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CHAPTER XXX. OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES

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.”

CHAPTER XXXI. SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT

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.

“Never such cries were heard as the bishop’s. Some say that he swore hard; but it isn’t true – he prayed, and begged, and shouted – but no use. Talbot gave them the steel at every stride; and after a long slapping gallop, he drew up at the stand-house, with a cheer that shook the course; and a fine sight it was, to gee the little man in the lawn sleeves stepping out, his face red with shame and passion.

“‘Twelve miles in forty-two minutes, my lord,’ said Talbot, showing his watch; ‘hope your lordship won’t forget the boy.’”

If Mark O’Donoghue enjoyed heartily the story, he was not the less surprised that Harry Talbot was the hero of it – all his previous knowledge of that gentleman leading him to a very different estimate of his taste and pursuits. Indeed, he only knew Talbot from his own lips, and from them he learned to regard him as the emissary despatched by the Irish party in France, to report on the condition of the insurgents in Ireland; and, if necessary, to make preparations for the French landing on the Irish shores. Mark could not well understand how any one charged with such a mission, could have either wasted his time or endangered his safety by any ridiculous adventures, and did not scruple to show his astonishment at the circumstance.

Talbot smiled significantly at the remark, and exchanged a glance with Crossley, while he answered —

“Placed in such a position as I have been for some years, Mark, many different parts have been forced upon me; and I have often found that there is no such safe mask against detection, as following out the bent of one’s humour in circumstances of difficulty. An irresistible impulse to play the fool, even at a moment when high interests were at stake, has saved me more than once from detection; and from habit I have acquired a kind of address at the practice, that with the world passes for cleverness. And so, in turn, I have been an actor, a smuggler, a French officer, an Irish refugee, a sporting character, a man of pleasure, and a man of intrigue; and however such features may have blended themselves into my true character, my real part has remained undetected. Master Crossley here might furnish a hint or two towards it; but – but, as Peachem says, ‘we could hang one another’ – eh, Bill?”

A nod and a smile, more grave than gay, was Crossley’s answer; and a silence ensued on all sides. There was a tone of seriousness even through the levity of what Talbot said, very unlike his ordinary manner; and Mark began, for the first time, to feel that he knew very little about his friend. The silence continued unbroken for some time; for while Mark speculated on the various interpretations Talbot’s words might hear, Talbot himself was reflecting on what he had just uttered. There is a very strange, but not wholly unaccountable tendency in men of subtle minds, to venture near enough to disclosures to awaken the suspicions, without satisfying the curiosity of others. The dexterity with which they can approach danger, yet not incur it, is an exercise they learn to pride themselves upon; and as the Indian guides his canoe through the dangerous rapids of the St. Lawrence – now bending to this side and to that – each moment in peril, but ever calm and collected – so do they feel all the excitement of hazard in the game of address. Under an impulse of this kind was it that Talbot spoke, and the unguarded freedom of his manner showed even to so poor an observer as Mark, that the words contained a hidden meaning.

“And our gay city of Dublin – what of it, Billy?” said he, at length rallying from his mood of thought, as he nodded his head, and drank to Crossley.

“Pretty much as you have always known it. ‘A short life and a merry one,’ seems the adage in favour here. Every one spending his money and character – ”

“Like gentlemen, Bill – that’s the phrase,” interrupted Talbot; “and a very comprehensive term it is, after all. But what is the Parliament doing?”

“Voting itself into Government situations.”

“And the Viceroy?”

“Snubbing the Parliament.”

“And the Government in England?”