:^m 
 
 UAc-' .jy<'o/.:-y/u/<^: 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE; 
 
 TALE OF IRELAND 
 
 EIFTY YEAES AGO. 
 
 BY CHAKLES LEVER, ESQ., 
 
 ATJTHOE OF " CONPESSIONS OP HAKEY LOREEQUEE," " CHAELES O'MAXLET, THE lEISH 
 DEAQOON," " JACK HINTON," " TOM BUEKE OE ' OUES,' ' &C. &C. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. K. BROWNE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN WILSON, ESQ., 
 
 Frofessor of Moral FIxilosopby in the UniTerBity of Edinburgh, &c. tie. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 It is but seldom that the few lines of a dedication 
 can give tlie pleasure I now feel in availing myself of your kind 
 permission to inscribe this volume to you. As a boy, the greatest 
 happiness of my life was in your writings ; and among all my faults 
 and failures, I can trace not one to your influence, while, if I have 
 ever been momentarily successful in upholding the right, and de- 
 nouncing the wrong, I owe more of the spirit that suggested the 
 effort to yourself than to any other man breathing. 
 
 "With my sincerest respects, and, if I dared, I should say, with my 
 warmest regards, 
 
 I am,, yours truly, 
 
 CHARLES LEVER. 
 
 CarisTuhe, October 18th, 1846, 
 
LIST OF ILx.tJSTRATI0N8. 
 
 Tnii RECK(fMNO . . « • • 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 A Fireside Group .... 
 
 Page 1G 
 
 The Farewell Canter . ♦ <* 
 
 . 31 
 
 Sir Archy and the Beggars . . » 
 
 63 
 
 Kerry O'Leary reading the news by deputy . • 
 
 . 60 
 
 Terry, Sir Marmaduke, and Sybella . . 
 
 89 
 
 Roach's return to The O'Donognoe s C/asib • 
 
 . 95 
 
 Sir Archy in a Dilemma . . c 
 
 98 
 
 Roach's Conveniency . . • • 
 
 . 115 
 
 Mark and Frederick .... 
 
 . * . 154 
 
 The Game of Chess • . . • 
 
 . 159 
 
 The Cavern ..... 
 
 167 
 
 Kerry astonishes Sir Marmaduke 
 
 . 177 
 
 Good Night . . , : . 
 
 213 
 
 Mark drawing a cork .... 
 
 217 
 
 The Student . ^ . . • 
 
 234 
 
 The Wager ..... 
 
 . 252 
 
 Mark's Exit from the Bal! 
 
 • 270 
 
 The Paper ...... 
 
 . 276 
 
 The Wanderer's return 
 
 293 
 
 Hemsworth risits Lanty in prison 
 
 . 316 
 
 Sir Archy hears something to his advantage 
 
 340 
 
 The Shealing . . . . • 
 
 . 345 
 
 Mark makes a dash at the Soldiers 
 
 394 
 
 The Escape . . . • • 
 
 . 397 
 
 Mark recognised by an old Acquaintance • 
 
 , • 408 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE; 
 
 A TALE OF 
 
 IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 OLENFLESK. 
 
 In that wild and picturesque valley which winds its way between the 
 town of Macroom and Bantry Bay, and goes by the name of Glenflesk, 
 the character of Irish scenery is perhaps more perfectly displayed than 
 in any other tract of the same extent in the island. The mountains, 
 rugged and broken, are singularly fanciful in their outline ; their sides 
 a mingled mass of granite and straggling herbage, where the deepest 
 green and the red purple of the heath-bell are blended harmoniously 
 together. The valley beneath, alternately widening and narrowing, 
 presents one rich meadow tract, watered by a deep and rapid stream, 
 f^d by a thousand rills that come tumbling, and foaming down the moun- 
 tain sides, and to the traveller are seen like white streaks marking the 
 dark surface of the precipice. Scarcely a hut is to be seen for miles 
 of this lonely glen, and save for the herds of cattle and the flocks of 
 sheep here and there to be descried, it would seem as if the spot had 
 been forgotten by man, and left to sleep in its own gloomy desola- 
 tion. The river itself has a character of wildness all its own — now, 
 brawling over rugged rocks — now foaming between high and narrow 
 sides, abrupt as walls, sometimes, flowing over a ledge of granite, 
 without a ripple on the surface — then plunging madly into some dark 
 abyss, to emerge again, lower dowii the valley, in one troubled sea of 
 foam and spray : its dull roar the only voice that echoes in the moun- 
 tain gorge. 
 K?en where the humble roof of a solitary cabin can be seen, the 
 
2 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 aspect of habitation rather heightens than diminishes the feeling of 
 lonehness and desolation around. The thought of poverty enduring 
 its privations unseen and unknown, .without an eye to mark its strug- 
 gles, or a heart' to console its griefs, comes mournfully on the mind, 
 and one wonders what manner of man he can be, who has fixed his 
 dwelling in such solitude. 
 
 In vain the eye ranges to catch sight of one human being, save that 
 dark speck be such which crowns the cUff, and stands out from the clear 
 sky behind. Yes, it is a child watching the goats that are browsing 
 along the mountain, and as you look, the swooping mist has hidden him 
 from your view. Life of dreariness and gloom ! What sad and me- 
 lancholy thoughts must be his companions, who spends the live-long 
 day on these wild heaths, his eye resting on the trackless waste where 
 no fellow-creature moves ! how many a mournful dream will pass over 
 his mind ! what fearful superstitions will creep in upon his imagina- 
 tion, giving form and shape to the flitting clouds, and making the dark 
 shadows, as they pass, seem things of life and substance. 
 
 Poor child of sorrow ! How destiny has marked you for misery ! 
 For you no childish gambols in the sun — no gay playfellow — no pad- 
 dling in the running stream, that steals along bright and glittering, 
 like hjappy infancy — no budding sense of a fair world, opening in glad- 
 ness ; but all, a dreary waste — the weariness of age bound up with the 
 terrors of childhood. 
 
 The sun was just setting on a mellow evening, late in the autumn of 
 a year towards the close of the last century, as a solitary traveller sat 
 down to rest himself on one of the large rocks by the road-side ; di- 
 vesting himself of his gun and shot-pouch, he lay carelessly at his 
 length, and seemed to be enjoying the light breeze which came up the 
 valley. 
 
 He was a young and powerfnlly-built man, whose well-knit frame 
 and muscular Hmbs showed how much habitual exercise had contri- 
 buted to make the steepest paths of the mountain a task of ease to him. 
 He was scarcely above the middle height, but with remarkable breadth 
 of chest, and that squareness of proportion which indicates consider- 
 able physical strength ; his countenance, except for a look of utter Hst- 
 lesness and vacuity, had been pleasing ; the eyes were large and full, and 
 of the deep grey which simulates blue ; the nose large and well-formedj 
 the mouth alone was unprepossessing — the expression it wore was of ill- 
 hmnour and discontent, and this character seemed so habitual that 
 even as he sat thus alone and in/sohtude, the curl of the upper lip be- 
 trayed his nature,^ 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. ^ 
 
 His dress was a shooting-jacket of some coarse stuff, stained and 
 washed by many a mountain streamlet ; loose trowsers of grey cloth, 
 and heavy shoes-7-such as are worn by the peasantry, wherever such 
 luxuries are attainable. It would have been difficult, at a mere glance, 
 to have decided what class or condition of life he pertained to ; for, 
 although certain traits bespoke the person of a respectable rank, there 
 was a general air of neglect about him, that half contradicted the sup- 
 position. He lay for some time perfectly motionless, when the tramp 
 of horses at a distance down the glen suddenly roused him from his 
 seeming apathy, and resting on his elbow he listened attentively. The 
 sounds came nearer and nearer, and now, the dull roll of a carriage 
 could be heard approaching. Strange noises these in that solitary val- 
 ley, where even the hoofs of a single horse but rarely roused the echoes. 
 A sudden dip of the road at a little distance from where he lay, con- 
 cealed the view, and he remained in anxious expectancy, wondering 
 what these sounds should portend, when suddenly the carriage seemed 
 to have halted, and all was still. 
 
 For some minutes the youth appeared to doubt whether he had not 
 been deceived by some swooping of the wind through the passes in the 
 mountains, when the sound of voices fell on his ear, and at the same mo- 
 ment, two figures appeared over the crest of the hill, slowly advancing 
 up the road. The one was a man advanced in years, but still hale and 
 vigorous, in look — ^his features even yet eminently handsome, wore an 
 air of mingled frankness and haughtiness ; there was in their ex- 
 pression the habitual character of one accustomed to exert a degree of 
 command and influence over others — a look, which of all the charac- 
 teristics of temper, is least easily mistaken. 
 
 At his side walked one who, even at a passing glance, might be pro- 
 nounced his daughter, so striking the resemblance between them. 
 She did not seem above sixteen years of age, but through the 
 youthful traits of her features you could mark the same character of 
 expression her father's wore, modified by the tender beauty, which 
 at that age, blends the loveliness of the girl with the graces of woman- 
 hood. Rather above than below the middle height, her figure had 
 that distinguishing mark of elegance high birth impresses, and in her 
 very walk a quick observer might detect an air of class. 
 
 They both stopped short as they gained the summit of the hill, and 
 appeared wonder-struck at the scene before them. The grey gloom of 
 twihght threw its sombre shadows over the valley, but the mountain 
 peaks were tipped with the setting sun, and shone in those rich violet 
 and purple hues the autumn heath displays so beautifully. The dark- 
 
leayed holly and the bright arbutus blossom lent their colour to every 
 jutting cliff and promontory, which, to eyes unacquainted with the sce- 
 nery, gave an air of culture strangely at variance with the desolation 
 around. 
 
 " Is this wild enough for your fancy, Sybella," said the father, with a 
 playful smile, as he watched the varying expression of the young girl's 
 features, " or would you desire something still more dreary 1" But she 
 made no answer. Her gaze was fixed on a thin wreath of smoke that 
 curled its way upwards from what appeared a low mound of earth, in 
 the valley below the road ; some branches of trees, covered with sods of 
 earth, grass-grown and still green, were heaped up together, and 
 through these the vapour found a passage and floated into the air. 
 
 "I am wondering what that fire can mean,'* said she, pointing 
 downwards with her finger. 
 
 " Here is some one will explain it," said the old man, as for the first 
 time he perceived the youth, who still maintained his former attitude 
 on the bank, and with a studied indifference, paid no attention to those 
 whose presence had before so much surprised him 
 
 "I say, my good fellow, what does that smoke mean we see 
 yonder?" 
 
 The youth sprung to his feet with a bound that almost startled his 
 questioner, so sudden and abrupt the motion ; his features, inactive and 
 colourless the moment before, seemed almost convulsedmow, while 
 they became dark with blood. 
 
 " Was it to me you spoke ?" said he, in a low guttural tone, which Tiis 
 passion made actually tremulous. 
 
 "Yes " 
 
 But before the old man could reply, his daughter, with the quick 
 tact of womanhood, perceiving the mistake her father had fallen, into, 
 hastily interrupted him by saying, — 
 
 " Yes, SU-, we were asking you the cause of the fire at the foot of that 
 cliff." 
 
 The tone and the manner in which the words were uttered seemed 
 at once to have disarmed his anger ; and although for a second or 
 two he made no answer, his features recovered their former half-listless 
 look, as he said — 
 
 " It is a cabin — There is another yonder, beside the river." 
 
 " A cabin ! Surely you cannot mean that people are living there ?" 
 said the girl, as a sickly paler spread itself across her cheeks. 
 
 ••Yes, to be sure," replied the youth ; "they have no better here- 
 abouts." 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. Q. 
 
 " What poverty — ^what dreadful misery is this !" said she, as the 
 great tears gushed forth, and stole heavily down her face, 
 
 " They are not so poor," answered the young man, in a voice of 
 almost reproof. " The cattle along that mountain all belong to these 
 people — the goats you see in that glen are theirs also." 
 
 " And whose estate may this be V* said the old man. 
 
 Either the questioner or his question seemed to have called up again 
 the youth's former resentment, for he fixed his eyes steadily on him for 
 some time without a word, and then slowly added — 
 
 " This belongs to an Enghshman — a certain Sir Marmaduke Travers — 
 It is the estate of O'Donoghue." 
 
 " Was, you mean, once," answered the old man quickly. 
 
 ** I mean what I say," rephed the other rudely. " Confiscation can- 
 not take away a right, it can at most " 
 
 This speech was fortunately not destined to be finished, for wliile 
 he was speaking, his quick glance detected a dark object soaring above 
 his head. In a second he had seized his gun, and taking a steady aim, 
 he fired. The loud report was heard repeated in many a far-off glen, 
 and ere its last echo died away, a heavy object fell upon the road not 
 many yards from where they stood. 
 
 " This fellow," said the youth, as he Hfted the body of a large black 
 eagle from the ground — " This feUow was a confiscator too, and see 
 what he has come to. You'd not tell me that our lambs were his, 
 would you ?" 
 
 The roll of wheels happily drowned these words, for by this time the 
 postillions had reached the place, the four post-horses labouring under 
 the heavy-laden traveUing carriage, with its innumerable boxes and im- 
 perials. 
 
 The post-boys saluted the young man with marked deference, to 
 which he scarcely deigned an acknowledgment, as he replaced his shot- 
 pouch, and seemed to prepare for the road once more. 
 
 Meanwhile the old gentleman had assisted his daughter to the car- 
 riage, and was about to follow, when he turned, around suddenly and 
 said — 
 
 " If your road Ues this way, may I offer you a seat with us V* 
 
 The youth stared as if he did not well comprehend the offer, and his 
 cheek flushed, as he answered coldly^ — 
 
 ** I thank you ; but my path is across the mountain." 
 
 Both parties saluted distantly, the door of the' carriage closed, and 
 the word to move on was given, when the young man, ^taking two dark 
 feathers from the eagle's wing, approached the window. 
 
•* I was forgetting," said he, in a voice of hesitation and diffidence, 
 " perhaps you would accept these feathers." 
 
 The young girl smiled, and half blushing, muttered some words in 
 reply, as she took the oflFered present. The horses sprung forward the 
 next instant, and a few minutes after, the road was as silent and de- 
 serted as before ; and save the retiring sound of the wheels, nothing 
 broke the stillness. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 As the glen continues to wind between the mountains, it gradually 
 becomes narrower, and at last contracts to a mere cleft, flanked on 
 either side by two precipitous walls of rock, which rise to the height of 
 several hundred feet above the road ; this is the pass of Keim-an-eigh, 
 one of the wildest and most romantic ravines of the scenery of the 
 south. 
 
 At the entrance to this pass there stood, at the time we speak of, a 
 small wayside inn, or shebeen-house, whose greatest recommendation was 
 in the fact, that it was the only place where shelter and refreshment 
 could be obtained for miles on either side. An humble thatched cabm 
 abutting against the granite rock of the glen, and decorated with an 
 almost effaced sign of St. Finbar converting a very unprepossessing 
 heathen, over the door, showed where Mary M*Kelly dispensed " en- 
 thertainment for man and baste." 
 
 A chance traveller, bestowing a passing glance upon this modest edi- 
 fice, might deem that an inn in such a dreary and unfrequented valley, 
 must prove a very profitless speculation — few, very few travelled the road 
 — fewer still would halt to bait within ten miles of Bantry. Report, how- , 
 ever, said differently ; the impression in the country was, that " Mary's" 
 — as it was briefly [styled — had a readier share of business than many a 
 more promising and pretentious hotel ; in fact, it was generally believed 
 to be the resort of all the smugglers of the coast ; and the market, where 
 the shopkeepers of the interior repaired in secret to purchase the con- 
 traband wares and " run goods," which poured into the country from the 
 ihores of France and Holland. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE, 7 
 
 Vast storehouses and caves were said to exist in the rock behind the 
 house^ to store away the valuable goods, which from time to time 
 arrived ; and it was currently believed that the cargo of an Indiaman 
 might have been concealed within these secret recesses, and never a 
 cask left in view to attract suspicion. 
 
 It is not into these gloomy receptacles of contraband that we would 
 How conduct our reader, but into a far more cheerful andmore comfortable 
 locahty — the spacious kitchen of the cabin, or, in fact, the apartment 
 which served for the double purpose of cooking and eating — the com- 
 mon room of the inn, where around a blazing fire of black turf was 
 seated a party of three persons. 
 
 At one side sat the fat and somewhat comely figure of Mary herselri 
 a woman of some five-and-forty years, with that expression of rough 
 and ready temperament, the habits of a wayside inn will teach. She 
 had a clear, full eye — a wide, but not unpleasant mouth — and a voice 
 that suited well the melhfluous intonation of a Kerry accent. Oppo- 
 site to her were two thin, attenuated old men, who, for dress, look, age, 
 voice, and manner, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish 
 from each other ; for while the same weather-beaten, shrivelled 
 expression was common to both, their jackets of blue cloth, leather 
 breeches, and top boots, were so precisely alike, that they seemed the very 
 Dromios brought back to life, to perform as postillions. Such they 
 were — such they had been for above fifty years. They had travelled 
 the country from the time they were boys — they entered the career 
 together, and together they were jogging onward to the last stage of all, 
 the only one where they hoped to be at rest ! Joe and Jim Daly were 
 two names no one ever heard disunited ; they were regarded as but 
 one corporeally, and although they affected at times to make distinctions 
 themselves, the world never gave them credit for any consciousness of 
 separate identity. These were the postillions of the travelling carriage, 
 which having left at its destination, about two miles distant, they were 
 now regaling themselves at Mary's, where the horses were to rest for 
 the night. 
 
 "Faix, ma'am, and it's driving ye may call it," said one of the pair, 
 as he sipped a very smoking compomid the hostess had just mixed, 
 "a hard gallop every step of the way, barrin the bit of a hill at 
 Carrignacurra." 
 
 " Well, I hope ye had the decent hansel for it, any how, Jim ?" 
 
 "I'm Joe, ma'am, av its plazing to ye. Jim is the pole-end boy; 
 he rides the layders. And it's true for ye — they behaved dacent.'^' 
 
 "A goold guinea, divil a less" — said the other, "there's no use in 
 
8 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 denying it. Begorra, it was all natural, them's as rich as Crasis ; sure 
 didn't I see the young lady herself throwing out the tenpenny bits to the 
 gossoons, as we went by, as if it was dirt ; bad luck to me, but I was 
 going to throw down the Bishop of Cloyne." 
 
 " Throw down who ?" said the hostess. 
 
 " The near wheeler, ma'am ; he's a broken-kneed ould divil, we 
 bought from the bishop, and called him after liim ; and as I was saying, 
 I was going to cross them on the pole, and get a fall, just to have 
 a scramble for the money, with the gaffers." 
 
 " * They look so poor,' says she. God help her — ^it's little poverty 
 she saw — there isn't one of them crayters hasn't a sack of potatoes." 
 
 "Ay — ^more of them a pig." 
 
 ** And hens," chimed in the first speaker, with a horror at the im- 
 position of people so comfortably endowed, affecting to feel any jires- 
 sure or poverty. 
 
 "And what's bringing them here at all?" said Mrs. M*Kelly, with a 
 voice of some asperity ; for she foresaw no pleasant future in the fact of 
 a resident great man, who would not be likely to give any encourage- 
 ment to the branch of traffic her principal customers followed. 
 
 " Sorrow one of me knows," was the safe reply of the individual 
 addressed, who not being prepared with any view of the matter, save 
 that founded on the great benefit to the country, preferred this answer 
 to a more decisive one. 
 
