scenes they had witnessed abroad, and thus the “patriots” lost the aid which, more than any other, could have stirred the heart of the nation. Abstract principles of liberty are not the most effective appeals to a people; and although the French agents were profuse of promises, and the theme of English oppression could be chaunted with innumerable variations, the right chord of native sentiment was never touched, and few joined the cause, save those who, in every country and in every age, are patriots – because they are paupers. Some, indeed, like the young O’Donoghue, were sincere and determined. Drawn in at first by impulses more purely personal than patriotic, they soon learned to take a deep interest in the game, and grew fascinated with a scheme which exalted themselves into positions of trust and importance. The necessity of employing this lure, and giving the adherents of the cause their share of power and influence, was another great source of weakness.

Diversity of opinion arose on every subject; personal altercations of the bitterest kind; reproaches and insinuations, passed continually between them, and it needed all the skill and management of the chiefs to reconcile, even temporarily, these discordant ingredients, and maintain any semblance of agreement among these “United Irishmen.”

Among those who lived away from such scenes of conflict, the great complaint was the delay. “What are we waiting for? When are we to strike the blow?” – were the questions ever arising; and their inability to answer such satisfactorily to the people, only increased their chagrin and disappointment. If the sanguine betrayed impatience, the despondent – and there are such in every cause – showed signs of vacillation, and threw out dark hints of treachery and betrayal; while between both were the great masses, moved by every passing rumour, and as difficult to restrain to-day, as impossible to muster to-morrow.

Such, briefly, was the condition of the party into which Mark O’Donoghue threw his fortune in life, as reckless of his fate as he was ignorant of the precise objects in view, or the means proposed for their accomplishment.

His influence among the people was considerable. Independently of all claims resulting from his name and family, he was individually a great favourite with them. Personal courage and daring – skill in every manly exercise, and undaunted resolution – are gifts which, when coupled with a rough, good nature, and a really kind heart, are certain of winning their way among a wild and uncultivated people; and thus, Herbert, who scarcely ever uttered a harsh word – whose daily visits to the sick were a duty Sir Archy expected from him – whose readiness to oblige was the theme of every tongue, was less their favourite than his brother.

This influence, which, through Lanty Lawler, was soon reported to the delegates in Dublin, was the means of Mark’s being taken into special confidence, and of a command being conferred on him, for the duties and privileges of which, he was informed, a few days would sufficiently instruct him.

Nearly a week had elapsed from the day on which Kate addressed her note to Mark, and he had not yet returned home. Such absences were common enough; but now, she felt an impatience almost amounting to agony, at the thought of what treasonable and dangerous projects he might be engaged in, and the doubt became a torture, how far she ought to conceal her own discovery from others.

At length came the evening before her own departure from Carrig-na-curra, and they were seated around the tea-table, thoughtful and silent by turns, as are they who meet for the last time before separation. Although she heard with pleasure the announcement that Herbert would be her companion to the capital, where he was about to take up his residence as a student in Trinity College, her thoughts wandered away to the gloomier fortunes of Mark, darker as they now seemed, in comparison with the prospects opening before his brother.

Of all the party, Herbert alone was in good spirits. The career was about to begin which had engrossed all his boyish ambition – the great race of intellect his very dreams had dwelt upon. What visions did he conjure of emulative ardour to carry off the prize among his companions, and win fame that might reflect its lustre on all his after life. From his very childhood, Sir Archy had instilled into him this thirst for distinction, wisely substituting such an ambition for any other less ennobling. He had taught him to believe that there would be more true honour in the laurels there won, than in all the efforts, however successful, to bring back the lost glories of their once proud house. And now he was on the very threshold of that career his heart was centred in. No wonder is it, then, if his spirits were high, and his pulse throbbing. Sir Archy’s eyes seldom wandered from him; he seemed as if reading the accomplishment of all his long teaching; and as he watched the flashing looks and the excited gestures of the boy, appeared as though calculating how far such a temperament might minister to, or mar his future fortune.

The O’Donoghue was more thoughtful than usual. The idea of approaching solitude, so doubly sad to those advanced in life, depressed him. His evenings, of late, had been passed in a happy enjoyment he had not known for years before. Separation to the young is but the rupture of the ties of daily intercourse – to the old, it has all the solemn meaning of a warning, and tells of the approach of the last dreadful parting, when adieux are said for ever. He could not help those gloomy forebodings, and he was silent and depressed.

