The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“Of me. What did he know of me?”

“Everything, Mark – all – said the old man, in a low whisper, as he stole a prying glance through the room to satisfy himself that they were not overheard.

“Once more, sir, speak out, and intelligibly – say what this man seemed to know of me?”

“He knew Talbot – Barrington rather” – said the O’Donoghue, in a low voice – “knew of your intercourse with him – knew of the plot that fellow laid to entangle you in his schemes – knew all about the robbery at the Curragh, and saved you, without your knowing it, from being there. But for him, Mark, your name would have figured in the ‘Hue-and-Cry.’ A reward for your apprehension was actually deliberated at the Privy Council. Hemsworth rescued you from this – ”

“The scoundrel – the base, black-hearted villain,” exclaimed Mark, “did he dare to speak thus of me?”

“You mistake, Mark, he never said you were culpable – he only deplored the fatal accident of your intimacy with Barrington – a man twice convicted and sentenced – that in company with this man you frequented certain houses of high play, where more than one large robbery was effected. Then came the Castle ball – was it not true that you went there? Well, the diamond snuff-box stolen from Lord Clan-goff, at the card table – ”

“Hell and confusion, you will drive me mad,” cried Mark, stamping his foot with passion. “This infernal mixture of truth and falsehood – this half fact and all lying statement is more than my brain can bear. What does this scoundrel mean – is it that I am guilty of a robbery?”

“Heaven forbid, boy, but that you lived on terms of closest friendship with one branded as a felon, and that information of your intimacy with him was obtained by the police, who, for political reasons – you are aware of what I mean – would strain a point to have caught you within their grasp. There were letters too, Mark, written by you, and of such a character as would, if proved against you, haye cost your life; these, Hemsworth, by some means, obtained and destroyed.”

“Ah, did he so,” cried Mark, eagerly, for now a sudden light broke in upon him of the game that Hemsworth had played, “and so, he burned my letters?”

“You know now, then, something of the services he rendered you,” said the old man, who began at last to be satisfied that his conviction was coming home to Mark’s mind.

“I do,” replied he, calmly, “I believe that I can appreciate his kindness, and I believe also I may promise that I shall not prove ungrateful – and Kate, sir, what said she to those revelations concerning me?”

“What we all said, Mark, that nothing dishonourable would ever lie at your door – there might be rashness, imprudence, and folly, but guilt or dishonour never.”

“And my uncle, he is generally a shrewd and cautious judge – what was his opinion?”

“Faith it is hard to say, Mark, but I think with all his affected freedom from prejudice, he nourishes his old notions about Hemsworth as strong as ever, and persists in thinking the Travers’ family everything amiable and high-minded, indeed, he forced me to let Herbert accompany them to England, for I let him take the boy into his own hands, and so, as the invitation had been made and accepted before Kate had refused the Captain’s offer, I thought it would look better even to suffer matters to take their course quietly, as if nothing had happened.”

“It was well done,” said Mark, assentingly, “and now I have heard enough to dream over for one night at least, and so I’ll to bed.”

“Remember, Mark,” said the O’Donoghue, grasping his son’s arm, “remember I am solemnly pledged to Hemsworth never to tell you anything of these matters – it was a promise he exacted from me – I rely upon you, Mark, not to betray me.”

“My discretion is above price, sir,” said Mark, smiling dubiously, and left the room.

CHAPTER XXXVI. SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE

Early on the following morning Mark O’Donoughue was on his way to “the Lodge.” To see Hemsworth, and dare him to a proof of his assertions regarding him, or provoke him, if possible, to a quarrel, were his waking thoughts throughout the night, and not even all his weariness and exhaustion could induce sleep. He did not, indeed, know the full depth of the treachery practised against him; but in what he had discovered there were circumstances that portended a well-planned and systematic scheme of villainy. The more Mark reflected on these things, the more he saw the importance of proceeding with a certain caution. Hemsworth’s position at Carrig-na-curra, the advances he had made in his father’s esteem, the place he seemed to occupy in Kate’s good graces, were such that any altercation which should not succeed in unmasking the infamy of his conduct, would only be regarded as a burst of boyish intemperance and passion; and although Mark was still but too much under the influence of such motives, he was yet far less so than formerly; besides, to fix a duel on Hemsworth might be taken as the consequences of a sense of rivalry on his part, and anger that his cousin had preferred him to himself. This thought was intolerable; the great effort he proposed to his heart, was to eradicate every sentiment of affection for his cousin, and every feeling of interest. To be able to regard her as one whose destiny had never crossed with his own – to do this, was now become a question of self-esteem and pride. To return her indifference as haughtily as she bestowed it, was a duty he thought he owed to himself, and therefore he shrunk from anything which should have the faintest semblance of avenging his own defeat.