 ",'Tis to improve the property, they say," interposed the other, who 
 was not equally endowed with caution. " To look after the estate him- 
 self he has come." 
 
 " Improve, indeed !" echoed the hostess. " Much we want their 
 improving ! Why didn't they leave us the ould famihes of the country? 
 It's little we used to hear of improving, when I was a child. God be good 
 to us. — There was ould Miles O'Donoghue, the present man's father, 
 I'd like to see what he'd say, if they talked to him about improvement. 
 Ayeh! sure I mind the time a hogshead of claret didn't do the fort- 
 night. My father, rest his soul, used to go up to the house every 
 Monday morning for orders ; and ye'd see a string of cars following him 
 at the same time, with tay, and sugar, and wine, and brandy, and 
 oranges, and lemons. Them was the raal improvem-ents !" 
 
 " 'Tis true for ye, ma'am. It was a fine house, I always heerd tell." 
 
 " Forty-six in the kitchen, besides about fourteen colleens and gos- 
 soons about the place; the best of enthertainment up stairs and 
 down." 
 
 "^ Musha ! that was grand." 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 9 
 
 "A keg of sperits, with a spigot, in the servants' hall, and no saying 
 by your leave, but drink while ye could stand over it." 
 " The Lord be good to us !" piously ejaculated the twain. 
 •' The hams was boiled in sherry wine." 
 " Begorra, I wish I was a pig them times." 
 
 " And a pike daren't come up to table without an elegant pudding in 
 his belly that cost five pounds ! " 
 
 "'Tis the fish has their own luck always," was the profound medita- 
 tion at this piece of good fortune. 
 
 " Ayeh ! ayeh ! " continued the hostess in a strain of lamentation, 
 *' When the ould stock was in it, we never heerd tell of improvements. 
 He'll be making me take out a license, I suppose," said* she, in a voice 
 of half contemptuous incredulity. 
 
 " Faix, there's no knowing," said Joe, as he shook the ashes out of 
 his pipe, and nodded his head sententiously, as though to say, that in 
 the miserable times they'd fallen upon, any thing was possible. 
 
 " Licensed for sperits and groceries," said Mrs. M'Kelly, with a sort 
 of hysterical giggle, as if the thought were too much for her nerves. 
 
 " I wouldn't wonder if he put up a " pike," stammered out Jim, 
 thereby implying that human atrocity would have reached its climax. 
 
 The silence which followed this terrible suggestion, was now loudly 
 interrupted by a smart knocking at the door of the cabin, which. was 
 already barred and locked for the night. 
 
 " Who's there ?" said Mary, as she held a cloak across the blaze of 
 the fire, so as to prevent the light being seen through the apertures ot 
 the door — " 'tis in bed we are, and late enough, too." 
 
 " Open the door, Mary, it's me," said a somewhat confident voice. 
 " I saw the fire burning brightly — and there's no use hiding it." 
 
 " Oh, troth, Mr. Mark, I'll not keep ye out in the cowld," said the 
 hostess, as, unbarring the door, she admitted the guest whom we had 
 seen some time since in the glen. *' Sure enough, 'tisn't an O'Donoghue 
 we'd shut the door agin, any how." 
 
 *' Thank ye, Mary," said the young man ; " I have been all day in 
 the mountains, and had no sport ; and as that pleasant old Scotch uncle 
 of mine gives me no peace, when I come home empty-handed, I have 
 resolved to stay here for the night, and try my luck to-morrow. Don't 
 stir, Jim — there's room enough, Joe : Mary's fire is never so grudging, 
 but there's a warm place for every one. What's in this big pot here, 
 Mary?" 
 
 " It's a stew, sir ; more by token, of your honour's providin'." 
 "Mine— how is that?" 
 
10 THE o'dONOGHVE. 
 
 "The hare ye shot afore tlie door, yesterday morning ; snre it's raal 
 luck we have it for you now ;" and while Mary employed herself in the 
 pleasant hustle of preparing the supper, the young man drew near to 
 the fire, and engaged the others in conversation. 
 
 " That travelHng carriage was going on to Bantry, Joe, I suppose ?'* 
 stdd the youth, in a tone of easy indifference. 
 
 " No sir ; they stopped at the lodge ahove." 
 
 ** At the lodge ! — surely you can't mean that they were the English 
 family — Sir Marmaduke.'* 
 
 "'Tis just himself, and his daughter. I heerd them say the names, 
 as we were leaving Macroom. They were not expected here these three 
 weeks ; and Captain Hemsworth, the agent, isn't at home ; and they 
 say there's no servants at the lodge, nor nothin' ready for the quahty at 
 all ; and sure when a great lord like that " 
 
 " He is not a lord, you fool ; he has not a drop of noble blood in his 
 body : he's a London banker — rich enough to buy birth, if gold could 
 do it.'* The youth paused in his vehemence, then added, in a mutter- 
 ing voice — " Rich enough to buy up the inheritance of those who have 
 blood in their veins." 
 
 The tone of voice in which the young man spoke, and the angry loqk 
 which accompanied these words, threw a gloom over the party, and for 
 some time nothing was said on either side. At last he broke silence 
 abruptly by saying — 
 
 " And that was his daughter, then?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and a purty crayture she is, and a kind-hearted. The 
 moment she heerd she was on her father's estate, she began asking the 
 names of all the people, and if they were well off, and what they had 
 to ate, and where was the schools." 
 
 " The schools !" broke in Mary, in an accent of great derision — 
 "musha, it's great schooling we want up the glen, to teach us to bear 
 poverty and cowld, without complaining : learning is a fine thing for the 
 hunger " 
 
 Her irony was too delicate for the thick apprehension of poor Jim, 
 who felt himself addressed by the remark, and piously responded — 
 
 "It is so, glory be to God !" 
 
 "Well," said the young man, who now seemed all eagerness to re- 
 sume the subject — " well, and what then ?" 
 
 ** Then, she was wondering where was the roads up to the cabins on 
 the mountains, as if the likes of them people had roads !" 
 
 " They've ways of their own — the EngUsh," interrupted Jim, ^dio 
 felt, iealous of his companion being always referred to — " for whenever 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. Xk 
 
 we passed a little potatoe garden, or a lock of oats, it was always, * God 
 be good to us, but they're mighty poor hereabouts ;* but when we got 
 into the raal wild part of the glen, with divil a house nor a human being 
 near us, sorrow word out of their mouths but ' fine, beautiful, elegant !' 
 till we came to Keim-an-eigh, and then, ye'd think that it was fifty acres 
 of wheat they were looking at, wid all the praises they had for the big 
 rocks, and black cHffs over our heads." 
 
 " I showed them your honour's father's place on the mountains," 
 said Joe. 
 
 " Yes, faith," broke in Jim ; " and the young lady laughed and said, 
 *you see, father, we have a neighbour after all."* 
 
 The blood mounted to the youth's cheek, till it became almost purple, 
 but he did not utter a word. 
 
 " * 'Tis the O'Donoghue, my lady,' said I," continued Joe, who saw the 
 difficulty of the moment, and hastened to relieve it — " that's his castle 
 up there, with the high tower. 'Twas there the family lived these nine 
 hundred years, whin the whole country was their own ; and they wor 
 kings here." 
 
 " And did you hear what the ould gentleman said then ?" asked Jim. 
 
 " No, I didn't — I wasn't mindin' him," rejoined Joe"^ endeavouring 
 with all his might to repress the indiscreet loquacity of the other. 
 
 " What was it, Jim?" said the young man, with a forced smile. 
 
 "Faix, he begun a laughing, yer honour, and says he, 'We must 
 pay our respects at Coort,' says he ; * and I'm sure we'll be well 
 received, for we know his Royal Highness already* — that's what he 
 called yer honour." 
 
 The youth sprang to his feet, with a gesture so violent and sudden, 
 as to startle the whole party, 
 
 " What," he exclaimed, " and are we sunk so low, as to be a scoff and 
 a jibe to a London money-changer ? If I but heard him speak the 
 words " 
 
 " Arrah, he never said it at all," said Joe, with a look that made his 
 counterpart tremble all over. " That bosthoon there, would make you 
 believe he was in the coach, convarsing the whole way with him. Sure 
 wasn't I riding the wheeler, and never heerd a word of it. Whisht, I 
 tell ye, and don't provoke me." 
 
 ** Ay^ stop your mouth with some of this," interposed Mary, as shs 
 helped the smoking and savoury mess around the table. 
 
 Jim looked down abashed and ashamed ; his testimony" was discre- 
 dited ; and without knowing why or wherefore, he yet had an indistinct 
 glimmering that any effort to vindicate his character would be ill-re- 
 
12 THX O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ceived ; he therefore said nothing more: his silence was contagious, and 
 the meal which a few moments before promised so pleasantly, passed oflf 
 with gloom and restraint. 
 
 All Mary M*Kelly*s blandishments, assisted by a smoking cup of 
 mulled claret — a beverage which not a Chateau on the Rhone could rival 
 in racy flavour — failed to recall the young man's good-humour : he sat 
 in gloomy silence, only broken at intervals by sounds of some low mut- 
 tering to himself. Mary at length having arranged the little room for 
 his reception, bade him good night, and retired to rest. The postillions 
 sought their dens over the stable, and the youth, apparently lost in his 
 own thoughts, sat alone by the embers of the turf fire, and at last sunk 
 to sleep where he was, by the chimney-corner. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE " COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 
 
 Of Sir Marmaduke Travers, there is httle to tell the reader beyond 
 what the few hints thrown out already may have conveyed to him. He 
 was a London banker, whose wealth was reputed to be enormous. Ori- 
 ginally a younger son, he succeeded somewhat late in life to the 
 baronetcy and large estates of his family. The habits, however, of an 
 active city life — the pursuits which a long career had made a second na- 
 ture to him — ^rendered him both unfit to enter upon the less exciting 
 duties of a country gentleman's existence, and made him regard such 
 as devoid of interest or amusement. He ^continued therefore to reside 
 in London for many years after he became the baronet ; and it was only at 
 the death of his wife, to whom he was devotedly attached, that these 
 habits became distasteful ; he found that he could no longer continue 
 a course which companionship and mutual feeUng had rendered agree- 
 able, and he resolved at once to remove to some one of his estates, 
 where a new sphere of occupation might alleviate the sorrows of his 
 loss. To this no obstacle of any kind existed. His only son was 
 already launched into Hfe as an officer in the guards ; and, except his 
 daughter, so lately before the reader, he had no other children. 
 The effort to attain forgetfulness was not more siiccessful here, than 
 
THE O'dONOGHUE. IS 
 
 it is usually found to be. The old man sought, but found not in a 
 country life the solace he expected ; neither his tastes nor his habits 
 suited those of his neighbours ; he was little of a sportsman, still less of 
 a farmer. The intercourse of country social life was a poor recom- 
 pense for the unceasing flow of London society. He grew wearied very 
 soon of his experiment, and longed once more to return to his old 
 haunts and habits. One more chance, however, remained for him, 
 and he was unwilling to reject without trying it. This was, to visit Ire- 
 land, where he possessed a large estate, which he had never seen. The 
 property, originally mortgaged to his father, was represented as singularly 
 picturesque and romantic, possessing great mineral wealth, and other 
 resources, never examined into, nor made available. His agent. Captain 
 Hemsworth, a gentleman who resided on the estate, at his annual visit to 
 the proprietor, used to dilate upon the manifold advantages and ca- 
 pabihties of the property, and never ceased to implore him to pay a 
 visit, if even for a week or two, sincerely trusting the while that such 
 an intention might never occur to him. These entreaties, made from 
 year to year, were the regular accompaniment of every settlement of 
 account, and as readily replied to by a half promise, which the maker 
 was certainly not more sincere in pledging. 
 
 Three years of country.life had now, however, disposed SirMarmaduke 
 to reflect on this long unperformed journey ; and, regardless of the fact 
 that his agent was then grouse-shooting in Scotland, he set out at a 
 moment's notice, and without a word to apprise the household at the 
 lodge of his intended arrival, reached the house in the evening of an 
 autumn day, by the road we have already been describing. 
 
 It is but justice to Sir Marmaduke to add, that he was prompted to 
 this step by other than mere selfish considerations. The state of Ireland 
 had latterly become a topic of the press in both countries. The poverty 
 of the people — interpreted in various ways, and ascribed to very op- 
 posite causes — was a constant theme of discussion and conversation. 
 The strange phenomenon of a land teeming with abundance, yet overrun 
 by a starving population, had just then begun to attract notice ; and 
 theories were rife in accounting for that singular and anomalous social 
 condition, which unhappily the experience of an additional half century 
 has not succeeded in solving. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke was well versed in these popular writings ; he had 
 the " Whole State of Ireland" by heart ; and so firmly was he persuaded 
 that his knowledge of the subject was perfect, that he became actually 
 impatient until he had reached the country, and commenced the great 
 scheme of regeneration and civilization, by which Ireland and her people 
 
14 THE o'dONOGUUK. 
 
 were to be placed among the most favoured nations. He had heard 
 much of Irish indolence and superstition — Irish bigotry and intole- 
 rance — the indifiference to comfort — the indisposition to exertion — the 
 recklessness of the present — the improvidence of the future ; he had 
 been told that saint-days and holy days mulcted labour of more than 
 half its due — that ignorance made the other half almost valueless ; he 
 had read, that, the easy contentment with poverty, had made all indus- 
 try distasteful, and all exertion, save what was actually indispensable, a 
 thing to be avoided. 
 
 " Why should these things be, when they were not so in Norfolk, nor 
 m Yorkshire?" was the question he ever asked, and to which his 
 knowledge furnished no reply. There, superstitions, if they existed — 
 and he knew not if they did — came not in the way of daily labour. 
 Saints never unharnessed the team, nor laid the plough inactive — com- 
 fort was a stimulant to industry that none disregarded ; habits of order 
 and decorum made the possessor respected — poverty almost argued mis- 
 conduct, and certainly was deemed a reproach. Why then not propa- 
 gate the system of these happy districts in Ireland ? To do this was 
 the great end and object of his visit. 
 
 • Philanthropy would often seem unhappily to have a dislike to the 
 practical — the generous emotions appear shorn of their freedom, when 
 trammelled with the fruit of experience or reflection. So, certainly it was, 
 in the case before us. Sir Marmaduke had the very best intentions — 
 the weakest notions of their realization ; the most unbounded desire 
 for good — the very narrowest conceptions of how to effect it. Like 
 most theorists, no speculative difficulty was great enough to deter — ^no 
 practical obstacle was so small as not to affright him. It never ap- 
 parently occurred to him that men are not every where alike, and this 
 trifling omission was the source of difficulties, which he persisted in 
 ascribing to causes outside of himself. Generous, kind-hearted, and 
 benevolent, he easily forgave an injury, never willingly inflicted one j 
 he was also, however, hot-tempered and passionate ; he could not brook 
 opposition to his will, where its object seemed laudable to himself, and 
 was utterly unable to make allowance for prejudices and leanings in 
 others, simply because'he had never experienced them in his own breast. 
 Such was, in a few words, the present occupant of "the Lodge" — as the 
 residence of the agent was styled. Originally a hunting box, it had 
 been enlarged and ornamented by Captain Hemsworth, and converted 
 into a cottage of singular beauty, without, and no mean pretension to 
 comfort, within doors. It occupied an indenture of the glen of Keim- 
 an-eigh, and stood on the borders of a small mountain-lake, the surface 
 
THE ODONOGHUE. 15 
 
 of which was dotted with wooded islands. Behind the cottage, and 
 favoured hy the shelter of the ravine, the native oaks grew to a great size, 
 and contrasted hy the rich foHage waving in the breeze, with the 
 dark sides of the cliff opposite, rugged, barren and immutable. 
 
 In all the luxuriance of this mild cHmate, shrubs attained the height 
 of trees ; and flowers, rare enough elsewhere to demand the most watch- 
 ful care, grew here, unattended and imregarded. The very grass had a 
 depth of green, softer and more pleasing to the eye than in other 
 places. It seemed as if nature had, in compensation for the solitude 
 around, shed her fairest gifts over this lonely spot, one bright gem in 
 the dreary sky of winter. 
 
 About a mile further down the glen, and seated on a lofty pinnacle of 
 rock, immediately above the road, stood the once proud castle of the 
 O'Donoghue. Two square and massive towers still remained to mark its 
 ancient strength, and the ruins of various outworks and bastions could 
 be traced, extending for a considerable distance on every side. Between 
 these square towers, and occupying the space where originally a curtain 
 wall stood, a long low building now extended, whose high-pitched roof 
 and narrow windows vouched for an antiquity of little more than a 
 hundred years. It was a strange incongruous pile, in which fortress 
 and farm-house seemed welded together — the whole no bad type of its 
 past and its present owners. The approach was by a narrow cause- 
 way, cut in the rock, and protected by a square keep, through whose 
 deep arch the road penetrated — flanked on either hand by a low battle- 
 mented wall ; along these, two rows of lime trees grew, stately and beau- 
 ful in the midst of all the ruin about them. They spread their waving 
 foliage around, and threw a mellow, solemn shadow along the walk. 
 Except these, not a tree, nor even a shrub, was to be seen — the vast 
 woods of nature's own planting had disappeared — the casualties of war — 
 the chances of times of trouble, or the more ruinous course of poverty, 
 had laid them low,, and the barren mountain now stood revealed, where 
 once were waving forests and shady groves, the home of summer birds, 
 the lair of the wild deer. 
 
 Cows and farm-horses were stabled in what once had been the out- 
 works of the castle. Implements of husbandry lay carelessly on all 
 sides, neglect and decay marked every thing, the garden-wall was 
 broken down in many places, and cattle strayed at will among the torn 
 fruit-trees and dilapidated terraces, while, as if to add to the dreary as- 
 pect of the scene, the ground for a considerable distance around had 
 been tilled, but never subsequently restored to grass land, and now along 
 its ridged surface noisome weeds and thistles grew rankly, tainting the 
 
16 THE O'dONOGHUE. 
 
 air with their odour, and sending up heavy exhalations from the moist 
 and spongy earth. If, without, all looked sad and sorrow-struck, the 
 appearances within, were not much better. A large flagged-hall, opened 
 upon two long ill-lighted corridors, from which a number of small sitting- 
 rooms led off. Many of these were perfectly devoid of furniture; in the 
 others, what remained seemed to owe its preservation to its want of 
 value rather than any other quality. Cracked looking-glasses — broken 
 chairs, rudely mended by some country hand — ragged and patched 
 carpets, were the only things to be found, with here and there some 
 dirt-disJSgured piece of framed canvas, which, whether tapestry or 
 painting, no eye could now discover. These apartments bore little or no 
 trace of habitation ; indeed, for many years they were rarely entered by 
 any one. A large square room in one of the towers, of some forty feet 
 in dimensions, was the ordinary resort of the family, serving the pur- 
 poses of drawing and dining-room. This was somewhat better in 
 appearance: whatever articles of furniture had any pretension to 
 comfort or convenience were here assembled ; and here, were met, old- 
 fashioned sofas, deep arm-chairs, quaint misshapen tables like millipedes, 
 and fat old footstools, the pious work of long-forgotten grandmothers. 
 A huge screen, covered with a motley array of prints and caricature ^ 
 cut off the group around the ample fire-place from the remainder of the 
 apartment, and it is within this charmed circle we would now copduct 
 our reader. 
 