Kate’s attention wandered from the theme of Herbert’s anticipated pleasures, to think again of him, for whom none seemed now interested. She had listened long and anxiously for some sound to mark his coming, but all was still without, and on the road, for miles, the moonlight showed no object moving; and, at last, a deep reverie succeeded to this state of anxiety, and she sat lost to all around her. Meanwhile, Sir Archy, in a low, impressive voice, was warning Herbert of the dangers of involving himself in any way in the conflicts of party politics, then so high in Dublin.

He cautioned him to reject those extreme opinions so fascinating to young minds, and which either give an unwarrantable bias to the judgment through life, or which, when their fallacy is detected, lead to a reaction as violent, and notions as false. “Win character and reputation first, Herbert: gain the position from which your opinions will come with influence, and then, my boy, with judgment not rashly formed, and a mind trained to examine great questions – then, you may fearlessly enter the lists, free to choose your place and party. You cannot be a patriot this way, in the newspaper sense of the term. – It is possible, too, our dear Kate may deem your ambition a poor one – ”

“Kate, did you say? – Kate, uncle,” said she, raising her head, with a look of abstraction.

“Yes, my dear, I was speaking o’ some of the dangers that beset the first steps in political opinion, and telling Herbert that peril does not always bring honour.”

“True, sir – true: but Mark – ” She stopped, and the blush that covered her face suffused her neck and shoulders. It was not till her lips pronounced the name, that she detected how inadvertently she had revealed the secret of her own musings.

“Mark, my sweet Kate is, I trust, in no need of my warnings; he lives apart from the struggle, and were it otherwise, he is older, and more able to form his opinions than Herbert, here.”

These words were spoken calmly, and with a studious desire to avoid increasing Kate’s confusion.

“What about Mark?” cried the O’Donoghue, suddenly aroused by the mention of the name. “It’s very strange he should not be here to say ‘good-bye’ to Kate. Did any one tell him of the time fixed for your departure?”

“I told him of it, and he has promised to be here,” said Herbert; “he was going to Beerhaven for a day or two, for the shooting; but, droll enough, he has left his gun behind him.”

“The boy’s not himself at all, latterly,” muttered the old man. “Lanty brought up two horses here the other day, and he would not even go to the door to look at them. I don’t know what he’s thinking of.”

Kate never spoke, and tried with a great effort to maintain a look of calm unconcern; when, with that strange instinct so indescribable and so inexplicable, she felt Sir Archy’s eyes fixed upon her, her cheek became deadly pale.

“There, there he comes, and at a slapping pace, too!” cried Herbert; and, as he spoke, the clattering sound of a fast gallop was heard ascending the causeway, and the next moment the bell sent forth a loud summons.

“I knew he’d keep his word,” said the boy, proudly, as he walked to meet him. The door opened, and Frederick Travers appeared.

So unexpected was the disappointment, it needed all Sir Archy’s practised politeness to conceal from the young Guardsman the discomfiture of the rest: nor did he entirely succeed, for Frederick was no common observer, and failed not to detect in every countenance around, that his was not the coming looked for.

“I owe a thousand apologies for the hour of my visit, not to speak of its abruptness,” said he, graciously; “but we only learned accidentally to-day that Herbert was going up to Dublin, and my father sent me to request he would join our party.”

“He is about to enter college,” said Sir Archy, half fearing to direct the youth’s mind from the great object of his journey.

“Be it so,” said Fred, gaily; “we’ll talk Virgil and Homer on the road.”

“I’m afraid such pleasant companionship may put Greece and Rome in the background,” said Sir Archy, drily.

“I’ll answer for it he’ll be nothing the worse for the brief respite from study; besides you’d not refuse me his company, when I tell you that otherwise I must travel alone. My father in his wisdom having decided to despatch me half a day in advance, to make preparations for his arrival. Is that quite fair, Miss O’Donoghue?”

“I protest I think not, as regards us. As for you,” added she, archly, “I should say, so accomplished a traveller always finds sufficient to amuse him on the least interesting journey. I remember a little theory of yours on that subject; you mentioned it the first time I had the pleasure to meet you.”

The allusion was with reference to the manner in which Travers made her acquaintance in the Bristol packet, and the cool assurance of which, she, with most womanly pertinacity, had not yet forgiven. Travers, who had often felt ashamed of the circumstance, and had hoped it long since forgotten, looked the very picture of confusion.

“I perceive Sir Archibald has not taught you to respect his native proverb, Miss O’Donoghue, and let ‘by-gones be by-gones.’”

“I hae taught her nothing Scotch, sir,” replied Sir Archy, smiling; “but to love a thistle, and that e’en, because it has sting.”

“Not from those that know how to take it, uncle,” said she, archly, and with a fond expression that lit up the old man’s face in smiles.

The Guardsman was less at his ease than usual; and, having arranged the matter of his visit satisfactorily, arose to take his leave.