Such were some of the difficulties of his present position, and he thought over them long and patiently, weighing well the consequences each mode of acting might entail, and deliberating with himself as to what course he should follow. His first resolve, then, which was to fasten a hostile meeting upon Hemsworth, was changed for what seemed a better line of procedure – which was simply to see that gentleman, to demand an explanation of the statements he had made concerning him, calling upon him to retract whenever anything unfounded occurred, and requiring him to acknowledge that he had given a colouring and semblance to his conduct at total variance with fact. By this means, Mark calculated on the low position to which Hemsworth would be reduced in Kate’s estimation, the subterfuges and excuses he would be forced to adopt, – all the miserable expedients to gloss over his falsehood, and all the contemptible straits to conceal his true motives. To exhibit him in this light before Kate’s eyes, she whose high sense of honour never brooked the slightest act that savoured of mere expediency, would be a far more ample revenge than any which should follow a personal rencontre.

“She shall see him in his true colours,” muttered he to himself, as he went along; “she shall know something of the man to whom she would pledge honour and affection; and then, when his treachery is open as the noon-day, and the blackness of his heart revealed, she shall be free to take him, unscathed and uninjured. I’ll never touch a hair of his head.”

Mark had a certain pride in thus conducting himself on this occasion, to show that he possessed other qualities than those of rash and impetuous courage – that he could reason calmly and act deliberately, was now the great object he had at heart. Nor was the least motive that prompted him the desire he felt to exhibit himself to Kate in circumstances more favourable than any mere outbreak of indignant rage would display him.

The more he meditated on these things, the more firm and resolute were his determinations not to suffer Hemsworth to escape his difficulties, by converting the demand for explanation into an immediate cause of quarrel. Such a tactique he thought it most probable Hemsworth would at once adopt, as the readiest expedient in his power.

“No,” said Mark to himself, “he shall find that he has mistaken me; my patience and endurance will stand the proof; he must and shall avow his own baseness, and then, if he wish for fighting – ”

The clenched lip and flashing eye the words were accompanied by, plainly confessed that, if Mark had adopted a more pacific line of conduct, it certainly was not in obedience to any temptations of his will.

Immersed in his reveries, he found himself in front of “the Lodge” before he was aware of it; and, although his thoughts were of a nature that left him little room for other considerations, he could not help standing in surprise and admiration at the changes effected in his absence. The neat but unpretending cottage had now been converted into a building of Elizabethean style; the front extended along the lake side, to which it descended in two terraced gardens. The ample windows, thrown open to the ground, displayed a suite of apartments furnished with all that taste and luxury could suggest – the walls ornamented by pictures, and the panels of both doors and window-shutters formed of plate glass, reflecting the mountain scenery in every variety of light and shadow. The rarest flowers, the most costly shrubs, brought from long distances, at great risk and price, were here assembled to add their beauties to a scene where nature had already been so lavish.

While Mark was yet looking about in quest of the entrance to the building, he saw a man approach, with whose features he was well acquainted. This was no other than Sam. Wylie, the sub-agent, the same he had treated so roughly when last they met. The fellow seemed to know that, though in certain respects the tables were now turned, yet, that with such a foe as Mark O’Donoghue, any exhibition of triumph might be an unsafe game; so he touched his hat, and was about to move past in silence, when Mark cried out —

“I want to speak with your master – can I see him?”

