The O'Donoghue Part 53

"He has them no longer," said Travers. "Here they are, sir. They Were shown in confidence to my father, by one, who certainly is not your friend. Sir Marmaduke asked permission to let me see them, and I have taken on myself, without permission, to give them back to you."

"At whose suggestion," said Mark, proudly, "comes this act of grace?

Is it your father, who extends his protection to a tenant, or is it yourself, whose wish is to humble me by an obligation?"

"There is none," said Travers, frankly. "I believe, that scoundrels without heart or courage have laid a trap for a man who has both one and the other. I do not desire you should accept my conduct as a favour, still less as offering any bar to such a reckoning between us as two gentleman of equal place and standing may demand or expect from one another."

"Say you so, indeed!" cried Mark, as his eyes flashed with joy: "is that your meaning?"

"There's my hand on it," said Travers, "as friend or foe!"

Mark grasped his hand, and wrung it with a convulsive pressure.

"Then you are aware that you owe me such a reparation," said he, in a voice tremulous with emotion. "You do not forget the day at Carrig-na-curra--beside the hearth--before my brother?"

"I remember it well," said Travers. "I ask your pardon for the insult.

It was unworthy of me to have made the speech, nor have I been on good terms with myself since I uttered it."

Mark dropped his head, and uttered not a word. He could better have looked on Travers wounded and bleeding than have seen him thus elevated above himself by temper and manly candour. The vengeance he had yearned after so long was not only s.n.a.t.c.hed from his grasp, but in the bitterness of disappointment its sting was turned against himself.

"This would be an unworthy cause of quarrel," said Travers; "one of which I could not but feel ashamed, and wherein you could have no pride.

If we are not to be friends--and I seek no man's friendship who is not as willing to accept of mine--if we are not to be friends, let our enmity be ratified on some better cause--we surely can have little difficulty in finding one."

Mark nodded a.s.sentingly, and Travers resumed--

"There is something still more pressing than this. My father will be able to defer the issue of the warrant against you for three days, when the Privy Council will again be summoned together. Until that time you are safe. Make good use of it, therefore. Leave the capital--reach some place of security; and, after some time, when the excitement of the affair has pa.s.sed away----"

"By a due expression of sorrow and penitence, I might be fortunate enough to obtain the King's pardon. You were about to say so much. Is't not so?"

"Not exactly," said Frederick, smiling; "but now that the Government are in possession of the secret details of this plot, and thoroughly aware of the men engaged in it, and what their objects are, to persist in it, would be hopeless folly. Believe me, the chances were never in your favour, and at present you have not a single one left. For your sake, Mr. O'Donoghue, this is most fortunate. The courage that would seem madness in a hopeless cause, will win you fame and honour where the prospects are fairer. There is a new world beyond the seas, where men of hardy minds and enterprising spirits achieve rank and fortune--in India, where war has all the features of chivalry, where personal daring and heroism are surer roads to distinction than influence and patronage; no prize will be too high for your aspirations."

Mark was silent, and Travers conjecturing that his words were sinking into his heart with a persuasive power, went on to re-picture the adventurous life which should open to him, if he would consent to leave his country, and seek fortune beyond the seas. As he continued to speak, they rode along side by side, and at last came to that part of the sh.o.r.e, where a road branched off. Here Mark suddenly drew up, and said--

"I must say good-bye here, Mr. Travers. My path will lie this way for the present. Do not suspect me of want of feeling because I have not thanked you for the part you have taken; but in truth you have averted the evil from one whose life has nothing worth living for. You have saved me from a danger, but I am without a hope. Betrayed and cheated by those I trusted, I have little care for the future, because I have no confidence in any thing. Nay, nay--don't speak of that again. I will not go to India,--I will not accept of favours from a country that has been the enemy of my own. The epaulette which _you_ wear with honour, would be a badge of disgrace upon _my_ shoulder. Good-bye, I can afford to thank you, because you have not made a service take the form of an 'amende.'"

Travers forbore to press him further. He wisely judged that enough had been done for the present, and that his safety being provided for, time and opportunity would both present themselves for the remainder. He shook his proffered hand with cordiality, and they separated, Frederick to return to Dublin, Mark to wander wherever chance might incline him.