“Then you’ll be ready for me at eight, Herbert. My father is a martinet in punctuality, and the phæton will not be a second behind time; remember that, Miss O’Donoghue, for he makes no exception, even for ladies.”

He moved towards the door, then turning suddenly, said —

“By-the-bye, have you heard any thing of a movement in the country here about us? The Government have apparently got some information on the subject, but I suspect without any foundation whatever.”

“To what extent does this information go?” said Sir Archy, cautiously.

“That I can’t tell you; all I know is, that my father has just received a letter from the Castle, stating that we are living in the very midst of an organised rebellion, only waiting the signal for open revolt.

“That same rebellion has been going on, to my knowledge, something more than forty years” said the O’Donoghue, laughing; “and I never knew of a Lord Lieutenant or Chief Secretary who didn’t discover the plot, and save the kingdom: always leaving a nest egg of treason for his successor to make a character by.”

“I’m no’ so sure it will not come to a hatching yet,” said Sir Archy, with a dry shake of the head.

“If it is to come, I wish with all my heart it might while I have a chance of being a spectator,” said Travers; then suddenly remembering that the levity of the remark might not please the others, he muttered a few words about a hope of better prospects, and withdrew.

During this brief colloquy, Kate listened with breathless interest to learn some fact, or even some well-grounded suspicion which might serve to put Mark on his guard; but nothing could be more vague and indecisive than Travers’s information, and it was evident that he had not concealed any thing he knew. Was he in a position to learn more, was the next question to herself – might he not be able to ascertain where the suspicion of Government rested, and on whom? Her decisions were seldom but the work of a second, and as soon as this thought struck her, she determined to act upon it. Slipping noiselessly from the room, she hastily threw a shawl around her, and hurried from the house by a small postern door, which, leading down to the high road, was considerably shorter than the causeway by which Travers must pass.

It was no time for the indulgence of bashfulness, and indeed her thoughts were far too highly excited by another’s destiny to leave any room to think of herself; and short as the path was, it sufficed to let her arrange her plan of procedure, even to the very words she should employ.

“I must not tell him it is for Mark,” said she; “he must think it is a general desire to save any rash or misguided enthusiast from ruin. But, here he comes;” and at the same instant the figure of a man was seen approaching, leading his horse by the bridle. The dark shadow of the castle fell across the road at the spot, and served to make the form dim and indistinct. Kate waited not for his coming nearer, but advancing hastily towards him, cried out —

“Captain Travers, I have a favour to ask of you – one, which my coming thus to seek – ”

“Say no more, Kate, lest I hear what was never intended for my ears,” said a low, deep voice.

“Mark – cousin Mark, is this you,” cried she, with mingled pleasure and shame.

“Yes,” replied he, in a tone of still deeper gravity; “I grieve to disappoint you – it is me.”

“Oh, Mark, mistake me not – do not wrong me,” said she, laying her hand affectionately on his arm. “I have longed so much to see you – to speak to you, ere we went away.”

“To see me– to speak to me,” said he, stepping back, and letting the moonlight fall full upon his features, now pale as death; “it was not me you expected to meet here.”

“No, Mark, but it was for you I came; I wished to serve – perhaps to save you. I know your secret, Mark, but it is safe with me.”

“And I know yours, young lady,” retorted he, bitterly. “I cannot say how far my discretion will rival your own.”

As he spoke, a horseman darted rapidly past, and as he emerged from the shadow, turned round in his saddle, stared fixedly at the figures before him, and then taking off his hat, said —

“Good-night, Miss O’Donoghue.”

When Kate-recovered the shock of this surprise, she found herself alone – Mark had disappeared; and she now returned slowly to the castle, her heart torn with opposing emotions, among which wounded pride was not the least poignant.

CHAPTER XXVII. A SUPPER PARTY

As we are about to withdraw our reader for a brief period from the scenes wherein he has so kindly lingered with us hitherto, we may be permitted to throw on them a last look ere we part.

On the evening which followed that recorded in our last chapter, the two old men were seated alone in the tower of Carrig-na-curra, silent and thoughtful, each following out in his mind the fortunes of him for whom his interest was deepest, and each sad with the sorrow that never spares those who are, or who deem themselves, forsaken.

Unaided memory can conjure up no such memorials of past pleasure as come from the objects and scenes associated with days and nights of happiness; they appeal with a force mere speculation never suggests, and bring back all the lesser, but more touching incidents of hourly intercourse, so little at the time – so much when remembered years afterwards.