“Master!” said Wylie, and his sallow face grew sallower and sicklier. “If ye mean Mr. Hemsworth, sir – ”

“Of course I do. If I spoke of Sir Marmaduke Travers, I should mean his master. Is he at home?”

“No, sir; he has left ‘the Lodge.’”

“Left it! – since when? I saw him last night at ten o’clock.”

“He left here before eleven,” was Wylie’s answer.

“When is he expected back?”

“Not for a week, at soonest, sir. It may be even longer, if, as he said, it were necessary for him to go to England.”

“To England!” exclaimed Mark, in bitter disappointment, for in the distance the hope of speedy vengeance seemed all but annihilated. “What is his address in Dublin?” said he, recovering himself.

“To the office of the Upper Secretary, sir, I am to address all his letters,” said Wylie, for the first time venturing on a slight approach to a smile.

“His hotel, I mean. Where does he stop in the city?”

“He usually stays in the Lower Castle-yard, sir, when in town, and probably will be there now, as the Privy Council is sitting, and they may want to examine him.”

The slow measured tone in which these few words were uttered gave them a direct application to Mark himself which made him flush deeply. He stood for a few seconds, seemingly in doubt, and then turned his steps towards home.

“Did you hear what the young O’Donoghue said, there, as he passed?” said Wylie to a labouring man who stood gazing after the youth.

“I did, faix,” replied the other; “I heerd it plain enough.”

“Tell me the words, Pat – I’d like to hear them.”

“‘Tis what he said – ‘He’s escaped me this time; but, by G – , he’ll not have the same luck always.’”

“It was Mr. Hemsworth he was after,” said Wylie. “It was him he meant.”

“To be sure it was; didn’t I hear him asking after him.”

“All right – so you did,” added Wylie, nodding. “Take care you don’t forget the words, that’s all, and here’s the price of a glass to keep your memory fresh.”

And he chucked a sixpence to the man, who, as he caught it, gave a look of shrewd intelligence, that showed he felt there was a compact between them.

Mark moved homewards in deep thought. There was a time when disappointment would have irritated him rather than have suggested any new expedient for success. Now he was changed in this respect. If baffled, he did not feel defeated. His first anger over, he began to think how best he should obtain a meeting with Hemsworth, and a retractation of his calumnies against himself. To venture back to Dublin would have been unsafe on every account. The informations sworn against him by Lanty Lawler might be at any moment used for his capture. In Glenflesk alone was he safe; so long as he remained there, no force Government would think of sending against him could avail; nor was it likely, for the sake of so humble an individual as himself, that they would take measures which would have the effect of disclosing their knowledge of the plot, and thus warn other and more important persons of the approaching danger. Mark’s first determination to leave home at once, was thus altered by these casual circumstances. He must await Hemsworth’s return, since, without the explanation he looked for, he never could bring himself to take leave of his friends. As he pondered thus, a servant in Hemsworth’s livery rode rapidly past him. Mark looked suddenly up, and perceived, with some surprise, from the train of dust upon the road, that the man was coming from Carrig-na-curra. Slight as the incident was, he turned his thoughts from his own fortunes to fix them on those of his cousin Kate. By what magic this man Hemsworth had won favour in her eyes he could not conceive. That he should have overcome all the prejudices of his father was strange enough; but that Kate, whose opinions of people seldom or ever underwent a change, and who of all others professed to dislike that very plausibility of manner which Hemsworth possessed, that she could forgive and forget the tyrannies with which his name was associated – she whose spirit no sordid bait could tempt, nor any mean object of personal ambition bias – this was, indeed, inexplicable. Twice or thrice a thought flashed across him, if it should not be true, – if it were merely one of those rumours which the world builds on circumstances, – that Hemsworth’s intimacy was the sole foundation for the report, and the friendly interchange of visits the only reason for the story.

“I must know this,” said Mark; “it may not be too late to save her. I may have come back in the very nick of time, and if so, I shall deem this piece of fortune more than enough to requite all the mischances of my life.”

As he spoke thus he had reached the little flower-garden, which, in front of the tower, was the only spot of cultivation around the old building. His eye wandered over the evidences of care, few and slight as they were, with pleasant thoughts of her who suggested the culture, when at the turn of a walk he beheld his cousin coming slowly towards him.