 In the great arm-chair, to the right of the ample fire-place, sat u 
 powerfully built old man, whose hair was white as snow, and fell in long 
 waving masses at either side of his head. His forehead, massive and 
 expanded, surmounted two dark, penetrating eyes, which even ex- 
 treme old age had not deprived of their lustre. The other features of 
 his face were rather marked by a careless, easy sensuality, than by any 
 other character, except that in the mouth the expression of firmness 
 was strongly displayed. His dress was a strange mixture of the cos- 
 tume of gentleman and peasant. His coat, worn and threadbare, bore 
 traces of better days, in its cut and fashion ; his vest also showed the 
 fragment of tarnished embroidery along the margin of the flapped 
 pockets ; but the coarse knee breeches of corduroy, and the thick grey 
 lambs wool stockings, wrinkled along the legs, were no better than those 
 worn by the poorer farmers of the neighbourhood. 
 
 This was the O'Donoghue himself. Opposite to him sat one as 
 unHke him in every respect as it was possible to conceive. He was a 
 tall, spare, raw-boned figure, whose grey eyes and high cheek-bones 
 bore traces of a different race from that of the aged chieftain. An ex- 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 17 
 
 pression of intense acuteness pervaded every feature of his face, and 
 seemed concentrated about the angles of the mouth, where a series of 
 deep wrinkles were seen to cross and intermix with each other, omens 
 of a sarcastic spirit, indulged without the least restraint on the part of 
 its possessor. His wiry grey hair was hrushed rigidly back from his 
 bony temples, and fastened into a short queue behind) thus giving 
 greater apparent length to his naturally long and narrow face. His 
 dress was that of a gentleman of the time : a full-skirted coat of a dark 
 brown, with a long vest descending below the hips ; breeches somewhat 
 a deeper shade of the same colour, and silk stockings, with silver- 
 buckled shoes, completed an attire which, if plain, was yet scrupu- 
 lously neat and respectable. As he sat, almost bolt upright, in his 
 chair, there was a look of vigilance and alertness about him very oppo- 
 site to the careless, nearly drooping air of the O'Donoghue. Such Was 
 Sir Archibald M'Nab, the brother of the O'Donoghue's late wife, for the 
 old man had been a widower for several years. Certain circumstances 
 of a doubtful and mysterious nature had made him leave his native 
 country of Scotland many years before, and since that, he had taken up 
 his abode with his brother-in-law, whose retired habits and solitary 
 residence afforded the surest guarantee against his ever being traced. 
 His age must have been almost as great as the O'Donoghue's ; but the 
 energy of his character, the lightness of his frame, and the habits of 
 his life, all contributed to make him seem much younger. 
 
 Never were two natures more dissimilar. The one, reckless, lavish, and 
 improvident; the other, cautious, sa\ing, and full of forethought. 
 O'Donoghue was frank and open — his opinions easily known — his re- 
 solutions hastily formed. M'Nab was close and secret, carefully weigh- 
 ing every thing before hp made up his mind, and not much given to 
 imparting his notions, when he had done so. 
 
 In one point alone was there any similarity between them — pride of 
 ancestry and birth they both possessed in common ; but this trait, so 
 far from serving to reconcile the other discrepancies of their natures, 
 kept them even wider apart, and added to the passive estrangement of 
 ill-matched associates, an additional element of active discord. 
 
 There was a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who sat be- 
 side the fire on a low stool, busily engaged in deciphering, by the fitful 
 light of the bog-wood, the pages of an old volume, in which he seemed 
 deeply interested. The blazing pine, as it threw its red gleam over the 
 room, showed the handsome forehead of the youth, and the ample 
 locks of a rich auburn, which hung in clusters over it ; while his face 
 was strikingly hke the old man's, the mildness of its expression— 
 
 c 
 
It IHK 0*DONOGHTyE. 
 
 partly the result of youth, partly the character imparted by his p». 
 sent occupation — was unlike that of either his father or brother; 
 for Herbert O'Donoghue was the younger son of the house, and 
 was said, both in temper and appearance, to resemble his mother. 
 
 At a distance from the fire, and with a certain air of half assurance, 
 half constraint, sat a man of some five-and-thirty years of age, whose 
 dress of green coat, short breeches, and top boots, suggested at once 
 the jockey, to which the mingled look of confidence and cunning bore 
 ample corroboration. This was a well-known character in the south of 
 Ireland at that time. His name was Lanty Lawler. The sporting 
 habits of the gentry — their easiness on the score of intimacy — the ad- 
 vantages of a ready-money purchaser, whenever they wished " to weed 
 their stables," admitted the horse-dealer pretty freely among a class, to 
 which neither his habits nor station could have warranted him in pre- 
 senting himself. But, in addition to these qualities, Lanty was rather 
 a prize in remote and unvisited tracts, such as the one we have been 
 describing, his information being both great and varied in every thing 
 going forward. He had the latest news of the capital — ^the fashions of 
 hair and toilet — the colours worn by the ladies in vogue, and the new- 
 est rumours of any intended change — he knew well the gossip of poHtics 
 and party — upon the probable turn of events in and out of parliament 
 he could hazard a guess, with a fair prospect of accuracy. With 
 the prices of stock and the changes in the world of agriculture he was 
 thoroughly familiar, and had besides a world of stories and ismall-talk 
 on every possible subject, which he brought forth with the greatest 
 tact as regarded the tastes and character of his company, one-half of 
 his acquaintances being totally ignorant of the gifts and graces, by which 
 he obtained fame and character with the other. 
 
 A roving vagabond life gave him a certain free-and-easy air, which, 
 among the majority of his associates, was a great source of his popu- 
 larity ; but he well knew when to lay this aside, and assume the exact 
 shade of deference and respect his company might require. If then 
 with O'Donoghue himself, he would have felt perfectly at ease, the pre- 
 sence of Sir Archy, and his taciturn solemnity, was a sad check upon 
 him, and mingled the freedom he felt with a degree of reserve far from 
 comfortable. However, he had come for a purpose, and, if successful, 
 the result would amply remunerate him for any passing inconvenience 
 he might incur ; and with this thought he armed himself, as he entered 
 the room some ten minutes before. 
 
 "So you are looking for Mark," said the O'Donoghue to Lanty. 
 •* You can't help hankering after that grey mare of his.'* 
 
THE O*D0N0GHUE. 19 
 
 ** Sure enough, sir, there's no denying it. I'll have to give him the 
 forty pounds for her, though, as sure as I'm here, she's not worth the 
 money ; hut when I've a fancy for a beast, or take a conceit out of 
 her — it's no use, I must buy her — that's it !" 
 
 " "Well, I don't think he'll give her to you now, Lanty ; he has got 
 her so quiet — so gentle — that I doubt he'll part with her." 
 
 "It's little a quiet one suits him ; faix, he'd soon tire of her if 
 she wasn't rearing or plunging like mad! He's an elegant rider, 
 God bless him. I've a black horse now that would mount him well ; 
 he's out of * Divil-may-care,' Mooney's horse, and can take six foot of 
 a wall flying, with fourteen stone on his back ; and barring the least 
 taste of a capped hock, you could not see speck nor spot about him 
 wrong. " 
 
 "He's in no great humour for buying just now," interposed the 
 O'Donoghue, with a voice to which some suddenly awakened recollec- 
 tion imparted a tone of considerable depression. 
 
 "Sure we might make a swop with the mare," rejoined Lanty, 
 determined not to be foiled so easily ; and then, as no answer was forth- 
 coming, after a long pause, he added, " and havn't I the elegant 
 pony for Master fierbert there ; a crame colour — clean bred — with 
 white mane and tail. If he was the Prince of Wales he might ride her. 
 She has racing speed — they tell me, for I only have her a few days j 
 and, faix, ye'd win all the county stakes with her." 
 
 The youth looked up from his book, and listened with glistening eyes 
 and animated features to the description, which, to one reared as he was, 
 possessed no common attraction. 
 
 " Sure I'll send over for her to-morrow, and you can try her," said 
 Lanty, as if replying to the gaze with which the boy regarded him. 
 
 " Ye mauna do nae sich a thing," broke in M*Nab. " Keep your 
 rogueries and rascalities for the auld generation ye hae assisted to 
 ruin; but leave the young anes alane to mind ither matters than 
 dicing and horse-racing." 
 
 Either the O'Donoghue conceived the allusion one that bore hardly 
 on himself, or he felt vexed that the authority of a father over his 
 son should have been usurped by another, or both causes were in 
 operation together, but he turned an angry look on Sir Archy, and 
 said — 
 
 " And why shouldn't the boy ride ? was there ever one of his name 
 or family that didn't know how to cross a country ? I don't intend him 
 for a highland pedlar." 
 
 " He might be waur," retorted M'Nab, solemnly, " he might be an 
 Irish beggar." 
 
20 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 " By my soul, sir," broke in O'Donoghue ; but fortunately an inter- 
 ruption saved the speech from being concluded, for at the same moment 
 the door opened, and Mark O'Donoghue, travel-stained and weary- 
 looking, entered the room. 
 
 " Well, Mark," said the old man, as his eyes ghstened at the appear- 
 ance of his favourite son — " what sport, boy V 
 
 " Poor enough, sir ; five brace in two days is nothing to boast of, 
 besides two hares. Ah, Lanty — you here ; how goes it ?" 
 
 " Purty well, as times go, Mr. Mark," said the horse-dealer, afi*ect- 
 ing a degree of deference he would not have deemed necessary had they 
 been alone. " I'm glad to see you back again." 
 
 " Why — what old broken-down devils have you now got on hand 
 to pass off upon us ? It's fellows like you destroy the sport of the 
 country. You carry away every good horse to be found, and cover 
 the country with spavined, wuid-galled brutes, not fit for the kennel." 
 
 "That's it, Mark — give him a canter, lad," cried the old man, joy- 
 ftdly. 
 
 " I know what you are at well enough," resumed the youth, encou- 
 raged by these tokens of approval ; " you want that grey mare of mine. 
 You have some fine English officer ready to give you an hundred and 
 fifty, or, may be, two hundred guineas, for her, the moment you bring 
 her over to England. 
 
 " May I never ■ 
 
 " That's the trade you drive. Nothing too bad for us — nothing too 
 good for them." 
 
 " See now, Mr. Mark, I hope I may never " 
 
 " Well, Lanty, one word for all ; I'd rather send a bullet through 
 her skull this minute, than let you have her for one of your fine English 
 patrons." 
 
 " Won't you let me speak a word at all," interposed the horse- 
 dealer, in an accent half imploring, half deprecating. " If I buy the mare 
 — and it isn't for want of a sporting offer if I don't — she'll never go to 
 England — no — devil a step. She's for one in the country here beside 
 you ; but I won't say more, and there now." At these words he drew 
 a soiled black leather pocket-book from the breast of his coat, and 
 opening it, displayed a thick roll of bank notes, tied with a piece of 
 string — ■" There now — there's sixty pounds in that bundle there — at 
 least I hope so, for I never counted it since I got it — take it for her oi 
 leave it — just as you hke ; and may I never have luck with a beast, 
 but there's not a gentleman in the county would give the same money for 
 her.'* Here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, " Sure the 
 speedy cut is ten pounds off her price any day, between two brothers.'* 
 
THE o'DONOGHUE. 21 
 
 "What!" said the youth, as his brows met in passion, and his 
 heightened colour showed how his anger was raised. 
 
 "Well, well — ^it's no matter, there's my offer; and if I make a 
 ten pound note of her, sure it's all I live by ; I wasn't born to an estate 
 and a fine property, like yourself." 
 
 These words, uttered in such a tone as to be inaudible to the rest, 
 seemed to moUify the young man's wrath, for, sullenly stretching forth 
 his hand, he took the bundle and opened it on the table before him. 
 
 " A dry bargain never was a lucky one, they say, Lanty — isn't that 
 so ?'* said the O'Donoghue, as, seizing a small hand-bell, he ordered up 
 a supply of claret, as well as the more vulgar elements for punch, should 
 the dealer, as was probable, prefer that liquor. 
 
 " These notes seem to have seen service," muttered Mark : " here's a 
 ragged fellow. There's no making out whether he's two or ten." 
 
 " They were well handled, there's no doubt of it," said Lanty, " the 
 tenants was paying them in ; and sure you know yourself how they 
 thumb and finger a note before they part with it. You'd think 
 they were trying to take leave of them. There's many a man can't read 
 a word, can tell you the amount of a note, just by the feel of it ! — 
 Thank you, sir, I'll take the spirits — it's what I'm most used to." 
 
 "Who did you get them from, Lanty?" said the O'Donoghue. 
 
 " Malachi Glynn, sir, of Cahernavorra, and, by the same token, I got 
 a hearty laugh at the same house once before." 
 
 " How was that V said the old man, for he saw by the twinkle of 
 Lanty' s eye, that a story was coming. 
 
 " Faix, just this way, sir. It was a little after Christmas last year 
 that Mr. Malachi thought he'd go up to Dublin for a month or six 
 weeks with the young ladies, just to show them, by way of; for ye 
 see, there's no dealing at all downihere ; and he thought he'd bring 
 them up, and see what could be done. Musha ! but they're the hard stock 
 to get rid of ! and somehow they don't improve by holding them over. 
 And as there was levees, and drawing-rooms, and balls going on, sure 
 it would go hard but he'd get off a pair of them anyhow. Well, it was 
 an elegant scheme, if there was money to do it ; but devil a farthin' 
 was to be had, high or low, beyond seventy pounds I gave for the two 
 carriage horses and the yearlings that was out in the field, and sure 
 that wouldn't do at all. He tried the tenants for * the November,' but 
 what was the use of it, though he offered a receipt in full for ten shil- 
 iings in the pound? — when a lucky thought struck him. Troth, and 
 it's what ye may call a grand thought too. He was walking about be- 
 fore the door, thinking and ruminating how to raise the money, when 
 
ODONOGUUE. 
 
 he I sees the sheep grazing on the lawn foruint him-^not that he could 
 sell one of them, for there was a strap of a bond or mortage on them a 
 year before. * Faix/ and says he, * when a man's hard up for cash, he*s 
 often obUged to wear a mighty thread-bare coat, and go cold enough in 
 the winter season — and sure it*s reason, sheep isn't better than Chris- 
 tians ; and begorra,* says he, * I'll have the fleece off ye, if the weather 
 was twice as cowld.* No sooner said than done. They were ordered 
 hito^the haggard-yard the same evening, and, as sure as ye're there, they 
 cut the wool off them three days after Christmas. Musha I but it Was 
 a pitiful sight to see them turned out shivering and shaking, with the 
 snow on the ground. And it didn't thrive with him ; for three died 
 the first night. "Well, when he seen what come of it, he had them all 
 brought in again, and they gathered all the spare clothes and the ould 
 rags in the house together, and dressed them up, at least the ones that 
 were worst ; and such a set of craytures never was seen. One had an 
 olti petticoat on ; another a flannel waistcoat ; many, could only get a 
 cravat or a pair of gaiters ; but the ram beat all, for he was dressed in 
 a pair of corduroy breeches, and an ould spencer of the master's ; and 
 may I never live, if I didn't roll down full length on the grass when I 
 seen him." 
 
 Fgr some minutes before Lanty had concluded his story, the whole 
 party were convulsed with laughter ; even Sir Archy vouchsafed a grave 
 smile, as, receiving the tale in a different Hght, he mutteredj to 
 himself—- 
 
 "They're a' the same— ne'er-do-well, reckless deevils." 
 
 One good result at least followed the anecdote — the good- humour oi 
 the company was restored at once — ^the bargain was finally concluded ; 
 and Lanty succeeded by some adroit flattery in recovering five pounds 
 of the price, under the title of luck-penny— a portion of the contract 
 M*Nab would have interfered against at once, but that, for his own 
 especial reasons, he preferred remaining silent. 
 
 The party soon after separated for the night, and as Lanty sought 
 the room usually destined for his accommodation, he muttered, as he 
 went, his self-gratulations on his bargain. Already he had nearly 
 reached the end of the long corridor, where his chamber lay, when a 
 door was cautiously opened, and Sir Archy, attired in a dressing-gown, 
 and with a candle in his hand, stood before him. 
 
 " A word wi' ye, Master Lawler,*' said he, in a low dry tone, the 
 horse-dealer but half liked. ** A word wi' ye, before ye retire to rest.** 
 
 Lanty followed the old man into the apartment with an air of affected 
 carelessness, which soon, however, gave way to surprise, as he surveyed 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 23 
 
 the chamber, so little like any other in that dreary mansion. The walls 
 were covered with shelves, loaded mth books ; maps and prints lay 
 scattered about on tables ; an oak cabinet of great beauty in form and 
 carving, occupied a deep recess beside the chimney ; and over the fire- 
 place a claymore of true Highland origin, and a pair of silver-mounted 
 pistols, were arranged like a trophy, surmounted by a flat Highland cap, 
 with a thin black eagle's feather. 
 
 Sir Archy seemed to enjoy the astonishment of his guest, and for 
 some minutes made no effort to break silence. At length he said — 
 
 " Ye war speaking about a sma* pony for the laird's son. Mister 
 Lawler — ^may I ask ye the price V 
 
 The words acted like a talisman — Lanty was himself in a moment. 
 The mere mention of horse flesh brought back the whole crowd of his 
 daily associations, and with his native volubility he proceeded, not to 
 reply to the question, but to enumerate the many virtues and perfections 
 of the " sweetest tool that ever travelled on four legs." 
 
 Sir Archy waited patiently till the eloquent eulogy was over, and then, 
 drily repeated his first demand. 
 
 " Is it her price T" said Lanty, repeating the question to gain time to 
 consider how far circumstances might warrant him in pushing a market. 
 " It's her price ye're asking me. Sir Archibald ? Troth, and I'll tell 
 yon : there's not a man in Kerry could say what's her price. Goold 
 wouldn't pay for her, av it was value was wanted. See now, she's not 
 fourteen hands high, but may I never leave this room if she wouldn't 
 carry me — ay, myself here, twelve stone six in the scales — over e'er a 
 fence between this and Inchigeela." 
 
 "It's no exactly to carry you that I was making my inquiry," said 
 the old man, with an accent of more asperity than he had used before. 
 
 " Well then, for Master Herbert — sure she is the very beast " 
 
 *' What are you, asking for her ? — canna you answer a straightforred 
 question, man ?" reiterated Sir Archy, in a voice there was no mistaking. 
 
 " Twenty guineas, then," repHed Lanty, in a tone of defiance ; " and 
 if ye offer me pounds I won't take it." 
 
 Sir Archy made no answer ; but turning to the old cabinet, he un 
 locked one of the small doors, and drew forth a long leather pouch, 
 curiously embroidered with silver ; from this he took ten guineas in 
 gold, and laid them leisurely on the table. The horse dealer eyed them 
 askance, but without the slightest sign of having noticed them. 
 
 " I'm no goin' to_buy your beast; Mr. Lawler," said the old man, 
 slowly ; '*I'm just goin' merely to buy your ain good sense and justice. 
 
 You say the powney is woHh twenty guineas.'* 
 
H 
 
 " As sure as I stand here. I wouldn't ** 
 
 "Weel, weel, I'm content. There's half the money; tak' it, but 
 never let's hear anitlier word about her here : bring her awa wi' ye ; 
 sell or shoot her, do what ye please wi' her ; but, mind me, man" — here 
 his voice became full, strong, and commanding — " tak' care that ye 
 meddle not wi' that young callant, Herbert. Dinna fill his head wi' 
 ranting thoughts of dogs and horses. Let there be one of the house 
 wi' a soul above a sculUon or a groom. Ye have brought ruin enough 
 here; you can spare the boy, I trow: there, sir, tak' your money." 
 