The brightest moments of life are the most difficult to recall; they are like the brilliant lights upon a landscape, which we may revisit a hundred times, yet never behold under the same favourable circumstances, nor gaze on with the same enthusiasm as at first. It was thus that both the O’Donoghue and Sir Archy now remembered her whose presence lightened so many hours of solitude, and even grafted hope upon the tree scathed and withered by evil fortune. Several efforts to start a topic of conversation were made by each, but all equally fruitless, and both relapsed into a moody silence, from which they were suddenly aroused by a violent ringing at the gate, and the voices of many persons talking together, among which Mark O’Donoghue’s could plainly be heard.

“Yes, but I insist upon it,” cried he; “to refuse will offend me.”

Some words were then spoken in a tone of remonstrance, to which he again replied, but with even greater energy —

“What care I for that? This is my father’s house, and who shall say that his eldest son cannot introduce his friends – ”

A violent jerk of the bell drowned the remainder of the speech.

“We are about to hae company, I perceive,” said Sir Archy, looking cautiously about to secure his book and his spectacles before retreating to his bed room.

“Bedad, you just guessed it,” said Kerry, who, having reconnoitred the party through a small window beside the door, had now prudently adjourned to take council whether he should admit them. “There’s eight or nine at laste, and it is’nt fresh and fasting either they are.”

“Why don’t you open the door? – do you want your bones broken for you,” said the O’Donoghue, harshly.

“I’d let them gang the gate they cam,” said Sir Archy, sagely; “if I may hazard a guess from their speech, they are no in a fit state to visit any respectable house. Hear till that?”

A fearful shout now was heard outside.

“What’s the rascal staring at?” cried the O’Donoghue, with clenched teeth. “Open the door this instant.”

But the words were scarcely uttered, when a tremendous crash resounded through the whole building, and then a heavy noise like the fall of some weighty object.

“‘Tis the window he’s bruk in – divil a lie,” cried Kerry, in an accent of unfeigned terror; and, without waiting a second, he rushed from the room to seek some place of concealment from Mark’s anger.

The clash of the massive chain was next heard, as it banged heavily against the oak door; bolt after bolt was quickly shot, and Mark, calling out – “Follow me – this way,” rudely pushed wide the door and entered the tower. A mere passing glance was enough to show that his excitement was not merely the fruit of passion – his eyes wild and bloodshot, his flushed cheek, his swollen and heavy lips, all betrayed that he had drank deeply. His cravat was loose and his vest open, while the fingers of his right hand were one mass of blood, from the violence with which he had forced his entrance.

“Come along, Talbot – Holt, this way – come in boys,” said he, calling to those behind. “I told them we should find you here, though they insisted it was too late.”

“Never too late to welcome a guest, Mark, but always too early to part with one,” cried the O’Donoghue, who, although shocked at the condition he beheld his son in, resolved to betray for the time no apparent consciousness of it.

“This is my friend, Harry Talbot, father – Sir Archy M’Nab, my uncle. Holt, where are you? I’ll be hanged if they’re not slipped away; and with a fearful imprecation on their treachery, he rushed from the room, leaving Talbot to make his own advances. The rapid tramp of feet, and the loud laughter of the fugitives without, did not for a second or two permit of his few words being heard; but his manner and air had so far assured Sir Archy, that he stopped short as he was about to leave the room, and saluted him courteously.

“It would be very ungracious in me,” said Talbot, smiling, “to disparage my friend Mark’s hospitable intentions, but in truth I feel so much ashamed for the manner of our entry here this evening, that I cannot express the pleasure such a visit would have given me under more becoming circumstances.”

Sir Archibald’s surprise at the tone in which these words were delivered, did not prevent him making a suitable reply, while relinquishing his intention of retiring, he extinguished his candle, and took a seat opposite Talbot.

Having in an early chapter of our tale presented this gentleman to our reader’s notice, we have scarcely any thing to add on the present occasion. His dress indeed was somewhat different; then, he wore a riding costume – now he was habited in a frock richly braided, and ornamented with a deep border of black fur; a cap of the same skin, from which hung a band of deep gold lace, he also carried in his hand – a costume which at the time would have been called foreign.

While Sir Archy was interchanging courtesies with the newly-arrived guest, the O’Donoghue, by dint of reiterated pulling at the bell, had succeeded in inducing Kerry O’Leary to quit his sanctuary, and venture to the door of the apartment, which he did with a caution only to be acquired by long practice.

“Is he here, sir?” whispered he, as his eyes took a rapid but searching survey of the apartment. “Blessed virgin, but he’s in a dreadful temper to-night.”

“Bring some supper here directly,” cried O’Donoghue, striking the ground angrily with his heavy cane; “if I have to tell you again, I hope he’ll break every bone in your skin.”