“Good morrow, Mark,” said she, extending her hand, and with a smile that betokened no angry memory of the preceding night; “you took but little sleep for one so much fatigued as you were.”

“And you, cousin, if I mistake not, even as little. I saw a light burning in your room when day was breaking.”

“An old convent habit,” said she, smiling; “our matins used to be as early.”

A low, soft sigh followed this speech.

“Yes,” said Mark, “you have reason to regret it; your life was happier there; you had the pleasure of thinking, that many a mile away in this remote land, there were relatives and friends to whom you were dear, and of whom you might feel proud; sad experience has told you how unworthy we are of your affection, how much beneath your esteem. The cold realities that strip life of its ideal happiness are only endurable when age has blunted our affections and chilled our hearts. In youth their poignancy is agony itself. Yes, Kate, I can dare to say it, even to you, would that you had never come amongst us.”

“I will not misunderstand you, Mark; I will not affect to think that, in your speech, there is any want of affection for me; I will take it as you mean it, that it had been better for me; and, even on your own showing, I tell you, nay. If I have shed some tears within these old walls, yet have my brightest hours been passed within them. Never, until I came here, did I know what it was to minister to another’s happiness; never did I feel before the ecstacy of being able to make joy more pleasurable, and sorrow less afflicting. The daughter feeling has filled up what was once a void in my poor heart; and when you pity me for this life of loneliness, my pulse has throbbed with delight to think how a duty, rendered by one as humble and insignificant as I am, can ennoble life, and make of this quiet valley a scene of active enjoyment.”

“So you are happy here, Kate,” said he, taking her hand, “and would not wish to leave it?”

“No, Mark, never; there would be no end to my ambition were the great world open to me, and the prizes all glittering before me – ambitions which should take the shape not of personal aggrandizement, but high hope for objects that come not within a woman’s sphere. Here, affection sways me; there, it might be prejudice or passion.”

“Ambition!” muttered Mark, catching at the word; “ambition, the penalty you pay for it is far too high; and were the gain certain, it is dearly bought by a heart dead to all purer emotions, cold to every affection of family and kindred, and a spirit made suspecting by treachery. No, Kate, no, the humblest peasant on that mountain, whose toil is for his daily bread, whose last hope at night is for the health that on the morrow shall sustain more labour, he, has a nobler life than those who nourish high desires by trading on the crimes and faults of others. I had ambition once; God knows, it grew not in me from any unworthy hope of personal advantage. I thought of myself then as meanly as I now do; but I dreamt, that, by means, humble and unworthy as mine, great events have been sometimes set in motion. The spark that ignites the train is insignificant enough in itself, though the explosion may rend the solid masonry that has endured for ages. Well, well, the dream is over now; let us speak of something else. Tell me of Herbert, Kate. What success has he met with in the University?”

“He failed the first time, but the second trial made ample amends for that defeat. He carried away both prizes from his competitors, Mark, and stands now, confessedly, the most distinguished youth of his day; disappointment only nerved his courage. There was a failure to avenge, as well as a goal to win, and he has accomplished both.”

“Happy fellow, that his career in life could depend on efforts of his own making – who needed but to trust his own firm resolve, and his own steady pursuit of success, and cared not how others might plot, and plan, and intrigue around him.”

“Very true, Mark; the prizes of intellectual ambition have this advantage, that they are self won; but, bethink you, are not other objects equally noble – are not the efforts we make for others more worthy of fame than those which are dictated by purely personal desire of distinction?”

Mark almost started at the words, whose direct application to himself could not be doubted, and his cheek flushed, partly with pride, partly with shame.

“Yes,” said he, after a brief pause, “these are noble themes, and can stir a heart as sorrow-struck as mine – but the paths that lead upwards, Kate, are dark and crooked – the guides that traverse them are false and treacherous.”

“You have, indeed, found them so,” said Kate, with a deep sigh.

“How do you mean, I have found them so?” cried Mark, in amazement at the words.