 For a second or two, Lanty seemed undecided whether to reject or 
 accept a proposal so humihating in its terms ; and when at length he 
 acceded, it was rather from his dread of the consequences of refusal, than 
 from any satisfaction the bargain gave him. 
 
 "I'm afraid. Sir Archibald," said he, half timidly, "I'm afraid 
 you don't understand me well." 
 
 " I'm afraid I do," rejoined the old man, with a bitter smile on his 
 lip ; "but it's better we should understand each other. Good night." 
 
 " Well, good night to you, any how," said Lanty, with a sUght sigh, 
 as he dropped the money into his pocket, and left the room. 
 
 " I have bought the scoundrel cheap !" muttered Sir Archy, as the 
 door closed. 
 
 " Begorra, I thought he was twice as knowing !" was Lanty's reflec- 
 tion, as he entered his own chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BLERBY o'liEABY. 
 
 Lanty Lawler was stirring the first in the house. The late sitting 
 of the preceding evening, and the deep potations he had indulged in, 
 left Kttle trace of weariness on his well-accustomed frame. Few con- 
 tracts were ratified in those days without the solemnity of a drinking 
 bout, £tnd the habits of the O'Donoghue household were none of the 
 most abstemious. All was still and silent then as the horse-dealer de- 
 scended the stairs, and took the path towards the stable, where he had 
 left his hackney the night before. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 2$ 
 
 It was Lant/s intention to take possession of his new purchase, and 
 set out on his journey before the others were stirring ; and, with this 
 object he wended his way across the weed-grown garden, and into the 
 wide and dreary court-yard of the building. 
 
 Had he been disposed to moralize — assuredly an occupation he was 
 little given to — he might have indulged the vein naturally enough, as 
 he surveyed on every side the remains of long past greatness and 
 present decay. Beautifully proportioned columns, with florid capitals, 
 supplied the place of gate piers. Richly carved armorial bearings 
 were seen upon the stones used to repair the breaches in the walls. 
 Fragments of inscriptions and half obliterated dates appeared amid the 
 moss-grown ruins; and the very'^ door of the stable had been a 
 portal of dark oak, studded with large nails, its native strength having 
 preserved it when even the masonry was crumbling to decay. Lanty 
 passed these with perfect indifference. Their voice awoke no echo 
 within his breast ; and even when he noticed them, it was to mutter 
 some jeering allusion to their fallen estate, rather than with any feel- 
 ing of reverence for what they once represented. 
 
 The deep bay of a hound now startled him, however. He turned 
 suddenly round, and close beside him, but within the low wall of a 
 ruined kennel-yard, lay a large foxhound, so old and feeble that, even 
 roused by the approach of a stranger, he could not rise from the 
 ground, but lay helplessly on the earth, and with uplifted throat sent 
 forth a long waiUng note. Lanty leaned upon the wall, and looked at 
 him. The emotions which other objects failed to suggest, seemed to 
 flock upon him now. That poor dog, the last of a once noble pack, 
 whose melody used to ring through every glen and ravine of the wild 
 mountains, was an appeal to his heart he could not withstand ; and he 
 stood with his gaze fixed upon him. 
 
 "Poor old fellow," said he compassionately, " it's a lonely thing for 
 you to be there now, and all your old friends and companions dead and 
 gone. Rory, my boy, don't you know me ?" 
 
 The tones of his voice seemed to soothe the animal, for he responded 
 in a low cadence indescribably melancholy. 
 
 "That's my boy. Sure I knew you didn't forget me;" and he 
 stooped over and patted the poor beast upon the head. 
 
 " The top of the morning to you. Mister Lawler," cried out a voice 
 straight over his head— and at the same instant a strange-looking face 
 was protruded from a little one-paned window of a hay loft — "*tis 
 early you are to-day." 
 
 "Ah, Kerry, how are you, my man? I was taking a look at Rory 
 here." 
 
39 THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 " Faix, he*s a poor sight now," responded the other with a sigh 
 *' but he wasn't so once. I mind the time he could lead the pack 
 over Cubber-ua-crcena mountain, and not a dog but himself catch the 
 scent, after a hard frost and a north wind. I never knew him virrong. 
 His tongue was as true as the priest's — sorra lie in it." 
 
 A low whine from the poor old beast seemed to acknowledge the 
 praise bestowed upon him ; and Kerry continued-— 
 
 " It*s truth I'm telling ; and if it wasn't, it's just himself would 
 contradict me. — Tallyho! Rory — tallyho! my ould boy;" and both 
 man and dog joined in a deep-toned cry together. 
 
 The old walls sent back the e(^oes, and for some seconds the sounds 
 floated through the still air of the morning. 
 
 Lanty listened with animated features and lit-up eyes to notes which 
 so often had stirred the strongest cords of his heart, and then sud- 
 denly, as if recalling his thoughts to their former channel, cried 
 out — 
 
 " Come down, Kerry, my man — come down here, and unlock the 
 door of the stable. I must be early on the road this morning.** 
 
 Kerry O'Leary — for so was he called, to distinguish him from those 
 of the name in the adjoining county — soon made his appearance in the 
 court-yard beneath. His toilet was a hasty one, consisting merely of a 
 pair of worn corduroy small clothes and an old blue frock, with faded 
 scarlet collar and cuffs, which, for convenience, he wore on the present 
 occasion buttoned at the neck, and without inserting his arms . in the 
 sleeves, leaving these appendages to float loosely at his side. His legs 
 and feet were bare, as was his head, save what covering it derived 
 from a thick fell of strong black hair that hung down on every, side 
 like an ill-made thatch. 
 
 Kerry was not remarkable for good looks. His brow was low, and 
 shaded two piercing black eyes, set so closely together, that they seemed 
 to present to the beholder one single continuous dark streak beneath 
 his forehead ; a short snubby nose, a wide thick-lipped mouth, and a 
 heavy massive under-jaw, made up an assemblage of features, which, 
 when at rest, indicated little of remarkable or striking ; but when 
 animated and excited, displayed the strangest possible union of deep 
 cunning and simpUcity, intense curiosity and apathetic indolence. His 
 figure was short, almost to dwarfishness, and as his arms were enor- 
 mously long, they contributed to give that air to his appearance. His 
 legs were widely bowed, and his gait had that slouching, shambling 
 motion, so indicative of an education cultivated among horses and 
 stable-men. So it was, in fact ; Kerry had begun life as a jockey. At 
 
THE o'D0N0GHtJ£4 if 
 
 m 
 
 thirteen lie rode a Thinning race at the Curragh, and came in first on 
 the hack of Blue Blazes, the wickedest horse of the day in Ireland, 
 From that hour he became a celebrity, and untH too old to ride, was 
 the crack jockey of his time. From jockey he grew into trainer — the 
 usual transition of the tadpole to the frog j and when the racing stud 
 was given up by the O'Donoghue in exchange for the hunting field, 
 Kerry led the pack to their glorious sport. As time wore on, and its 
 course brought saddening fortunes to his master, Kerry's occupation 
 was invaded ; the horses were 'sold, the hounds given up, and the 
 kennel fell to ruins. Of the large household that once filled the castle, 
 a few were now retained ; but among these was Kerry. It was not 
 that he was useful, or that his services could minister to the comfort or 
 convenience of the family; far from it, the commonest offices of 
 in-door Hfe he was ignorant of, and, even if he knew, would have 
 shrunk from performing them, as being a degradation. His whole 
 skill was limited to the stable-yard, and there, now, his functions were 
 unneeded. It would seem as if he were kept as a kind of memento of 
 their once condition, rather than any thing else. There was a pride in 
 maintaining one who did nothing the whole day but lounge about the 
 offices and the court-yard, in his old ragged suit of huntsman. And 
 so, too, it impressed the country people, who seeing him, believed that 
 at any moment the ancient splendour of the house might shine forth 
 again, and Kerry, as of yore, ride out on his thoroughbred, to make 
 the valleys ring with music. He was, as it were, a kind of staff, through 
 which, at a day's notice, the whole regiment might be mustered. It 
 was in this spirit he lived, and moved, and spoke. He was always 
 going about looking after a "nice beast to carry the master," and a "real 
 bit of blood for Master Mark," and he would send a gossoon to ask if 
 Barry O'Brien of the bridge "heard tell of a fox in the cover below the 
 road." In fact, his preparations ever portended a speedy resumption of 
 the habits in which his youth and manhood were spent. 
 
 Such was the character who now, in the easy deshabille described, de- 
 scended into the court-yard with a great bunch of keys in his hand, and 
 led the way towards the stable. 
 
 " I put the little mare into the hack-stable, Mr. Lawler/' said he, 
 " because the hunters is in training, and I didn't hke to disturb them 
 with a strange beast." 
 
 " Hunters in training !" replied Lanty in astonishment, "»Why, I 
 thought he had nothing but the grey mare with the black legs." 
 
 "And sure, if he hasn't," responded Kerry crankily, "couldn't he 
 buy them when he wants them." 
 
28 THE O'OONOGHUE. 
 
 ** Oh, that's it," said the other, laughing to himself. " No doubt 
 of it Kerry. Money will do many a thing." 
 
 ** Oh, it's wishing it I am for money ! Bad luck to the peace or ease 
 I ever seen since they became fond pf money. I remember the time it 
 was, * Kerry go down and bring this, or take that,' and devil a more about 
 it ; and lashings of every thing there was. See now ! if the horses 
 could eat pease pudding, and drink punch, they'd got it for askin' ; but 
 now it's all for saving, and saving. And sure, what's the use of goold ? 
 God be good to us, as I heard Father Luke say, he'd do as much for 
 fifteen shillings as for fifty pounds, av it was a poor boy wanted it." 
 
 " What nonsense are you talking, you old sinner, about saving. "Why 
 man, they haven't got as much as they could bless themselves on, among 
 them all. You needn't be angry, Kerry. It's not Lanty Lawler you 
 can humbug that way. Is there an acre of the estate their own now ? 
 Not if every perch of it made four, it wouldn't pay the money they 
 owe." 
 
 " And if they do," rejoined Kerry indignantly, " who has a better 
 right, tell me that ? Is it an O'Donoghue would be behind the rest of 
 the country — begorra, ye're bould to come up here and tell us that." 
 
 " I'm not teUing you any thing of the kind — I'm saying that if they 
 are ruined entirely " 
 
 "Arrah ! don't provoke me. Take your baste and go, in God's 
 name." 
 
 And so saying, Kerry, whose patience was fast ebbing, pushed 
 wide the stable-door, and pointed to the stall where Lanty* s hackney 
 was standing. 
 
 " Bring out that grey mare. Master Kerry," said Lanty in a tone of 
 easy insolence, purposely assumed to provoke the old huntsman's anger. 
 " Bring her out here." 
 
 " And what for, would I bring her out ?'* 
 
 " May be I'll tell you afterwards," was the reply. " Just do as I 
 say, now." 
 
 " The devil a one o' me will touch the beast at your bidding ; and 
 what's more, I'll not let yourself lay a finger on her." 
 
 " Be quiet, you old fool," said a deep voice behind him. He turned, 
 and there stood Mark O'Donoghue himself, pale and haggard after his 
 nighf s excess. " Be quiet, I say. The mare is his — let him have 
 her." 
 
 " Blessed Virgin !" exclaimed Kerry, " here's the hunting season 
 beginning, and sorrow thing you'll have to put a saddle on, barrin*— 
 barrin' " 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 29 
 
 "Barring what?'* interposed Lanty, with an insolent grin. 
 
 The young man flushed at the impertinence of the insinuation, but 
 said not a word for a few minutes, then suddenly exclaimed — 
 
 " Lanty, I have changed my mind ; I'll keep the mare." 
 
 The horse-dealer started, and stared him full in the face — 
 
 " Why Mr. Mark, surely you're not in earnest ? The beast is paid 
 for — the bargain all settled." 
 
 " I don't care for that. There's your money again. I'll keep the 
 mare." 
 
 " Ay, but listen to reason. The mare is mine. She was so when 
 you handed me the luck-penny, and if I don't wish to part with her,] you 
 cannot compel me." 
 
 " Can't I ?" retorted Mark, with a jeering laugh ; " can't I, faith ? 
 Will you tell me what's to prevent it ? Will you take the law of me ? 
 Is that your threat?" 
 
 "Devil a one ever said I was that mean, before !" rephed Lanty, with 
 an air of deeply-offended pride. " I never demeaned myself to the law, 
 and I'm fifteen years buying and selling horses in every county in Mun- 
 ster. No, Mr. Mark, it is not that ; but I'll just tell you the truth, 
 The mare is all as one as sold already j — there it is now, and that's the 
 whole secret." 
 
 " Sold ! What do you mean ? — that you had sold that mare before 
 you ever bought her ?" 
 
 " To be sure I did," cried Lanty, assuming a forced look of easy as- 
 surance he was very far from feeling at the moment. "There's nothing 
 more common in my trade. Not one of us buys a beast without know- 
 ing where the next owner is to be had." 
 
 " And do you mean, sir," said Mark, as he eyed him with a steady 
 stare, " do you mean to tell me that you came down here, as you would 
 to a petty farmer's cabin, with your bank-notes, ready to take whatever 
 you may pitch your fancy on, sure and certain that our necessities must 
 make us willing chapmen for all you care to deal in — do you dare to say 
 that you have done this with me f" 
 
 For an instant Lanty was confounded. He could not utter a word, 
 and looked around him in the vain hope of aid from any other quarter, 
 but none was forthcoming. Kerry was the only unoccupied witness of 
 the scene, and his face beamed with ineffable satisfaction at the turn 
 matters had taken, and as he rubbed his hands he could scarcely control 
 his desire to laugh outright, at the lamentable figure of his late 
 antagonist. 
 
 " Let me say one word, Master Mark," said Lanty at length, and in 
 
W THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 a voice subdued to its very softest key — "just a single word in youf 
 own ear," and with that he led the young man outside the door of the 
 stable, and whispered for some minutes, with the greatest earnestness, 
 concluding in a voice loud enough to be heard by Kerry — 
 
 " And after that, I'm sure I need say no more." 
 
 Mark made no answer, but leaned his back against the wall, and 
 folded his arms upon his breast. 
 
 " May I never if it is not the whole truth," said Lanty, with a most 
 eager and impassioned gesture ; " and now I leave it all to yourself." 
 
 " Is he to take the mare ?" asked Kerry, in anxious dread lest his 
 enemy might have carried the day. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, in a deep hollow voice, as the speaker turned 
 away and left the stable. 
 
 While Lanty was engaged in placing his saddle on his new purchase, 
 an operation in which Kerry contrived not to afford him any assistance 
 whatever, Mark O'Donoghue paced slowly to and fro in the court- 
 yard, with his arms folded, and his head sunk upon his breast ; nor 
 was he aroused from his reverie until the step of the horse was heard on 
 the pavement beside him. 
 
 " Poor Kittane," said he, looking up suddenly, " you were a great 
 pet : I hope they'll be as kind to you as I was ; and they'd better, too," 
 added he, half-savagely, " for you've a drop of the Celt in your blood, 
 and can revenge harsh treatment when you meet with it. Tell her 
 owner that she is all gentleness, if not abused, but get her tetnper once 
 up, and, by Jove, there's not a torrent on the mountain can leap as 
 madly ! She knows her name, too : I trust they'll not change that. She 
 was bred beside Lough Kittane, and called after it. See how she can 
 follow ;" and with that, the youth sprang forward, and placing his hand 
 on the top bar of a gate, vaulted lightly over ; but scarcely had he 
 reached the ground, when the mare bounded after him, and stood with 
 her head resting on his shoulder. 
 
 Mark turned an elated look on the others, and then surveyed the 
 noble animal beside him with all the pride and admiration of a master 
 regarding his handiwork. She was, indeed, a model of symmetry, and 
 well worthy of all the praise bestowed on her. 
 
 For a moment or two the youth gazed on her, with a flashing eye 
 and quivering lip, while the mare, catching excitement from the free air 
 of the morning, and the spring she had made, stood with swelled veins 
 and trembling limbs, his counterpart in eagerness. One spirit seemed 
 to animate both. So Mark appeared to feel it, as with a bound he 
 sprnng into the saddle, and with a wild cheer dashed forward. "With 
 
/ •. /* 
 
 -U'ff^-'j^^e^^-^^'iik-, 
 
 '_y//^y '^/"r/yz/'^^y^^y^ ''S'U/^?/^/': 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 31 
 
 lightning's speed they went, and in a moment disappeared from view. 
 Kerry jumped up on a broken gate-pier, and strained his eyes to catch 
 them, while Lanty, muttering maledictions to himself, on the hair- 
 brained boy, turned every where for a spot where he might view the 
 scene. 
 
 " There he goes," shouted Kerry ; "look at him now ; he's coming 
 to the furze ditch into the big field: see! see! she does not see the 
 fence ; her head's in the air. "Whew — elegant, by the mortial — ^never 
 touched a hoof to it ! — murther ! murther ! how she gallops in the deep 
 ground, and the wide gripe that's before her ! Ah, he won't take it ; 
 he's turning away." 
 
 " I wish to the Lord he'd break a stirrup-leather," muttered Lanty. 
 
 "Oh, Joseph!" screamed Kerry, "there was a jump — twenty feet 
 as sure as I'm living. Where is he now ? — I don't see him." 
 
 " May you never," growled Lanty, whose indignant anger had burst 
 all bounds : " that's not treatment for another man's horse." 
 
 " There he goes, the jewel ; see him in the stubble field ; sure it's a 
 real picture to see him going along at his ease. Whurroo — he's over 
 the wall. "What the devil's the matter now ? — they're away ;" and so 
 it was : the animal that an instant before was cantering perfectly in 
 hand, had now set off at top speed, and at full stretch. " See the 
 gate^mind the gate — Master Mark — tear-and-ages, mind the gate," 
 shouted Kerry, as though his admonition could be heard half a mile 
 away. "Oh! holy Mary! he's through it," and true enough — the 
 wild and now affrighted beast dashed through the frail timbers, and held 
 on her course, without stopping. " He's broke the gate to flitters." 
 
 "May I never, if I don't wish it was his neck," said Lanty, in open 
 defiance. 
 
 " Do you, then V* called out Kerry. " Why, then, as sure as my 
 name's Kerry O'Leary, if there's a hair of his head hurted, I'll " 
 
 What the threat was intended for, cannot be known ; for his eye once 
 more caught sight of his idol, and he yelled out— 
 
 " Take care of the sheep. Bad luck to ye for sheep, ye're always 
 in the way. That's the darHng — 'twas myself taught you to have a 
 hght hand. Ah, Kittane, you're coming to rayson now." 
 
 " The mare won't be worth sixpence," muttered Lanty. 
 
 "'Twas as good as a day's sport to me," said Kerry, wiping his brow 
 with the loose sleeve of his coat, and preparing to descend from the 
 elevation, for the young man now entered the distant part of the lawn, 
 and, at an easy canter, was returning to the stable-yard. 
 
 " There !" said Mark, as he flung himself from the saddle, " there 
 
^ THE O'OOMOQHVE. 
 