“I request you will not order any refreshment for me, sir,” said Talbot, bowing; “we partook of a very excellent supper at a little cabin in the glen, where, among other advantages, I had the pleasure of making your son’s acquaintance.”

“Ah, indeed, at Mary’s,” said the old man. “There are worse places than that little ‘shebeen;’ but you must permit me to offer you a glass of claret, which never tastes the worse in company with a grouse pie.

“You must hae found the travelling somewhat rude in these parts,” said M’Nab, who thus endeavoured to draw from the stranger some hint either as to the object or the road of his journey.

“We were not over particular on that score,” said Talbot, laughing. “A few young college men seeking some days’ amusement in the wild mountains of this picturesque district, could well afford to rough it for the enjoyment of the ramble.”

“You should visit us in the autumn,” said O’Donoghue, “when our heaths and arbutus blossoms are in beauty; then, they who have travelled far, tell me that there is nothing to be seen in Switzerland finer than this valley. Draw your chair over here, and let me have the pleasure of a glass of wine with you.”

The party had scarcely taken their places at the table, when Mark re-entered the room, heated and excited with the chase of the fugitives.

“They’re off,” muttered he, angrily, “down the glen, and I only hope they may lose their way in it, and spend the night upon the heather.”

As he spoke, he turned his eyes to the corner of the room, where Kerry, in a state of the most abject fear, was endeavouring to extract a cork from a bottle by means of a very impracticable screw.

“Ah! you there,” cried he, as his eyes flashed fire. “Hold the bottle up – hold it steady, you old fool,” and with a savage grin he drew a pistol from his breast pocket and levelled it at the mark.

Kerry was on his knees, one hand on the floor and in the other the bottle, which, despite all his efforts, he swayed backwards and forwards.

“O master, darlin’ – O Sir Archy, dear – O Joseph and Mary!”

“I’ve drank too much wine to hit it flying,” said Mark, with a half drunken laugh, “and the fool won’t be steady. There;” and as he spoke, the crash of the report resounded through the room, and the neck of the bottle was snapped off about half an inch below the cork.

“Neatly done, Mark – not a doubt of it,” said the O’Donoghue, as he took the bottle from Kerry’s hand, who, with a pace a kangaroo might have envied, approached the table, actually dreading to stand up straight in Mark’s presence.

“At the risk of being thought an epicure,” said M’Nab, “I maun say I’d like my wine handled more tenderly.”

“It was cleverly done though,” said Talbot, helping himself to a bumper from the broken flask. “I remember a trick we used to have at St. Cyr, which was, to place a bullet on a cork, and then, at fifteen paces cut away the cork and drop the bullet into the bottle.”

“No man ever did that twice,” cried Mark, rudely.

“I’ll wager a hundred guineas I do it twice, within five shots,” said Talbot, with the most perfect coolness.

“Done, for a hundred – I say done,” said Mark, slapping him familiarly on the shoulder.

“I’ll not win your money on such unfair terms,” said Talbot, laughing, “and if I can refrain from taking too much of this excellent Bourdeaux, I’ll do the trick to-morrow without a wager.”

Mark, like most persons who place great store by feats of skill and address, felt vexed at the superiority claimed by another, answered carelessly, “that, after all, perhaps the thing were easier than it seemed.”

“Very true,” chimed in Talbot, mildly; “what we have neither done ourselves nor seen done by another, has always the appearance of difficulty. What is called wisdom is little other than the power of calculating success or failure on grounds of mere probability.

“Your definition has the advantage of being sufficient for the occasion,” said Sir Archy, smiling. “I am happy to find our glen has not disappointed you; but if you have not seen the Lake and the Bay of Glengariff, I anticipate even a higher praise from you.”

“We spent the day on the water,” replied Talbot; “and if it were not a heresy, I should affirm, that these bold mountains are grander and more sublime in the desolation of winter, than even when clothed in the purple and gold of summer. There was a fine sea, too, rolling into that great Bay, bounding upon the rocks, and swelling proudly against the tall cliffs, which, to my eye, is more pleasurable than the glassy surface of calm water. Motion is the life of inanimate objects, and life has always its own powers of excitement.”

While they conversed thus, M’Nab, endeavouring, by adroit allusions to the place, to divine the real reason of the visit, and Talbot, by encomiums on the scenery, or, occasionally, by the expression of some abstract proposition, seeking to avoid any direct interrogatory – Mark, who had grown weary of a dialogue which, even in his clearer moments, would not have interested him, drank deeply from the wine before him, filling and re-filling a large glass unceasingly, while the O’Donoghue merely paid that degree of attention which politeness demanded.