“I mean what I have said, Mark, that betrayal and treachery have tracked you for many a day. You would not trust me with your secret, Mark, nor yet confide in me, when an accident left it in my possession. Chance has revealed to me many circumstances of your fortune, and even now, Mark, I am only fearful lest your own prejudices should hazard your safety. Shall I go on? May I speak still more plainly?”

Mark nodded, and she resumed —

“One who never favoured the cause you adopted, probably from the very confederates it necessitated – yet saw with sympathy how much truth and honour were involved in the struggle, has long watched over you – stretching out, unseen, the hand to help, and the shield to protect you. He saw in you the generous boldness of one whose courage supplies the nerve, that mere plotters trade upon, but never possess. He saw, that once in the current, you would be swept along, while they would watch you from the shore. He, I say, saw this, and with a generosity the greater, because no feelings of friendship swayed him, he came forward to save you.”

“And this unseen benefactor,” said Mark, with a proud look of scornful meaning, “his name is – ”

“I will not speak it, if you ask me thus,” said Kate, blushing, for she read in his glance the imputation his heart was full of. “Could you so far divest yourself of prejudice as to hear calmly, and speak dispassionately, I could tell you anything – everything, Mark.”

“No, Kate, no,” said he, smiling dubiously; “I have no right to ask, perhaps not to accept of such a confidence.”

“Be it so, then,” said she, proudly, “we will speak of this no more; and with a slight bow, and a motion of her hand, she turned into another alley of the garden, and left Mark silently musing over the scene. Scarcely, however, had she screened herself from his view by the intervening trees, than she hastened her steps, and soon gained the house. Without stopping to take breath, she ascended the stairs, and tapped at Sir Archy’s door.

“Come in, my sweet Kate,” said he, in his blandest voice, “I should know that gentle tap amid a thousand; but, my dear child, why so pale? – what has agitated you? – sit down and tell me.”

“Read this, sir,” said she, taking a letter from the folds of her handkerchief – “this well tell you all, shorter and more collectedly than I can. I want your advice and counsel, and quickly too, for no time is to be lost.

“This is Mr. Hemsworth’s writing,” said Sir Archy, as he adjusted his spectacles to read. “When did you receive it?”

“About an hour ago,” answered Kate, half impatient at the unhurried coolness of the old man’s manner, who at last proceeded to examine the epistle, but without the slightest show of anxiety or eagerness. His apathy was, however, short-lived – short expressions of surprise broke from him, followed by exclamations of terror and dismay, till at length, laying down the letter, he said, “Leave me, sweet Kate, leave me to read and reflect on this alone; be assured I’ll lose no time in making up my mind about it, for I see that hours are precious here.” And as she glided from the room, Sir Archy placed the open letter on a table before him, and sat down diligently to re-consider its contents.

CHAPTER XXXVII. HEMSWORTH’S LETTER

The letter, over which Sir Archy bent in deep thought, was from Hemsworth. It was dated from the night before, and addressed to Kate O’Donoghue, and, although professing to have been hurriedly written, an observer, as acute as Sir Archy, could detect ample evidence of great care and consideration in its composition. Statements seemingly clear and open, were in reality confused and vague; assertions were qualified, and, in lieu of direct and positive information, there were scattered throughout, hopes, and fears, wishes, and expectations, all capable of being sustained, whatever the issue of the affair they referred to.

The letter opened with a respectful apology for addressing Miss O’Donoghue; but pleading that the urgency of the case, and the motives of the writer, might be received as a sufficient excuse. After stating, in sufficiently vague terms, to make the explanation capable of a double meaning, the reasons for selecting her, and not either of her uncles, for the correspondence, it entered at once upon the matter of the communication, in these words: —

“I have hesitated and doubted, Miss O’Donoghue, how far my interference in the affairs of your family may be misconstrued, and whether the prejudices which were once entertained to my disadvantage might not now be evoked to give a false colouring to my actions. These doubts I have resolved, by reflecting that they are for the most part personal, and that if I succeed in rendering real service, the question is comparatively indifferent what light or shadow it may seem to throw on my conduct. A candid and impartial judgment I certainly look to from you, and I confess myself at liberty to lay less store by the opinions of others.”