 Kittane, it's the last time you're likely to have a bold hurst of it, or 
 myself either, perhaps. She .touched her counter on that gate, Lanty ; 
 but she's nothing the worse of it." , 
 
 Lauty grumbled somei indistinct niutterings, as he wiped a blood 
 stain from the mare's chest, and looked sulkily at her heaving flanks 
 and sides reeking with foam and sweat. 
 
 " Tis a darling you wor," said Kerry, patting her over from her 
 mane to her hind quarters. 
 
 " Faix, that cut is ten pounds out of my pocket this morning, any- 
 how," said Lanty, as he pointed to the slight scratch from which a few 
 drops of blood still flowed. 
 
 " Are you off the bargain, then," said Mark sternly, as he turned his 
 head round ; for he was already leaving the spot. 
 
 " I didn't say so," was the answer. 
 
 For a second or two Mark seemed uncertain what reply to make, 
 and then, as if controlling his temper, he nodded carelessly, and with 
 a *'Good-by, Lanty," he sauntered slowly towards the house. 
 
 ""Well, Mr. O'Leary," said Lauty, in a voice of affected politeness. 
 Irishmen are occasionally very fond of employing when they intend 
 great self-respect, " may I trouble you to bring out that hack of mine." 
 
 " 'Tis a pleasure, Mr. Lawler, and no trouble in Hfe, av it helps to 
 get rid of you," responded Kerry, as he waddled off on the errand. 
 
 Lanty made no reply ; perhaps he felt the encounter unequal — ^perhaps 
 he despised his antagonist ; in any case, he waited patiently for Kerry's 
 appearance, and then, passing his arm within the bridle of each horse, 
 he slowly descended the avenue towards the high road. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 IMPBESSIONS OP IBELAND. 
 
 It was not without a feeling closely allied to disappointment, that Sir 
 Marmaduke Travers found the advent to his Irish estates uncelebrated 
 by any of those testimonies on the part of his tenantry, his agent, Cap- 
 tain Hemsworth, had often so graphically pictured before him. The 
 post-horses were suffered to drag his carriage unmolested to its destina- 
 tion ; there was no assemblage of people to welcome — not a bonfire to 
 hail his arrival. True,, he had come totally unexpectedly. The two 
 servants sent forward to prepare the lodge for his reception, only reached 
 there a single day before himself. But Sir Marmaduke had often taken 
 his Yorkshire tenants as much by surprise, and, there, he always found 
 a deputation, and a cortege of mounted yeomen. There were addresses, 
 and triumphal arches, and newspaper paragraphs, and all the innume- 
 rable but well-known accompaniments of those patronizing acts of con- 
 descension, which consist in the visit of a rich man to his own home. 
 Now, however, all was different. No cheering sounds broke the quiet 
 stillness of the deep valley. No troops of people on horseback or on 
 foot filled the glen. The sun set, calm and golden, behind the purple 
 hills, unscared by the lurid glow of a single bonfire. Save from an ap- 
 pearance of increased bustle, and an air of movement and stir around the 
 lodge itself, there was nothing to mark his coming. There, indeed, 
 servants were seen to pass and re-pass ; workmen were employed upon 
 the flower-garden and the shrubbery walks ; and all the indications of 
 care and attention to the villa and its grounds easily perceptible. Be- 
 yond these precincts, however, all was still and solitary as before. For 
 miles the road could be seen without a single traveller. The mountains 
 seemed destitute of inhabitants. The peaceful solemnity of the deep 
 glen, along which the cloud shadows moved slowly in procession, in- 
 creased the sense of loneliness, and Sir Marmaduke already began 
 to suspect, that this last trial of a residence would scarcely prove more 
 fortunate than the previous ones. 
 
 Age and wealth are uncomplying task-masters — ^habit and power en- 
 dure restraint with an ill grace. The old baronet was half angry with 
 himself for what he felt a mistake, and he could not forgive the country 
 
 D 
 
34 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 which was)the cause of it. He had come expressly to see and pronounce 
 for himself— to witness with his own eyes, to hear with his own ear&— 
 and yet' he knew not how it was, nothing revealed itself before him. 
 The very labourers who worked in the garden seemed imcommunicative 
 and shy. Their great respect and reverence he understood as a cautious 
 reserve. He must send for Hemsworth — there was nothing else for it. 
 Hemsworth was used to them, and could explain the mode of dealing 
 with them. Their very idioms required translating, and he could not 
 advance without an interpreter. 
 
 Not so his daughter. To her the scene had all the charm of ro- 
 mance. The lone dwelling beside the blue lake, the tall and peaked 
 mountains lost in the white clouds, the waving forest with its many a 
 tangled path, the bright islands that, gem-like, spangled the calm 
 surface of the water, realized many a poetic dream of her childhood, and 
 she felt that visionary happiness which serenity of mind, united to the 
 warm imagination of early life, alone can bestow. 
 
 It was a fairy existence to live thus secluded in that lonely valley, 
 where the flowers seemed to blossom for them alone ; for them, the 
 summer birds sang their roundelays, and the fair moon shed her pale 
 light over hill and stream, with none to mark her splendour save them- 
 selves. Not these thoughts alone filled her mind. Already had she 
 noticed the artless habits of the humble peasantry — their gratitude for 
 the slightest services, their affectionate greetings, the touching beauty of 
 their expressions, teeming with an imagery she never heard before. All 
 appealed to her mind with a very different force from what they ad- 
 dressed themselves with to her father's. Already she felt attracted by 
 the figurative eloquence, so popular a gift among the people. The warm 
 fervour of fancy she had believed the attribute of highly-wrought tem- 
 peraments only, she found here amid poverty and privation ; flashes of 
 bright wit broke from the gloom of daily suffering j and the fire which 
 gives life its energy, burned brightly amid the ashes of many an extin- 
 guished hope. These were features she was not prepared to meet among 
 a peasantry living in a wild unvisited district, and day by day they fas- 
 cinated her more strongly. 
 
 It was not entirely to the difference between father and daughter that 
 these varied impressions were owing. The people themselves assumed 
 a tone quite distinctive to each. Sir Marmaduke they had always heard 
 spoken of, as a stem-tempered man, whose severity towards his tenantry 
 was, happily, tempered by the personal kindness of the agent. Captain 
 Hemsworth constantly impressed them with the notion that all harsh 
 measures originated with his principal — the favours came from himself 
 
THE O'DONOGfHUE. 9i 
 
 ouly. The exactions of high rents, the rigorous prosecutions of the 
 law, he ever asserted were acts compulsory with him, but always repug- 
 nant to his own better feelings. Every little act of grace he accom- 
 panied by an assurance, that he *' hoped Sir Marmaduke might not hear 
 of it," as the consequences to himself might prove ruinous. In fact, he 
 contrived to mislead both parties^ in their estimate of each other; and their 
 first ac(juaintanceship, it could not be supposed, should dispel the illu- 
 sion. The peasantry, however, were the first' to discover the error: long 
 before Sir Marmaduke had made any progress in deciphering the mystic 
 symbols of their natures, they had read his from end to end. They 
 scanned him with powers of observation no other people in Europe can 
 compete with ; and while he was philosophizing about the combined 
 influence of their superstitions, their ignorance,* and their apathy to suf- 
 fering, they were accurately speculating on all the possible benefits which 
 might accrue from the residence amongst them, of so very kind-hearted, 
 but such a mere simpleton of a man as himself. 
 
 They listened with sincere pleasure — for they love any appeal to them- 
 selves — to the precepts he so liberally bestowed regarding " industry" and 
 "frugality;" nor did they ever make the reply, which was ready at every 
 lip, that industry cannot be practised without an occupation, nor fruga- 
 lity be pushed beyond the very borders of starvation. No; they 
 answered with a semblance of concurrence, — " True for you, sir ; the 
 devil a He in it — ^your honour knows it well." Or, when pushed home 
 by any argument against their improvidence, or recklessness, the ever- 
 present reply was — "Sure, sir, it's the will of God ;" a piece of fatalism, 
 that rescued them from many a difficulty, when no other aid was near. 
 
 " They are a simple set of people," said Sir Marmaduke, as he sat 
 at his breakfast in the small parlour of the lodge, which looked out 
 upon the glen. " Very ignorant, very barbarous, but easily led — I see 
 through them clearly." 
 
 " I like them greatly,' said his daughter ; " their gratitude knows no 
 bounds for the slightest services ; they have a kind of native courtesy, 
 so rare to find amongst a peasantry : how that poor fellow last night 
 wished to climb the cliff, where the eagle's nest is, because 1 foolishly 
 said I had never seen a young eagle." 
 
 "They are totally misunderstood," said Sir Marmaduke, senten- 
 tiously, rather following out the train of his own reflections, than noticing 
 the remark of his daughter ; "all one hears of their absurd reverence 
 for the priest, or the devoted adherence they practise towards the old 
 famiUes of the country, is mere nonsense. You heard how Dan laughed 
 this morning, when I joked with him about purgatory and the saints ; 
 
36 THE 0*D0N06HUE. 
 
 and what a droll description they gave of that queer household — the 
 chieftain — what is his name ? 
 
 " The O'Donoghue." 
 
 "Yes ; I never can remember it. No, no ; they are not so bigotted ; 
 they are merely uninformed. We shall soon see many changes among^ 
 them. I have written to Bradston about the plans for the cottages, 
 and also the design for a school-house ; and then, there's the chapel — 
 that reminds me I have not returned the priest's visit ; he was here the 
 day before yesterday.** 
 
 " If you Hke, we'll ride there ; I have heard that the glen is beau- 
 tiful higher up." 
 
 " I was just going to propose it ; that mare seems quiet enough : 
 Lawler says that she has been carrying a lady these last two years j will 
 vou try her?'"* 
 
 **I am longing to do so— I'm certain she is gentleness itself." 
 
 " Strange fellow that horse-dealer is, too," said the old gentleman m 
 half soliloquy. "In no other country in the universe would such a 
 mere simpleton have taken to the trade of a jockey ; he actually did not 
 know what price to ask for his horse ; he left it all to ourselves. He'd 
 soon finish his career in London, at that rate of going ; but what have 
 we got here — what in heaven's name is all this V cried he aloud, as he 
 suddenly rose from the table, and approached a small glass door that 
 opened upon the lawn. 
 
 The object which so excited his astonishment was an assemblage of 
 something more than a hundred poor people of every sex and age — from 
 infancy to dotage — seated on the grass, in a wide semicircle, and await* 
 ing the moment when he should issue forth. Every phase of human 
 misery, which want and wretchedness can bestow, was there. The 
 cheeks of some were pale and haggard with recent sickness ; others had 
 but a few tattered rags to cover them ; many were cripples, unable to 
 move without assistance. There was wan and sickly childhood, and 
 tremulous old age ; yet the tone of their voices showed no touch of sad- 
 ness ; they laughed and talked with all the seeming of light-heartedness ; 
 and many a droll and merry saying broke from that medley mass of suf- 
 fering and sorrow. The sudden appearance of Sir Marmaduke at the 
 door instantaneously checked all merriment^ and a solemn silence en- 
 sued, as he walked forth and stood in front of them. 
 
 " What do you want, my good people T* said he at length, as none 
 seemed disposed to open the proceedings. 
 
 Had their tongues been unlocked by the spell of a magician, the effect 
 could not have been more instantaneous — a perfect volley of speech foi- 
 
THE o'donoghue, 37 
 
 lowed, in which Sir Marmaduke in vain endeavoured to follow the words 
 of any single speaker. Their rapid utterance, their vehement gesticula- 
 tion, and a certain guttural mode of pronunciation, quite new to him, 
 made them totally unintelligible, and he stood confused, perplexed, and 
 confounded for several minutes, staring around on every side. 
 
 " Do, in heaven's name, be quiet," cried he at last ; " let one or two 
 only talk at a time, and I shall learn what you mean." 
 
 A renewal of the clamour ensued j but this time it was a general effort 
 to enforce silence — a process which eventuated in a far greater uproar 
 than before. 
 
 " Who, or what are you ?" cried Sir Marmaduke, at last losing all 
 temper, at the continuance of a tumult there seemed no prospect of 
 coming to an end. 
 
 "We're your honour's tenants, every one of us,'* shouted the crowd 
 with one voice. 
 
 " My tenants ! " reiterated he in horror and astonishment. "What ! 
 is it possible that you are tenants on my property ? Where do you 
 live, my poor old man ?" said he, addressing a venerable old fellow, with 
 a head as white as snow, and a beard like a patriarch's. 
 
 " He does not talk any English, your honour's worship — he has only 
 Irish i he lives in the glen beyond," said a comely woman at his side. 
 
 "And you, where do you come from yourself?'* 
 
 " I'm a poor widow, your honour, with six childer ; and sorra bit I 
 have, but the little garden, and the grass of a goat ; and sure, fifteen 
 shillings every half year is more nor I can pay, wid all the scrapin' 
 in Hfe." 
 
 Sir Marmaduke turned away'his head, and as he did so, his eye fell 
 upon a poor creature, whose bloated cheeks and swollen figure denoted 
 dropsy. The man interpreting the look into a compassionate inquiry, 
 broke forth in a feeble voice — " I brought the nine shillings with me, 
 yer honour ; and though the captain refused to take it, I'm sure you 
 won't turn me out of the little place, for being a trifle late. It's the 
 watery dropsy — glory be to God ! — I'm under ; but they say I'm get- 
 ting better." 
 
 While the poor creature spoke, a low muttering of pity burst from 
 those around him, and many a compassionate look, and many a cheering 
 word was expressed by those scarce less miserable than himself. 
 
 There was now a certain kind of order restored to the assembly ; and 
 as Sir Marmaduke moved along the line,' each in turn addressed his 
 supplication or complaint. One was threatened with a distress on his 
 pig, because he owed two half-years' rent, and could only pay a portion 
 
38 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 of the debt ; there was a failure in the potatoe crop« and a great 
 famine the consequence. Another was only recovering from the " shak- 
 ing ague," and begged, for time, since if he thrashed his oats, now, they 
 would bring nothing in the^market. A third entreated hberty to cut 
 his turf on a distant bog, as he was up to his knees in water, in the 
 place allotted to him. 
 
 Some came with odd shillings due on the last rent-day, and anxious 
 to get leave to send their children to the school without pajrment. 
 
 Every one had some favour to look for — some mere trifle to the 
 granter ; the whole world to him who asked — and, for these, many had 
 come miles away from homes far in the mountains ; a gUmmering hope 
 of succour, the only encouragement to the weary journey. 
 
 As Sir Marmaduke listened with a feigned composure to narratives, 
 at which his very heart bled, he chanced to observe a strange-looking 
 figure, in an old scarlet uniform, and a paper cap, with a cock's feather 
 stuck slantwise in the side of it. The wearer, a tall, bony youth, with 
 yellow hair, carried a long wattle over his shoulder, as if it were a gun, 
 and when the old baronet's eye fell upon him, he immediately stood bolt 
 upright, and held the sapling to his breast, like a soldier presenting 
 arms. 
 
 ** Shoulder hoo ! " he cried, and as the words were heard, a hearty burst 
 of laughter ran through the crowd ; every grief and sorrow was at once 
 forgotten ; the eyes wet with tears of sadness, were now moistened with 
 those of mirth ; and they laughed like those whose hearts had nevei 
 known suffering. 
 
 "Who is this fellow?" said Sir Marmaduke, half doubting how far 
 he might relish the jest like the others. 
 
 " Terry the Woods, your honour," replied a score of voices together. 
 
 " Terry the Woods !" repeated he, " and is Terry a tenant of mine ?" 
 
 " Faix, I am proud to say I am not," said Terry, grounding hisweapon, 
 and advancing a step towards him ; " divil a farthin* of rent I ever 
 paid, nor ever will. I do have] my health mighty well — glory be to 
 God ! — and sleep sound, and have good clothes, 'and do nothing for it ; 
 and they say I am a fool, but which of us is the greatest fool after all." 
 
 Another outbreak of laughter was only quelled by Sir Marmaduke 
 asking the reason of Terry's appearance there, that morning — ^if he had 
 nothing to look for. 
 
 " I just came to pay my respects,"_said Terry composedly, " to wish 
 you a welcome to the country. I thought that as you might be lading 
 the same kind of life as myself, we. wouldn't be bad companions, you 
 see, neither of us having muchon our hands ; and then," continued he, 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. ^ 
 
 as he took off his paper bonnet and made a deep reverence, " I wanted 
 to see the young lady there, for they tould me she was a born beauty.** 
 
 Miss Travers blushed. She was young enough to blush at a com* 
 pHment from such a source, as her father said laughingly — 
 
 " Well, Terry, and have they been deceiving you V 
 
 " No," said he, gravely, as with steady gaze he fixed his large blue 
 eyes on the fair features before him. " No — she is a purty crayture — 
 a taste sorrowful or so— but I like her all the better. I was the same 
 myself when I was younger.'* 
 
 Terry's remark was true enough. The young girl had been a listener 
 for some time to the stories of the people, and her face betrayed the sad 
 emotions of her heart. Never before had such scenes of human suffer- 
 ing been revealed before her — the tortuous windings of the poor man's 
 destiny, where want and sickness lie in wait for those whose happiest 
 hours are the struggles against poverty and its evils. 
 
 " I can show you the beautifullest places in the whole country," said 
 Terry, approaching Miss Travers, and addressing her in a low voice, "I'll 
 tell you where the white heath is growing, with big bells on it, Hke 
 cups, to hould the dew. Were you ever up over Keim-an-eigh ?" 
 
 " Never," said she, smiHng at the eagerness of her.questioner. 
 
 ** I'll bring you, then, by a short-cut, and you can ride the whole 
 way, and maybe we'll shoot an eagle — have you a gun in the house ?'* 
 
 " Yes, there are three or four," said she humouring him. 
 
 "And if I shoot him, I'll give you the wing-feathers — that's what 
 they always gave their sweethearts long ago • but them' times is gone 
 by." 
 
 The girl blushed deeply, as she remembered the present of young 
 O'Donoghue, on the evening they came up the glen. She called to mind 
 the air of diffidence and constraint in which he made the proffer, and 
 for some minutes paid no attention to Terry, who still, continued to 
 talk as rapidly as before. 
 
 " There, they are filing off," said Terry — " orderly time," as he once 
 more shouldered his sapling and stood erect. This observation was 
 made with reference to the crowd of poor people, whose names and 
 place of residence Sir Marmaduke having meanwhile written down, they 
 were now returning to their homes with happy and comforted hearts. 
 " There they go," cried Terry, " and an awkward squad they are." 
 
 "Were you ever a soldier, Terry?" said Miss Travers. 
 
 The poor youth grew deadly pale — the very blood forsook his lips, as 
 he muttered, " I was." Sir Marmaduke came up at the instant, and 
 Terry checked himself at once and said— 
 
40 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " Whenever you want me, leave word at Mary M*Kell/s, in the 
 glen below, and I'll hear of it." 
 
 " But don't you think you had better remain here with us ? you 
 could help in the garden and the walks." 
 
 " No ; I never do be working at all — I hate work." 
 
 "Yes, but easy work, Terry," said Miss Travis, "among the 
 flowers and shrubs here." 
 
 " No — I'd be quite low and sorrowful if I was to be staying in one 
 place, and maybe — maybe" — here he whispered so low, as only to be 
 heard by her — " maybe they'd find me out." 
 
 *'No; there's no fear of that," said she, "we'll take care no one 
 shall trouble you — stay here, Terry." 
 