"He said truly," exclaimed Mark, as soon as he once more found himself separated from his companion--"he said truly, the chances were never in our favour, and at present we have not a single one left. The cause which depends on such elements as these is worse than hopeless." Such were the words that broke from him, as, in sorrow and humiliation, he remembered the character of his a.s.sociates, and felt, in deep shame, the companionship he had fallen into. "Had there been but one true to me!"

exclaimed he, in accents of misery, "I could have stood against the shock, stout hearted; but to find all false--all!"

Seeking out some of the least frequented lanes, he rode on for several miles, caring little which way, so long as he turned from the capital;--for although as yet no personal danger threatened him, a nervous sense of shame made him dread the sight of his former acquaintances. Again and again did the thought recur to him: "How will Kate hear me spoken of? In what light will my actions be displayed to her? Is it as the miserable dupe of such a wretch as Lawler, or is it as the friend and chosen companion of Barrington, I would be known? And yet, what have I to fear, to whom no hope is left!"

Among the many sources of his sorrow, one recurred at every moment, and mingled itself with every other thought: "What would their n.o.ble-hearted friends in France say of them?--how would they speak of a land whose struggle for freedom is stained with treachery, or which cannot number in the ranks of its defenders but the felon or the outlaw?"

For the deceit practised on the people he felt bitterly. He knew with what devotedness they followed the cause--the privations they had borne in silence, awaiting the time of retribution--how they had forborne all ebullitions of momentary pa.s.sion, in expectation of the day of a greater reckoning--with what trust they obeyed their leaders--how implicitly they confided in every direction given for their guidance. Can patriotism like this survive such a trial? Will they ever believe in the words of their chief again?--were questions which his heart answered despondingly.

The day wore over in these sad musings, and by evening, Mark, who had made a wide circuit of the country, arrived at the village of Lucan, where he pa.s.sed the night. As day was breaking, he was again on the road, directing his steps towards Wicklow, where in the wild district near Blessington, he had acquaintance with several farmers, all sincerely devoted to the "United party." It was as much to rescue his own character from any false imputations that might be cast on it, as from any hope of learning favourable tidings, that he turned hither. The mountain country, too, promised security for the present, and left him time to think what course he should follow.

Mark did not miscalculate the good feeling of the people in this quarter. No success, however triumphant, would have made him one half so popular as his disasters had done. That he had been betrayed, was an appeal stronger than all others to their best affections; and had the deliverance of Ireland depended on his safety, there could not have been greater efforts to provide for it, nor more heartfelt solicitude for his own comfort. He found, too, that the treachery of individuals did not shake general confidence in the success of the plot, so much hope had they of French a.s.sistance and co-operation. These expectations were often exaggerated, because the victories of the French armies had been represented as triumphs against which no opposition availed; but they served to keep up national courage; and the theme of all their discourses and their ballads was the same: "The French will do us right."

If Mark did not fully concur in the expectations so confidently formed, he was equally far from feeling disposed to throw any damper on them; and at length, as by daily intercourse these hopes became familiarized to his mind, he ended by a partial belief in that future to which all still looked, undismayed by past reverses: and in this way time rolled on, and the embers of rebellion died not out, but smouldered.

CHAPTER x.x.xV. THE WANDERER'S RETURN

It was about two months after the events detailed in the last chapter, on the evening of a bright day in midsummer, that a solitary traveller was seen descending one of the mountain-pa.s.ses which lead from Macroom to Glengariff, and which were only known to those well acquainted with the place. He led his horse by the bridle, for the ground did not admit of riding; but were it otherwise, the beast showed too many signs of a hard journey not to make the course advisable, and in this respect both horse and rider well agreed. The man, though young and athletic, was emaciated and weary-looking. His clothes, once good, seemed neglected; and his beard, unshaven and uncared for, gave an air of savage ferocity to a face pale and care-worn, while his horse, with as many evidences of better days, exhibited unquestionable signs of fatigue and bad-feeding. The path by which he descended was the cleft worn by a mountain-torrent, a rough and rugged road, with many spots of difficulty and danger, but neither these nor the scene which unfolded itself in the glen beneath, attracted any share of his attention; and yet few scenes were fairer to look upon. The sun was just setting, and its last glories were lighting up the purple tints upon the mountains, and shedding a flood of golden hue over lake and river. The bright yellow of the furze, and the gay colours of the foxglove contrasted with the stern grandeur of the dark rocks, while in the abundance of wild holly and arbutus which grew from even the most precipitous places, the scene had a character of seeming cultivation to an eye unpractised to the foliage of this lovely valley. The traveller, who, for above an hour, had pursued his way, treading with the skill of a mountaineer over places where a false step might have perilled life, and guiding his horse with a caution that seemed an instinct, so little of his attention did it exact, at last halted, and, leaning his arm over his saddle, stood for some time in contemplation of the picture. From the spot on which he stood, one solitary cabin was discernible on the side of the road that wound through the valley, and from whose chimney a thin blue smoke slowly curled, and floated along the mountain side. On this little habitation the traveller's eyes were fixedly bent, until their gaze was dimmed by a pa.s.sing emotion. He drew his hand roughly over his face, as if angry at his own weakness, and was about to proceed on his way, when a shrill whistle from a cliff above his head arrested his step. It was a mountain recognition he well knew, and was about to reply to, when suddenly, with a bounding speed that seemed perilous in such a place, a creature clad in the most tattered rags, but with naked legs and bare head, came springing towards him.