 " Well, I believe I will," said he, after a pause, " I may go away 
 when I like." 
 
 " To be sure, and now let us see how you are to be lodged," said Sir 
 Marmaduke, who already, interested by that inexplicable feeling which 
 grows out of our pity for idiotcy, entered into his daughter's schemes 
 for poor Terry's welfare. 
 
 A small cottage near the boat-house on the verge of the lake, in- 
 habited by a labourer and his children, ofiPered the wished-for asylum, 
 and there Terry was at once installed, and recognised as a member of 
 the household. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "THE BLACK VALLEY." 
 
 Although deferred by the accidents of the morning, Sir Marma- 
 duke's visit to the priest was not abandoned, and at length, he and his 
 daughter set out on their excursion up the glen. Their road, after pur- 
 suing the highway for about two miles, diverged into a narrow valley, 
 from which there was no exit save by the mode in which it was entered. 
 Vast masses of granite rock, piled heap above heap, hutig as it were 
 suspended over their heads, the tangled honey-suckle falling in rich 
 festoons from these, and the purple arbutus glowing like grape-clusters 
 among the leaves. It was a mellow, autumnal day, when the warmth 
 of colouring is sobered down by massive shadows — the impress of the 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 41 
 
 clouds which moved slowly above. The air was hot and thick, and, 
 save when an occasional breeze came, wafted from the water, was even 
 oppressive. 
 
 The silence of the glen was profound — not a bird was heard, nor was 
 there in the vast expanse of air, a single wing seen floating. As they 
 rode, they often stopped to wonder at the strange but beautiful effects 
 of Hght that glided now slowly along the mountains — disappeared — 
 then shone again ; the giant shadows seeming to chase each other 
 through the dreary valley. Thus, sauntering along they took no note 
 of time, when at last the long low cottage, where the priest lived, 
 came in sight. It was an humble abode, but beautifully situated at the 
 bottom of the glen ; the whole valley lying expanded in front, with its 
 bright rivulet and its bold sides of granite. The cottage itself was little 
 better than that of a poor farmer; and save from the ornament of some 
 creepers, which were trained against the walls, and formed into a deep 
 porch at the entrance, differed in no respect from such. A few strag- 
 gling patches of cultivation, of the very rudest kind, were seen, here and 
 there, but all without any effort at fence or enclosure. Some wild fruit- 
 trees were scattered over the little lawn in front, if the narrow strip of 
 grass that flanked the river could be called such, and here, a small 
 Kerry cow was grazing, the only living thing to be seen. 
 
 A little well, arched over with pieces of rock, and surmounted by a 
 small wooden cross, stood close to the road-side, and the wild-thorn 
 that overshadowed it was hung on every side with small patches of rags 
 »f every colour and texture that human dress ever consisted of ; a sight 
 new to the eyes of the travellers, who knew not, that the shrine was 
 deemed holy, and the tree, the receptacle of the humble offering of 
 those, whose sorrows of mind and body came there for alleviation and 
 succour. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke dismounted and approached the door, which lay wide 
 open ; he knocked gently with his whip, and as no answer to his sum- 
 mons was returned, repeated it again and again. He now ventured to 
 call aloud, but no one came, and at last, both father and daughter began 
 to suspect there might be no one in the house. 
 
 " This is most strange,'' said he, after a long pause, and an effort to 
 peep in through the windows, half hid with honey-suckle. " The place 
 seems totally deserted. Let us try at the back, however." 
 
 As the old baronet wended his way to the rear of the cottage, he 
 muttered a half upbraiding against his daughter for not complying with 
 nis desire to have a groom along with them — a want, which now in- 
 creased the inconvenience of their position. She laughingly defended 
 
43 THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 herself against tlie charge, and at the same moment sprang down from 
 her saddle, to assist in the search. 
 
 " I certainly perceived some smoke from tne chimney as we came up 
 the glen, and there must have been some one here lately, at least," said 
 she, looking eagerly around on every side. 
 
 " This is indeed sohtude," muttered her father, as he hstened for 
 some minutes, during which the stillness had an effect most appalling. 
 
 "While he was speaking, IMiss Travers had drawn near to a low latticed 
 mndow which lay half open, and as she peeped in, immediately drew back, 
 and beckoned with her hand for her father to approach, intimating by 
 a cautious gesture that he should do so noiselessly. Sir Marmaduke came 
 stealthily to her side, and, leaning over her shoulder, looked into the 
 room. As both father and daughter exchanged glances, they seemed 
 with difficulty to refrain from laughing, while astonishment was strongly 
 depicted on the countenance of each. As they continued to gaze, their 
 first emotion gradually yielded to a look of intense interest at the scene 
 before them. 
 
 Seated beside the large turf fire of the priest's kitchen, for such it 
 was, was a youth of some fifteen or sixteen years. ;His figure, .Hght and 
 well proportioned, was clad in a fashion which denoted his belonging to 
 the better class, though neglect and time had made many an inroad on the 
 costume. His brow was lofty and delicately formed — the temples marked 
 with many a thin blue vein, which had given a look of delicacy to the 
 countenance, if the deep glow of health had not lit up his cheeks, and 
 imparted a bright lustre to his eyes. He held before him an open 
 volume, from which he declaimed rather than read aloud, as it seemed, 
 for the special delight and amusement of a small ragged urchin of 
 about nine years old — who, with bare legs and feet, was seated on a 
 Httle pyramid of turf, right opposite to him. 
 
 Well might Sir Marmaduke and his daughter feel surprise; the 
 volume was Homer, from which, with elevated voice and flashing eye, 
 the boy was reading — the deep-toned syllables ringing through the 
 low-vaulted chamber with a sweet but a solemn music. Contrasted with 
 the fervid eloquence of the youth, was the mute wonder and rapt at- 
 tention of the little fellow who Hstened. Astonishment, awe, and 
 eager curiosity, blended together in that poor httle face, every linea- 
 ment of which trembled with excitement. If a high soaring imagination 
 and elevated tone of thought were depicted in the one, the other, not 
 less forcibly realized the mute and trembling eagerness of impassioned 
 interest. 
 
 The youth paused for a few seconds, and seemed to be reflecting over 
 
THE O'dONOGHUE. ^ 
 
 what he read, when the boy, in an accent broken with anxiety, cried 
 out — 
 
 " Read it, again, Master Herbert. Oh, read it again. It's like the 
 cry of the big stag-hound at Carrignacurra," 
 
 " It is the language of the gods, Mickey — finer and grander than 
 ever man spoke," replied the youth with fervour. "Listen to this, here ;'* 
 and then, with solemn cadence he declaimed some twenty lines, while, 
 as if the words were those of an incantation, the little fellow sat spell- 
 bound, with clasped hands and staring eye-balls gazing before him. 
 
 " What does it mean, Master Herbert ? — what is it 1" said he, in 
 panting eagerness. 
 
 *' It's about a great hero, Mickey, that was preparing for battle. He 
 was putting on his armour, a coat and a cap of steel, and he was belting 
 on his sword." 
 
 *' Yes, yes," broke in the httle fellow, "and wasn't he saying how 
 he'd murther and kill all before him?" 
 
 " Eight enough," said the youth, laughing. " You guessed it well." 
 
 *' Ah, I knew it," said the boy. " I saw how you clenched your fist, 
 and your eyes wor shinin' like sparks of fire, and I knew it was darin' 
 them he was, in the book there. What did he do after. Master Herbert ? 
 Just tell me that, sir." 
 
 " He went out in his chariot " 
 
 " Say it like himself first, sir, av it's plazin' to ye," said he, with a 
 most imploring look of entreaty. "I do be glad to hear it out of the 
 book." 
 
 The youth, thus entreated, resumed the volume, and read on for se- 
 veral minutes without stopping. 
 
 " Oh, that's grand !" said the boy, in a burst of enthusiasm. " 'Tis 
 for all the world the way the thunder comes down the glen — moanin' 
 first, far off on the mountains, and then swellin* into a big roar, and 
 afterwards going clap ! clap ! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he 
 kill the inimy, master dear 1" 
 
 " No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over the battle- 
 field." 
 
 " Wirra, wirra, wirra l" broke in the child, while he rung his hands, 
 and burst forth into a torrent of tumultuous grief. 
 
 " He was killed, Mickey, and listen to the lament of his friends for 
 his death." 
 
 Scarcely had the youth read a few lines, when Sir Marmaduke, ad- 
 vancing a little farther, his shadow fell across the chamber. The youth 
 sprang up at once, and came towards them. The flush of surprise — ^it 
 
44 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 might be, too, of shame — ^was on his features ; biit there was less of 
 awkwardness than many might have exhibited in the manner of his 
 address, as he said — 
 
 " Father Luke is from home, sir. He has been sent for to Bally- 
 voumey " 
 
 " You are his relation, I presume V* said Sir Marmaduke, without 
 letting him finish his speech. 
 
 " I am hb pupil," replied the youth, with a tone in which offended 
 pride was clearly confessed. 
 
 " I ask pardon," said the baronet hastily. " It was merely that I 
 might convey my respectftil greetings to the worthy father that I asked 
 the question. Perhaps you will allow me to trespass so far upon you, 
 and say, that Sir Marmaduke Travers has been here." 
 
 "While Sir Marmaduke was speaking, the youth's eyes were fixed with 
 a steadfast gaze on the features of the young girl, of whose presence till 
 then he seemed unconscious. Fixed and earnest as his stare was, there 
 was nothing in it of rudeness, still less of insult. It was the unequi- 
 vocal expression of astonishment, the suddenly-awakened sense of ad- 
 miration in one, on whom, till that very instant, beauty had shed no fas- 
 cination. His eyes were bent upon her, as Sir Marmaduke thus finished 
 speaking, and the old man smiled as he saw the wonder-struck admira- 
 tion of the boy. 
 
 " You will please to say Sir Marmaduke Travers," repeated he once 
 more, to recall the scattered senses of the youth. 
 
 " And his daughter ?" murmured the other, as he still continued to 
 stare at her. 
 
 " Yes, his daughter," rephed Sir Marmaduke, smiling. " May 1 ask 
 if there be no shorter road back^ to * the Lodge," than that yonder ? 
 for I perceive it is full two hours later than I suspected.'* 
 
 " None for those on horseback. The mountain path lies yonder, but 
 even on foot it is not without danger.'* 
 
 " Come, then, Sybella ; let us lose no time. We must ride briskly, 
 to reach home by day-light. "We are late enough already." 
 
 " Too late, if you ride not very fast," replied the youth. " The rain 
 has fallen heavily on the mountains this afternoon. See that waterfall 
 pnder. I crossed it dry-shod at day-break, and now, it is a cataract. 
 This river rises rapidly, and in a single night's rain I have seen the 
 valley all one lake." 
 
 " "What are we to do tnen ?" cried Miss Travers, eagerly, for now she 
 felt self-reproach at her refusal to take a groom along with them, and 
 was'vexed with herself, as well as uneasy for her father. 
 
THE o'donoghub. 45 
 
 " Keep the left of the valley till you reach the tall black rock they 
 call * the Pulpit' — ^you know it, at least you mu£3t have seen it, as you 
 came along — then cross the stream, it will be fordable enough by that 
 time, and make the best of your way along under the cliffs, till you 
 arrive at the broken bridge — the two buttresses, I mean. Re-cross the 
 stream there, and gain the meadows, and in some hundred yards you 
 are safe upon the high road. Away then ; lose no more time, now ; a 
 minute is all the space between risk and safety ;" and with these words 
 he sprang forward, and lifted the young girl to her saddle, ere she had 
 time or forethought to decline the service. 
 
 " May we not know the name of our kind adviser ?" asked Sir Mar- 
 maduke, as he mounted his horse. 
 
 " Hark ! there it comes I* said the youth, pointing upwards to the 
 brow of a cHfF, over which a leaping torrent had just bounded. " The 
 mountain lakes are flooded, when Derrybahn is spouting. Away! away! 
 if you care for safety." 
 
 They turned their horses' heads as he spoke, and with a hasty " good 
 bye" they spurred forwards. Short as the time had been since they 
 travelled the same path, the scene was wonderfully changed ; the 
 placid stream that stole along, murmuring over its gravelly bed, now 
 rushed onward with a yellow current streaked with white foam ; the 
 tiny rivulets that came in slender drops upon the road-side, were now 
 become continuous streams of water, hurrying on to bear their tribute to 
 the river. The sky itself was black and louring, resting midway on 
 the mountains, or drifting past in heavy clouds, while no breeze was 
 stirring below. The many torrents as they fell, filled the air with a low 
 monotonous sound, like the noise of tree tops moved by a distant 
 storm. 
 
 " I thought I heard a voice calling to us," said Sir Marmaduke, as for 
 the first time they slackened their pace, to clear several loose stones 
 that obstructed the way — ",did you hear it ?" 
 
 " I half thought so, too," replied his daughter ; '* but I can see no 
 one near. There it is again 1 " 
 
 They halted and listened ; but the swelling uproar of the waterfalls 
 drowned every sound, and they spurred forward once more, fearing to 
 loiter longer ; yet, both as they went, thought they could trace the words, 
 " come back, come back ;" but from some strange dread of communi- 
 cating tears that might not be real, neither told the other. 
 
 " He said the left side of the valley ; bnt surely he mistook : see 
 how the water has gained here, and the opposite bank seems dry." 
 
 " Let us follow the advice, father/' cried Sybella, ^' we have no guid^ 
 
46 THE ODONOGHVU. 
 
 ance save his ; he could not — ^would not deceive us. Is it not grand j 
 with all its danger, I can admire it.'* 
 
 As she spoke, a tremendous clap of thunder hroke ahove their heads, 
 and made the valley tremhle with the sound, while, as if by the shock 
 the charged clouds were rent open, and the rain descended in torrents. 
 With the swooping gush of the ocean spray, storm-lashed and drifted, 
 the rain came down, wrapping in misty darkness every object around 
 them. And now, the swollen cataracts tore madly down the mountain 
 sides, leaping from crag to crag, and rending the clayey soil in deep 
 clefts and gashes. Again the thunder pealed out, and every echo sent 
 back the sound, till the whole glen vibrated with the deafening clamour. 
 Still they sped onward. The terrified horses strained every limb, and 
 dashing madly on — mid rock and rushing water they went, now, 
 clearing at a bound the course of some gushing stream — ^now, breasting 
 the beating rain with vigorous chest. 
 
 The storm increased ; the howling wind joined with the deep-toned 
 thunder into one long continuous roar, that seemed to shake the very 
 air itself. 
 
 "Yonder!" said the father, as he pointed to the tall dark pinnacle of 
 rock, known by the country people as " the Pulpit" — " yonder T* 
 
 Sybella strained her eye to see through the dense beating rain, and at 
 last caught sight of the huge mass, around whose summit the charged 
 clouds were flying. 
 
 " "We must cross the river in this place," said the old man, as he sud- 
 denly checked his horse, and looked with terrified gaze on the swollen 
 stream that came boiling and foammg over to where they stood, with 
 branches of trees and fragments of rock rolling onward in the tide. 
 " The youth told us of this spot." 
 
 *«^Let us not hesitate, father," cried the young girl, with a tone of 
 firm, jresolute daring she had not used before— " remember what he 
 said, a minute may save or ruin us. Great heaven ! what is that V* 
 
 A terrific shriek followed her words, and she fell with her head upon 
 her horse's mane ; a broad flash of lightning had burst from a dark 
 doud, and came with vivid force upon her eyeballs. 
 
 «* Father, dear father, my sight is gone," she screamed aloud, as 
 lifting up her head she rubbed the orbs now paralyzed by the shock. 
 
 "My child, my child!" cried the old man, with the piercing shriek of 
 a breaking heart ; " look on me, look towards me. Oh, say that you 
 can see me, now — ^my brain is turning." 
 
 "Oh God, I thank thee 1" said the terrified girl, as once more her 
 ^sion was restored, and, dimly, objects began to form themselves before 
 her. 
 
THE O'DONOGHtJE. ^ 47 
 
 With bare head and upturned eyes, the aged man looked up, and 
 poured forth his prayer of thankfulness to heaven. The raging storm 
 beat on his brow unfelt ; his thoughts were soaring to the Throne of 
 Mercies, and knew not earth, nor all its sorrows. 
 
 A clap of thunder at the moment broke from the dense cloud above 
 them, and then, in quick succession, like the peahng of artillery, came 
 several more, while the forked lightning shot to and fro, and at last, as if 
 the very earth was riven to its centre, a low booming sound was heard 
 amid the clouds ; the darkness grew thicker, and a crash followed that 
 shook the ground beneath them, and splashed the wild waves on every 
 side. The spray sprung madly up, while the roaring of the stream grew 
 louder; the clouds swept past, and the tall Pulpit rock was gone! 
 Struck by lightning, it had rolled from its centre, and fallen across the 
 river, the gushing waters of which poured over it in floods, and fell in 
 white sheets of foam and spray beyond it. 
 
 ** God is near us, my child," said the old man with fervour ; '''let us 
 onward." 
 
 Her streaming eyes turned on him one look of affection — the em- 
 blem of a heart's love — and she prepared to follow. 
 
 To return was now impossible, the river had already extended the 
 whole way across the valley in the rear ; the only chance of safety lay 
 in front. 
 
 " Keep by my side, dearest," said the father, as he rode first into the 
 stream, and tried to head the terrified animal against the current. 
 
 " I am near you, father, fear not for me," said she firmly, her bold 
 heart nerved to the danger. 
 
 For some seconds the affrighted horses seemed rooted to the earth, 
 and stood amid the boiling current as if spell-bound ; a fragment of a 
 tree, however, in its course, struck the flank of the leading horse, and 
 he sprung madly forward, followed by the other. Now, breasting the 
 stream — ^now, sinking to the mane beneath it, the noble beasts strug- 
 gled fiercely on till near the spot, where the Pulpit-rock had left a space 
 between it and the opposite bank, and here, a vast volume of water now 
 poured along unchecked by any barrier. 
 
 " To my side — near me, dearest — ^near me," cried the father, as his 
 horse dashed into the seething flood and simk above the crest be- 
 neath it. 
 
 " I cannot, father — I cannot," screamed the affrighted girl, as with a 
 bound of teiTor her horse sprang back from the chasm, and refused 
 to follow. The old man heard not the words — the current had swept 
 him far down into the stream, amid the rent branches and the rolling 
 
48 ^ THE o'donoghue. 
 
 Tocks — " My child, my child," the only accents heard above the raging 
 din. 
 
 Twice did the heroic girl try to face the current, but in vain — the 
 horse plunged wildly up and threatened to fall back, when suddenly 
 through the white foam a figure struggled on and grasped the bridle at 
 the head ; next moment, a man leaped forward and was breasting the 
 surge before her — 
 
 " Head the stream — head the stream if you can," cried he, who still 
 held on, while the wild waves washed over him ; but the poor horse, 
 rendered unmanageable through fear, had yielded to the current, and 
 was now each moment nearing the cataract. 
 
 " Cling to me, now," cried the youth, as with the strength of despe- 
 ration he tore the girl from the saddle, while with the other hand 
 he grasped an ash bough that hung drooping above his head. As he did 
 so, the mare bounded forward — the waves closed over her, and she was 
 carried over the precipice. 
 
 "Cling fast to me, and we are safe," cried the youth, and with vigorous 
 grasp he held on the tree, and thus supported, breasted the stream and 
 reached the bank. Exhausted and worn out, both mind and body 
 powerless, they both fell senseless on the grass. 
 
 The last shriek of despair broke from the father's heart as the horse, 
 bereft of rider, swept past him in the flood. The cry aroused the faint- 
 ing girl ; she half rose to her feet and called upon him. The next mo- 
 ment they were locked in each other's arms. 
 
 " It was he who saved me, father," said she in accents broken with 
 joy and sorrow ; " he risked his life for mine." 
 
 The youth recovered consciousness as the old man pressed him to 
 his heart. 
 
 "Is she safe ?" were the first words he said as he stared around him 
 vaguely, and then, as if overcome, he fell heavily back upon the sward. 
 A joyous cheer broke forth from several voices near, and at the 
 instant, several country people were seen coming forward, with Terry 
 at their head. 
 
 " Here we are — ^here we are, and in good time too," cried Terry -, 
 "and if it wasn't that you took a fool's advice, we'd have gone the 
 other road. The carriage is in the glen, my lady," said he, kneeling 
 down beside Sybella, who still remained clasped in her father's arms. 
 
 By this time, some of Sir Marmaduke's servants had reached the spot, 
 and by them the old man and his daughter were assisted toward the 
 high road, while two others carried the poor youth, by this time total^ 
 jmable to make the least exertion. 
 
THE O'dONOGHUE. 49 
 
 " This brave boy — this noble fellow," said Sir Marmaduke, as he 
 stooped to kiss the pale high forehead, from which the wet hair hung 
 backwards — " Can no one tell me who he is V* 
 
 " He's the young O'Donoghue," replied a half dozen voices together ; 
 "a good warrant for courage or bravery any day." 
 
 " The O'Donoghue !" repeated Sir Marmaduke, vainly endeavouring 
 in the confusion of the moment to recall the name, and where he had 
 heard it. 
 
 *' Ay, the O'Donoghue," shouted a coarse voice near him, as a new 
 iigure rode up on a small mountain pony. " It oughtn't to be a strange 
 name in these parts. Rouse yourself. Master Herbert, rouse up, my 
 child — sure it isn't a wettin' would cow you this way ?" 
 
 *^What! Kerry, is this you?" said the youth faintly, as he looked 
 around him with half-closed eyelids. " Where's my father?'* 
 
 " Faix, he's snug at the parlour fire, my darlin', where his son ought 
 to be, if he wasn't turning guide on the mountains, to the enemy of his 
 kith and kin." 
 
 These words were said in a whisper, but with an energy that made 
 the boy start from the arms of those who bore him. 
 
 " Here's the pony. Master Herbert, get up on him, and be off at 
 once ; sure there isn't a blackguard there, with lace on liis coat, wouldn't 
 be laughing at your old clothes when the light comes." 
 
 Sir Marmaduke and his daughter were a few paces in advance as these 
 words were spoken, the old baronet giving directions for bestowing 
 every care and attention on one he deemed his guest. 
 
 The boy, ashamed and offended both, yielded to the counsel, and 
 suffered himself to be placed upon the saddle. 
 
 "Now, then, hould fast, and I'll guide him," said Kerry, as elbow- 
 ing the crowd right and left, he sprung forward at a run, and in less 
 than a minute had disappeared in the darkness. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke became distracted at the loss of his benefactor, and 
 message after message was despatched to bring him back, but all in 
 vain ; Kerry and his pony had already gained so much in advance, none 
 could overtake them. 
 
 "To-morrow then, my child," said Sir Marmaduke, "to-morrow 
 will, I hope, enable me to speak my gratitude, though I shall not sleep 
 well to-night — I never rested with so heavy a debt unpaid before." 
 
 And with these words^they slowly wended their way homewards 
 
50 THE o'DONOOVtra. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn 
 
 ••sib archy'b temper tried.' 
 
 It was strange that, although the old man and hi« tender daughter 
 should have sustained no other ill results from their adventure, than the 
 terror which even yet dwelt on their minds, the young and vigorous 
 youth, well trained to every accident of flood or field, felt it most 
 seriously. 
 
 The exertions he made to overtake Sir Marmaduke and his daughter, 
 followed by the struggle in the swollen stream, had given such a shock 
 to his frame, that ere day broke the following morning, he was in a 
 fever. The mental excitement conspiring with fatigue and exhaus- 
 tion, had brought on the symptoms of his malady with such rapidity, 
 that it was evident, even to the unaccustomed observers around him, his 
 state was precarious. 
 
 Sir Archibald was the first person at the sick youth's bed-side. The 
 varied fortunes of a long life, not devoid of its own share of vicissitude, 
 had taught him so much of medical skill, as can give warning of the 
 approach of fever ; and as he felt the strong and frequent pulse, and 
 saw the flushed and almost^ swollen features before him, he recog- 
 nized the commencement ,of severe and dangerous illness. 
 
 Vague and confused images of the previous night's adventure, or 
 visions of the dark valley and the tempest, occupied all the boy's 
 thoughts ; and though he endeavoured, when spoken to, to preserve 
 coherency and memory, the struggle was unavailing ; and the imme- 
 diate impression of a question past, his mind wandered back to the 
 theme which filled his brain. 
 
 " How was it then ?" said Sir A^chy, who, as he sat beside the sick 
 bed, questioned the youth about his adventure. " You said something 
 of a horse ?" 
 
 " Yes ; she was riding. Oh, how bravely she rode too ! It was fine 
 to see her as the spray fell over her Hke a veil, and she shook the drop? 
 from her hair." 
 
 ""Whence came she? Who was the lady V 
 
 ** Take care — take care," said the youth in a solemn whisper, and 
 with a steadfast look before him ; *' Derrybahn has given warning — the 
 
THE o'dONOGHUEo 51 
 
 storm is coming. It is not for one so tender as you to tempt the river 
 of the black valley." 
 
 " Be still, my boy," said the old man ; " you must not speak thus ; 
 your head will ache if you take not rest — keep quiet." 
 
 **Yes; my head, my head," muttered he vaguely, repeating the 
 words which clinked upon his mind. " She put her arm round my 
 
 neck There — there," cried he, starting up wildly in his bed, 
 
 " catch it — seize it — my feet are slipping — the rock moves — I can hold 
 no longer ; there — there," and with a low moaning sigh he sunk back 
 fainting on the pillow. 
 
 Sir Archibald applied all his efforts to enforce repose and rest ; and 
 having partially succeeded, hastened to the O'Donoghue's chamber, to 
 confer with the boy's father on what steps should be taken to procure 
 medical aid. 
 
 It was yet some hours earlier than the accustomed time of his wak- 
 ing, as the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering 
 between the curtains of his bed. 
 
 *' Well, what is it ?" said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. 
 " Has Gubbins issued the distress ? Are the scoundrels going to sell 
 us out?" 
 
 " No, no ; It is another matter brings me here," repHed M*Nab, 
 with a gravity even deeper than usual. 
 
 " That infernal bond ! By God, I knew it ; it never left my dreams 
 these last three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn't 
 take the interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money." 
 
 "Dinna fash about these things now," said M*Nab with impatience^ 
 "It's that poor callant, Herbert — he's very ill — it's a fever he's caught. 
 I'm thinking." 
 
 " Oh, Herbert !" said O'Donoghue, with a tone of evident relief, 
 that his misfortunes had taken any other shape than the much- 
 dreaded one of money-calamity. " What of him 1" 
 
 " He's in a fever ; his mind is wandering already." 
 
 " Not a bit of it ; it's a mere \vi:tting — a common cold : the boy fell 
 into the river last night at the old bridge there ; Kerry told me some- 
 thing about it ; and so, maybe, Mark may reach Cork in good time 
 after all." 
 
 ** I am no' speaking of Mark just now," said M *Nab tartly, " but of 
 the 'other lad, wha may be dangerously ill, if something be nae done 
 quickly." 
 
 " Then, send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a norse and 
 ride over to Killarnev. Oh! I was forgetting ; let a fellow go off on 
 
52 THE 0*O0N0GHUB. 
 
 foot, he'll get there before evening. It is confoundedly hard to havi 
 nothing in the stables, even to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may 
 be able to manage matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as 
 much as I do myself." 
 
 Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this rambhng reply. 
 Long before it was over, he was half-way down stairs in search of a safe 
 messenger to despatch to Killarney for Doctor Roach, muttering be- 
 tween his teeth as he went — 
 
 " We hae nae muckle chance of the docter if we canna send the 
 siller to fetch liim, as weel as the flunkie. Eh, sirs ? — he's a cannie 
 chiel, is auld Roach, and can smell a fee as soon as scent a fever," and 
 with this sensible reflection he proceeded on his way. 
 
 Meanwhile the O'Donoghue himself had summoned energy enough to 
 slip on an old and ragged dressing-gown, and a pair of very unlocomotive 
 slippers, with which attired, he entered the sick boy's room. 
 
 "Well, Herbert, lad," said he, drawing the curtains back, and suffering 
 the grey light to fall on the youth's features, "what is the matter? 
 your imcle has been routing me up with a story about you." 
 
 He ceased suddenly, as his eyes beheld the change a few hours had 
 wrought in the boy's appearance. His eyes, deep-buried in their 
 orbits, shone with an unnatural lustre — his cheeks were pale and sunken, 
 save where a bright patch of florid red marked the centre of each ; his 
 lips were dry and shrivelled, and had a slight tremulous motion, as if he 
 were muttering to himself. 
 
 ** Poor fellow," said the father, " how dreadfully ill he looks. Have 
 you any pain, my boy?" 
 
 The boy knew the voice, and recognized the kindly accent, but could 
 not hear or understand the words ; and as his eyes glistened with de- 
 light, he stole his burning hand from beneath the bed-clothes, and held 
 it out, all trembhng, towards his father. 
 
 ** How sudden this has been : you were quite well last night, Herbert." 
 
 " Last night !" echoed the boy, with a strange emphasis on the only 
 words he had caught up. 
 
 " No, by the way, it was the night before I mean. I did not see 
 you last night ; but, cheer up, my dear boy ; we've sent for Roach — he'll 
 put you to rights at once. I hope Mark may reach home before the 
 doctor goes. I'd like to hare his advice about that strain in the back." 
 
 These last words were uttered in soliloquy, and seemed to flow from a 
 train of thought very different from that arising from the object before 
 him. Sunk in these reflections, he drew near the window, which looked 
 out upon the old court-yard behind the house, and where now a very 
 
 I 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 53 
 
 considerable crowd of Beggars had assethbled to collect the akns usually 
 distributed each morning from the kitchen. Each was provided with an 
 ample canvas bag, worn over the neck by a string, and capable of con- 
 taining a sufficiency of meal or potatoes, the habitual offering, to sup- 
 port the owner for a couple of days at least. They were all busily 
 engaged in stowing away the provender of various sorts and kinds, as 
 luck, or the preference of the cook, decided, laughing or grumbling 
 over their portions, as it might be, when Sir Archibald M'Nab hurriedly 
 presented himself in the midst of them — an appearance which seemed 
 to create no pecuhar satisfaction, if one were to judge from the increased 
 alacrity of their movements, and the evident desire they exhibited to 
 move off. 
 
 The ^O'Donoghue laughed as he witnessed the discomfiture of the 
 ragged mob, and let down the window-sash to watch the scene. 
 
 '' 'Tis going we are ; God be good to us !"■ 
 
 " Ye needn't be cursing that way,*' said an old hag, with a sack on 
 her back, large enough to contain a child. 
 
 " Eyah ! the Lord look down on the poor," said a little fat fellow, with 
 a flannel night-cap and stockings without any feet ; " there's no pity 
 now at all, at all." 
 
 "gThe heavens be your bed, any way," said a hard-featured little wo- 
 man, with an accent that gave the blessing a very different signification 
 from the mere words, 
 
 " Blessed Joseph ! sure it isn't robbers and thieves we are, that ye 
 need hunt us out of the place." 
 
 Such were the exclamations on every side, intermingled with an 
 undergrowl of the *' Scotch naygur" — " the ould scrape-gut," and other 
 equally polite and flattering epithets. 
 
 " This is no' a place for ye, ye auld beldames and blackguards ; awa 
 wi' ye — awa wi' ye at once." 
 
 "Them's the words ye' 11 hear in heaven yet, darlint,'* "said an old 
 fiend of a woman with one eye, and a mouth garnished .by a single tooth. 
 " Them's the verywords St. Peter will spake to yourself." * 
 
 " Begorra, he'll not be strange in the other place anyhow," muttered 
 another. " 'Tis there he'll meet most of his countrymen." 
 
 This speech was the signal for a general outbursfof laughter. 
 
 "Awa wi ye, ye ragged deevils ; ye'r a disgrace to a Christian country.' 
 
 " Throth we wear breeches an us," said an 'old fellow on crutches ; 
 " and sure I hear that's more nor they do, in the parts your honour comes 
 from." 
 
 Sir Arch/s passion boiled over at this new indignity. He ..stormed 
 
m THB O DONOGHTrE 
 
 and swore, with all the impetuous rage of one beside himself with pas- 
 sion i but the effect on his hearers was totally lost. The only notice 
 they took was an occasional exclamation of — 
 
 " There it Js now ! Oh, blessed father I hear what he says ! Oh, 
 holy mother! isn't he a terrible man ?*'— comments by no means 
 judiciously adapted to calm his irritation. Meanwhile symptoms o* 
 evacuating the territory were sufficiently evident. Cripples were taken 
 on the backs and shoulders of their respective friends ;? sacks and 
 pouches were slung over the necks. Many* a preparatory shake of the 
 rags showed that the wearer was getting ready for the road, when Sir 
 Archy, suddenly checking himself in the full torrent of his wrath, cried 
 out — 
 
 " Bide a wee — stay a mmit, ye auld beasties — I hae a word to say to 
 some amang ye," 
 
 The altered tone of voice in which he spoke seemed at once to have 
 changed the whole current of popular feeling j for now they all chimed 
 in with — 
 
 " Arrah, he's a good man after all ; sure 'tis only a way he has** — 
 sentiments which increased in fervency as Sir Archibald took a tolerably 
 well-filled purse from his pocket, and drew out some silver into his 
 hand, many exclaiming — 
 
 " 'Tis the kind heart often has the hard word; and sure ye can see in 
 his face he isn't cruel.' 
 
 " Hear till me," cried Sir Archy aloud, as he held up a shilling 
 before their wistful eyes, "there's mony a ane among ye, able to earn 
 s iller. ^ Which o' ye now will step down to Killamey, and tell the 
 docter,^he's wanted up here wi a* despatch? Ye maun go fast and 
 bring him, or send him^here to-night ; and if ye do, I'll gie ye this 
 piece o' siller money when ye come back." 
 
 A general groan from that class whose age and infirmities placed 
 them out of the reach of competitorship, met this speech, while from 
 the more able section, a not less unequivocal expression of discontent 
 broke forth. 
 
 " Down to Killamey 1" cried one ; " begorra, I wonder ye didn't say 
 Kenmare when ye war about it — the devil a less than ten miles it is." 
 
 " Eyah ! I'll Uke to see my own four bones going the same road ; 
 sorra a house the whole way where there's a drop of milk or a pratie." 
 
 ** That's ^the charity to the poor, I suppose," said the fat fellow ot 
 the night-cap. " 'Tis wishing it I am, the same charity." 
 
 " We wor to lirmg the doctor on our back, I hope," said a cripple in 
 a bowl* 
 
"■■•"" " 55 
 
 •* Did ever man hear or see the like o' this ?" exclaimed M'Nab, as 
 with upHfted hands he stared in wonderment around him. "One 
 wad na believe it." 
 
 " True for you, honey,'* joined in one of the group. " I'm fifty-three 
 years on the road, and I never heerd of any one askin' us to do a hand's 
 turn, afore." 
 
 "Out of my sight, ye worthless ne'er-do-weels ; awa wi ye at once 
 and for ever. I'U send twenty miles round the country, but I'll hae a 
 mastiff here, 'ill worry the first o' ye that dares to come near the house." 
 
 " On my conscience, it will push you hard to find a wickeder baste 
 nor yourself." 
 
 " Begorra, he won't be uglier any how." 
 
 And with these comments, and the hearty laughter that followed, the 
 tattered and ragged group defiled out of the yard with all the honours of 
 war, leaving Sir Archy alone, overwhelmed with astonishment and anger. 
 
 A low chuckling laugh, as the sash was closed over head, made him 
 look up, and he just caught a glimpse of O'Donoghue as he retired 
 from the window ; for in his amusement at the scene, the old man for- 
 got the sick boy and all about him, and only thought of the ridiculous 
 interview he had witnessed. 
 
 " His ain father — his ain father !" muttered Sir Archy, as with his 
 brows contracted and his hands clasped behind his back, he ruminated 
 in sadness on all he saw. " What brings ye back again, ye lazy scoun- 
 drels ? How dare ye venture in here again ?" 
 
 This not over-courteous interrogatory was addressed to poor Terry the 
 Woods, who, followed by one of Sir Marmaduke's footmen, had at that 
 instant entered the yard. 
 
 "What for, are ye come, I say? and what's the flunkie wanting be- 
 side ye?" 
 
 Terry stood thunderstruck at the sudden outbreak of temper, and 
 turned at once to the responsible individual, to whom he merely acted 
 as guide, to make a reply. 
 
 " And are ye tramping it too ?" said M*Nab, with a sneering accent 
 as he addressed the footman. " Methinks ye might hae a meal's meat 
 out o' the goold lace on your hat, and look mair like a decent Chris- 
 tian afterwards. Ye'r out of place maybe." 
 
 These last words were dehvered in an irony, to which a tone of in- 
 creduHty gave all the sting ; and these only were intelligible to the 
 sleek and well-fed individual to whom they were addressed. 
 
 In all hkelihood, had he been charged with felony or highway 
 robbery, his self-respect might have sustained his equanimity ; any 
 
56 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 common infraction of the statute-law might have been alleged against 
 him without exciting an undue indignation ; but the contemptuous in- 
 sinuation of being " out of place" — that domestic outlawry, was more 
 than human endurance could stomach; nor was the insult more 
 palatable coming from one he believed to be a servant himself. It was 
 therefore with the true feeling of outraged dignity he replied — 
 
 " Not exactly out of place jest 'now, friend ; though, if they don't 
 treat you better than your looks show, I'd recommend you trying for a 
 new situation." 
 
 Of a verity, Sir Archibald's temper was destined to sore trials that 
 morning ; but this was a home thrust, for which no forethought could 
 have prepared him. 
 
 " I hope I am no' going to lose my senses," said he, as he pressed 
 his hands on either side of his temples. " May the Lord keep me from 
 that worst of a* human calamities." 
 
 This pious wish, uttered with real, unfeigned fervency, seemed to act 
 like a charm upon the old man's temper, as though the very appeal had 
 suggested a calmer and more patient frame of mind. It was, then, with 
 all the dignity of his natural character, when unclouded by momentary 
 flashes of passion, that he said — 
 
 " What may be your errand here this morning ?" 
 
 Few and simple as the words were, there was that in their quiet, 
 unassuming delivery, which in a second recalled the footman to a full 
 consciousness of his impertinent mistake. He saw at once the im- 
 measurable gulph, impassible to any effort of assumption or insolence, 
 which separated them, and with the ready tact of his calling, he 
 respectfully took off his hat, and held forth a sealed letter, without one 
 word of reply or apology. 
 
 Sir Archibald put on his spectacles, and having carefully read the 
 superscription, turned back towards the house without speaking. 
 