"I knew you from the top of Goorhaun dhub--I knew you well, Master Mark.

There's not many with a good coat on their back could venture over the way you came, and I said to myself it was you," cried Terry the Woods, as with his pale features lit up his smiles, he welcomed the young O'Donoghue to his native hills.

"How are they all yonder?" asked Mark, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, pointing with his finger up the glen in the direction of Car-rig-na-curra, but which was not visible from where they were.

"I saw the master yesterday," replied Terry, who applied to the O'Donoghue the respected t.i.tle by which he was known in his own household. "He was sitting on a big chair at the window, and the young girl with the black eyes was reading to him out of a book--but sorra much he was mindin' it, for when he seen me he beckoned this way, and says he, 'Terry, you villain, why don't you ever come up here now and talk to me?' 'Faix,' says I, 'I haven't the heart to do it. Since Master Mark was gone, I didn't like the place,' and the master wiped his eyes, and the young girl made a sign to me not to speak about that any more."

"And who is at 'the Lodge' now?" asked Mark, endeavouring tore-strain any semblance of emotion, even before Terry.

"There's n.o.body but the agent. The family is over in England till the house is ready for them. Oh, then, but you'll wonder to see the illigant place it is now, wid towers and spires all over it--the ground all gardens, with gra.s.s walks as fine as a carpet, and the beautifullest flowers growin' against the walls and up against the windows, and a fountain, as they call it, of cool water spouting up in the air, and coming down like rain."

"And my brother--where is he?"

"He's over in England with the family from 'the Lodge;' the black-eyed girl, Miss Kate, wouldn't go. They say--but there's no knowing if it's true--they say she likes Hemsworth better than the Captain--and troth, if she does, its a dhroll choice."

"Like Hemsworth! Do they say that my cousin likes Hemsworth?" said Mark, whose anger was only kept down by gazing on the tranquil features of the poor witless object before him.

"They do," said Terry quietly, "and it's razonable, too, seein' that he's never out of the house from morning till night."

"What house?--where do you mean?"

"What house but Carrig-na-curra--your father's house."

Mark pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead, and over his closed eyelids, and for a second or two seemed trying to dispel some horrible vision, for deep-rooted as was his jealousy of Frederick Travers, his most gloomy forebodings had never conjured up the thought of such a rival as Hemsworth, nor did he now credit it. His indignation was, however, scarcely less to think that this man should now be received on terms of intimacy, perhaps of friendship, by those he so long pursued with insult and oppression. He paid no attention to Terry, as he continued to narrate the changes effected in his absence, and the various surmises current among the people to account for his long absence, when at length they approached the high road that led up the valley. Here Terry halted, and, pointing in the direction of Mary's cabin, about half a mile distant, said--

"I can't go any further with you. I dar'n't go there."

"And why not, my poor fellow?" said Mark, compa.s.sionately, for the terror depicted in his face too plainly indicated the return of some hallucination.

"They're there, now," said Terry, in a faint whisper, "watching for me.

They're five weeks waiting to catch me, but if I keep in the mountains I needn't care."

"And who are they, Terry?"

"The soldiers," said Terry, trembling all over. "I ran away from them, and they want to shoot me for desarting."

"And there are soldiers quartered at Mary's now?"

"Ay, and at Macroom, and at Bantry, and Kinsale--they have them all round us; but devil a one o' me cares; so long as they keep to the towns, I'll never trouble them."