 " Here is a letter for you, O'Donoghue," said he, as he entered the 
 parlour where the chief was already seated at his breakfast, whfle 
 Kerry O'Leary, a short distance behind his chair, was relating the cir- 
 cumstances of the last night's adventure. | 
 
 " Is it from Mark ?" said the old man eagerly ; and then glancing at ' 
 the writing, he threw it from him in disappointment, and added, " I 
 am getting very uneasy about that lad." 
 
 " Had ye no' better read the letter ; the messenger wha brought it 
 seems to expect an answer," interposed M'Nab. 
 
 "Messenger! — eh — ^not by post? Is Hemsworth come back?'* 
 exclaimed O'Donoghue, with an evidemt degree of fear in his manner*. 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 37 
 
 " No, sir," said Kerry, guessing to what topic his master's thoughts 
 were turning ; "the Captain is not coming, they say, for a month or 
 six weeks yet.'* 
 
 " Thank Grod," muttered O'Donoghue ; " that scoundrel never leaves 
 me a night's rest, when I hear he's in the neighbourhood. Will you 
 see what's in it, Archy ? — my head is quite confused this morning ; I 
 got up three hours before my time." 
 
 Sir Archibald resumed his spectacles, and broke the seal. The con- 
 tents were at some length it would seem, for as he perused the letter 
 to himself, several minutes elapsed. 
 
 " Go on, Kerry," said O'Donoghue ; " I want to hear all about this 
 business." 
 
 " "Well, I believe your honour knows the most of it now ; for when 
 I came up to the glen, they were all safe over, barrin' the mare ; poor 
 Kittane, she was carried down the falls, and they took her up near a 
 mile below the old bridge, stone dead ; Master Mark will fret his heart 
 out when he hears it." 
 
 " This is a very polite note," interposed Sir Archy, as he laid the 
 letter open before him, "from Sir Marmaduke Travers, begging to 
 know when he may be permitted to" pay his personal respects to you, 
 and express his deep and grateful sense — his own words — of your son's 
 noble conduct in rescuing his daughter at the hazard of his life. It 
 is written with much modesty and good sense, and the writer canna 
 be other than a true gentleman." 
 
 " Travers — Travers," repeated O'Donoghue ; " why that's the man 
 himself. It was he bought the estate ; he's Hemsworth's principal." 
 
 "And if he be," replied M'Nab, " canna an honest man ha'e a bad 
 servant? There's nothing about Hemsworth here. It's a ceevil de- 
 mand from one gentleman to anither." 
 
 " So it is, then, Sir Marmaduke, that has been staying at the lodge 
 these some weeks past. That was Mark's secret — poor dear boy, he 
 wouldn't tell me, fearing it would annoy me. Well, what is it he wants." 
 
 " To visit you, O'Donoghue." 
 
 "What nonsense; the mischief's done already. The mortgage is 
 foreclosed ; and as for Carrignacurra, they can do nothing before the 
 next term ; Swaby says so, at least." 
 
 " Can ye no' comprehend. It is no law document ; but a ceevil way 
 to make your acquaintance. Sir Marmaduke wad pay his respects to ye." 
 
 **Well, let him come," said O'Donoghue, laughing; "he's sure to find 
 me at home. The sheriff takes care of that for him. Mark will be 
 here to-morrow or next day ; I hope he won't come before that." 
 
56 THK o'donoghve. 
 
 " The answer must be a written one," said M'Nab ; " it wad na be 
 polite to gie the flunkie the response*'* 
 
 *'"With all my heart, Archy, so that I am not asked to indite it. 
 IVIiles O'Donoghue are the only words I have written for many a 
 year" — and he added, with a half bitter laugh — " it would haTe been as 
 well for poor Mark, if I had forgotten even that same." 
 
 Sir Archibald retired to write the answer, with many a misgiving 
 as to the substance of the epistle ; for while deeply gratified at heart, 
 that his favourite, Herbert, had acquitted himself so nobly, his own 
 pride was mortified, as he thought over the impressions a visit to the 
 O'Donoghue household might have on the mind of a " haughty South- 
 ern," for such in his soul he believed him. 
 
 There was no help for it, however ; the advances were made in a 
 spirit so very respectful, every line breathed such an evident desire, on 
 the writer's part, to be well received, that a refusal, or even a formal 
 acceptance of the proffered visit, was out of the question. His reply, 
 then, accepted the intended honour, with a profession of satisfaction ; 
 apologising for his omission in calling on Sir Marmaduke, on the score 
 of ill health, and concluded by a few words about Herbert, for whom 
 many inquiries were made in the letter. This, written in the clear, but 
 quaint, old-fashioned characters of the vmter*s time, and signed, 
 " O'Donoghue," was carefully folded, and enclosed in a large square 
 envelope, and with it in his hand, M 'Nab re-entered the breakfast room. 
 " "Wad you hke to hear the terms of the response, O'Donoghue, 
 before I seal it up ?" asked Sir Archy, with an air of importance. 
 
 " No, no ; I am sure if s all right and proper. You mentioned, of 
 course, that Mark was from home, but we were expecting him back 
 every day." 
 
 " I didna make ony remark o' that kind. I said ye wad be happy 
 to see him, and felt proud at the honour of making acquaintance wi' 
 him." 
 
 " Damn me if I do, then, Archy," broke in the old man roughly. " For 
 so great a stickler for truth as yourself, the words were somewhat out 
 of place. I neither feel pride nor honour on the subject. Let it gc 
 however, and there's an end to it." 
 
 " I've despatched a messenger for Roach to Ballamey ; that bit of 
 brainless body, Terry, is gone by the mountain road, and we may e 
 pect the docter here to-night ;" and with these words, Sir Archy 
 departed to send off his epistle ; and the O'Donoghue leaned back in 
 hi3 easy chair, sorely wearied and worried by the fatigues of the day. 
 
THK O DONOGHFVa 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IH» HOUSK OF SICKITEBS. 
 
 How painftJly is the sense of severe illness diffused through every part 
 of a household. How solemn is the influence it sheds on every indivi- 
 dual, and every ohjeet ; the noiseless step, the whispered words, the 
 closed curtains, the interruption to the ordinaiy avocations of hfe, or 
 the performance of them in gloom and sadness. When wealth and its 
 apphances exist, these things take all the features of extreme care and 
 sohcitude for the sufferer ; all the agencies of kindness and skill are 
 brought into active exertion, to minister to the rich man in sickness ; 
 but when poverty and its evils are present — when the struggle is against 
 the pressure of want, as well as the sufferings of malady, the picture 
 is indeed a dark one. 
 
 The many deficiencies in comfort, which daily habit has learned to 
 overlook, the privations which in the active conflict with the world are 
 forgotten, now, come forth in the solitude of the sick house, to affright 
 and afflict us, and we sorrow over miseries long lost to memory till 
 now. 
 
 Never since the fatal illness which left O'Donoghue a widower, had 
 there been any thing like dangerous sickness in the house ; and like 
 most people who have long enjoyed the;blessings of uninterrupted health, 
 they had no thought for such a calamity, nor deemed itJamong<the con- 
 tingencies of life. Now, however, the whole household felt the 
 change. The riotous laughter of the kitchen was silenced, the loud 
 speaking hushed, the doors banged by the wind, or the ruder violence 
 of careless hands, were closed noiselessly — every thing betokened that 
 sorrow was there. O'Donoghue himself paced to and fro in the cham- 
 ber of the old tower, now, stopping to cast a glance down the glen, where 
 he still hoped to see Mark approaching, now, resuming his melancholy 
 walk in sadness of heart. 
 
 In the darkened sick-room, and by the bed, sat Sir Archibald, con- 
 cealed by the curtain, but near enough to give assistance to the sick 
 boy should he need it. He sat buried in his own gloomy thoughts, ren- 
 dered gloomier, as he listened to the hurried breathings and low mutter- 
 ings of the youth, whose fever continued to increase upon him. The 
 
$0 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 old ill-tempered cook, whose tongue was the terror of the region she 
 dwelt in, sat smoking by the fire, nor noticed the presence of the aged 
 fox hound, who had followed Kerry into the kitchen, and now lay asleep 
 before the fire. Kerry himself ceased to hum the snatches of songs 
 and ballads, by which he was accustomed to beguile the weary day. 
 There was a gloom on every thing, nor was the aspect without doors 
 more cheering. The rain beat heavily in drifts against the windows ; 
 the wind shook the old trees violently, and tossed their gnarled limbs 
 in wild confusion, sighing with mournful cadence along the deep glen, 
 or pouring a long melancholy note through the narrow corridors of the 
 old house. ^ The sound of the storm, made more audible by the dreary 
 silence, seemed to weigh -down every heart. Even the bare-legged little 
 gossoon, Mickey, who had come over from Father Luke's with a mes- 
 sage, sat mute and sad, and as he moved his naked foot among the 
 white turf ashes, seemed to feel the mournful depression of the 
 hour. 
 
 " 'Tis a dreadful day of rain, glory be to God !" said Kerry, as he 
 drew a fragment of an old much-soiled newspaper from his pocket, and 
 took his seat beside the blazing fire. For some time he persevered in 
 his occupation without interruption ; but Mrs. Branaghan having appa- 
 rently exhausted her own reflections, now turned upon him to supply a 
 new batch. 
 
 *' What's in the news, Kerry O'Leary ? I think ye might as well 
 read it out, as be mumbling it to yourself there," said she, in a tone 
 seldom disputed in the realm she ruled. 
 
 "Musha then," said Kerry, scratching his head, "the little print 
 bates me entirely ; the letters do be so close, they hav'n't room to stir in, 
 and my eyes is always going to the line above, and the line below, and 
 can't keep straight in the furrow at all. Come here, Mickey, alanah ! 
 'tis you ought to be a great scholar, living in the house with his rever- 
 ence. They tell me," continued he, in a whisper to the cook — " they 
 tell me, he can sarve mass already." 
 
 Mrs. Branaghan withdrew her dudeen at these words, and gazed at 
 the little fellow with unmixed astonishment, who, in obedience to the 
 summons, took his place beside Kerry's chair, and prepared to com- 
 mence his task. 
 
 *' Where will I begin, sir ?" 
 
 *' Begin at the news, av coorse," said Kerry, somewhat puzzled to 
 aecide what kind of intelligence he most desired. " What's this here 
 with a large P in the first of it ?" 
 
 ** Prosperity of Ireland, sir," said the child. 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 61 
 
 " Ay, read about that, Mickey/' said tfee cook, resuming her pipe. 
 With a sing-song intonation, which neither, regarded paragraph nor 
 period, but held on equably throughout a column, the little fellow 
 began — 
 
 '" The prospect of an abundant harvest is now rery general through- 
 out the country; and should we have a continuance ofc.the heavenly 
 weather for a week or so longer, we hope the corn will all be saved." 
 
 As the allusion made here by the journalist, was to a period of seve- 
 ral years previous, the listeners might be excused for not feeling a per- 
 fect concurrence in the statement. 
 
 *' Heavenly weather, indeed !" grunted out the cook, as she turned 
 her eyes towards the windows, against which the plashing rain was 
 beating — Mike read on. 
 
 " Mr. Foran was stopped last night in Baggot-street, and robbed of 
 his watch and clothes, by four villains who live in Stoney-batter •, 
 they are well known, and are advised to take care, as such depreda- 
 tions cannot go long unpunished. The two villains that broke into the 
 house of the Archbishop of Dublin, and murdered the house-maid, 
 will be turned off 'Lord Temple's trap,* on Saturday next ; this. will be 
 a lesson to the people about the Cross-Poddle, that we hope may serve 
 to their advantage." 
 
 " Sir Miles M 'Shane begs to inform the person who found his shoe- 
 buckle after the last levee, that he will receive one and eight pence re- 
 ward for the same, by bringing it to No. 2, Ely-place ; or if he prefer 
 it, Sir Miles will toss up who keeps the pair. They are only paste, 
 and not diamond, though mighty well imitated." 
 
 " Paste !" echoed Mrs. Branaghan ; "the lying thieves !" her notions 
 on the score of that material being limited to patties and pie-crusts. 
 
 " The ' Bucks' are imitating the ladies in all the arts of beautifying 
 the person. — Many were seen painted and patched at the duchess's last 
 ball. We hope this effeminacy may not spread any farther. — It is 
 Mr. Rigby, and not Mr. Harper, is to have the silk gown. Sir George 
 Rose is to get the red ribbon for his services in North America." 
 
 " A silk gown and a red ribbon !" cried ^Irs. Branaghan. "Bad 
 luck to me, but they might be ashamed of themselves." 
 
 ** Faix, I never believed what Darby Long said before," broke in 
 Kerry. " He tould me he saw the bishop of Cork in a black silk 
 petticoat like a famale. Is there no more murders, Mickey ?" 
 
 *' I don't know, sir, barrin' they're in the fashionable intelligence." 
 
 "Well, read on." 
 
 " Donald, the beast, who refused to leave his cell in Trim gaol at 
 
62 THE 0*D0N0GHT7B. 
 
 the last assizes, and was consequently fired at by a file of infantry, had 
 his leg amputated yesterday by Surgeon Huston of this town, and is 
 doing remarkably well." 
 
 " Where's the sporting news V* said Kerry. " Is not this it, here ?" 
 as he pointed to a figure of a horse above a column. 
 
 " Mr. Connolly's horse, Gabriel, would have been in first, but 
 he stopped to eat Whaley, the jockey, when he fell. The race is to be 
 run again on Friday next. It was IMr. Daly, and not Mr. Crosbie, 
 horse-whipped the attorney over the course last Tuesday. Mr. Crosbie 
 spent the day with the Duke of Leinster, and is very angry at his 
 name being mentioned in the wrong, particularly as he is bound over to 
 keep the peace towards all members of the bar for three years." 
 
 "Captain Heavyside and Mr. Malone exchanged four shots each on 
 the Bull this morning. The quarrel was about racing and poUtics, and 
 miscellaneous matters." 
 
 " It is rumoured that if the Chief Justice be appointed from England, 
 he will decline giving personal satisfaction to the Master of the Rolls ; 
 but we cannot credit the report " 
 
 ** The Carmelites have taken Ranelagh-house for a nunnery." 
 
 ** That's the only bit in the paper I'd give the snuff of my pipe for * 
 said Mrs. Branaghan. " Read it again, acushla." 
 
 The boy re-read the passage. 
 
 " Well, well, I wonder if Miss Kate will ever come oack again," said 
 she, in a pause. 
 
 " To be sure she will," said Kerry ; " what would hinder her ? 
 hasn't she a fine fortune out of the property ? ten thousand, I heerd the 
 master say." 
 
 " Ay eh ! sure it's all gone many a day ago ; the sorra taste of a 
 brass farthen 's left for her,'or* any one else. The master sould every 
 stick an' stone in the place, barrin' the house that's over us, and sure 
 that's all as one as sould too. Ah, then, Miss Kate was the purty 
 child, and had the coaxing ways with her." 
 
 " 'Tis a pity to make her a nun," said Kerry. 
 
 "A pity! why would it be a pity, Kerry O'Leary ?" 'said the old 
 lady, bristling up with anger. "^Isn't the nuns happier, and dacenter, 
 and higher nor other women, with rapscallions for husbands, and vil- 
 lians of all kinds for childher ? Is it the likes of ye, or the crayture 
 beside ye, that would teach a colleen the way to heaven ? Musha, but 
 they have the blessed times of it — fastin' and prayin', and doing all 
 manner of penance, and talking over their sins vrith holy men.* 
 
 " Whisht ! what's that ? there's the bell Tinging above stairg," said 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. oS 
 
 Kerry, suddenly starting up and listening. " Ay, there it is again^" 
 and, so ' saying, he yawned and stretched himself, and after several 
 interjectional grumblings over the disturbance, slowly mounted the 
 stairs towards the parlour. 
 
 " Are ye sleepin' down there, ye lazy deevils V* cried Sir Archy from 
 the landing of the Stairs. " Did ye no' hear the bell ?" 
 
 " *Tis now I heerd it," said Kerry composedly, for he never vouch- 
 safed the same degree of deference to Sir Archy, he yielded to the rest 
 of the family. 
 
 ** Go see if there be any lemons in the house, and lose no time about it.** 
 
 " Faix, I needn't go far then to find out," whined Kerry; "the 
 
 master had none for his punch these two nights ; they put the httle 
 
 box into a damp corner, aiid, sure enough, they had beards on them 
 
 like Jews, the same lemons, when they went to look for them." 
 
 " Go down then to the woman, M'Kelly's, in the glen, and see if she 
 hae na some there." 
 
 " Oh murther ! murther ! " muttered Kerry to himself, as the whist- 
 ling storm reminded him of the dreadful weather without doors. " 'Tis 
 no use in going without the money," said he slyly, hoping that by this 
 home-thrust he might escape the errand. 
 
 *• Ye maun tell her to put it in the accoimt, man." 
 " Tis in bad company she'd put it then," muttered Kerry below his 
 breath, then added aloud — " Sorrow one she'd give, if I hadn't the six- 
 pence in my hand." 
 
 **Canna ye say it's no' for yoursel', it's for the house — she wad na 
 refuse that." 
 
 "No use in life," reiterated he solemnly ; " she's a real naygur, and 
 would., iiot trust Father Luke with a week's snuff, and he's dealt there 
 for sneeshin these thirty years." 
 
 " A weel, a weel," said M'Nab in a low harsh voice ; " the world's 
 growing waur and waur. Ye maun e'en gie her a shilling, and mind 
 ye get nae bad bawbees in change ; she suld gie ye twelve for 
 saxpence." 
 
 Kerry took the money without a word in reply ; he was foiled in the 
 plan of his own devising, and with many a self-uttered sarcasm on the 
 old Scotchman, he descended the stairs once more. 
 
 " Is Master Herbert worse?" said the cook, as the old huntsman 
 entered the kitchen. 
 
 " Begorra he must be bad entirely, when ould Archy would give a 
 shilling to cure him. See here, he's sending me for lemons down to 
 Mary's." 
 
Kerry rung the coin upon the tahle as if to test its genuinws, anil 
 muttered to himself— 
 
 " Tis a good one, devil a lie in it." 
 
 ""There's the bell again ; musha, how he rings it." 
 
 This time the voice of Sir Archy was heard in loud tones summoning 
 Kerry to his assistance, for Herbert had become suddenly worse, and 
 the old man was unable to prevent him rising from his bed and rushing 
 from the room. 
 
 The wild and excited tones of the youth were mixed with the deeper 
 utterings of the old man, who exerted all his efforts to calm and re- 
 strain him as Kerry reached the spot. By his aid the boy was con- 
 veyed back to his bed, where, exhausted by his own struggles, he lay 
 without speaking or moving for some hours. 
 
 It was not difficult to perceive, however, that this state boded more 
 unfavourably than the former one. The violent paroxysms of wild in- 
 sanity betokened, while they lasted, a degree of vital energy and force, 
 which now seemed totally to have given way ; and although Kerry re- 
 garded the change as for the better, the more practised and skilful mind 
 of Sir Archibald drew a far diflferent and more dispiriting augury. 
 
 Thus passed the weary hours, and at last the long day began to de- 
 chne, but still no sign, nor sound, proclaimed the doctor's coming, and 
 M'NaVs anxiety became hourly more intense. 
 
 " If he come na soon," said he, after a long and dreary silence, 
 *' he need na tak' the trouble to look at him." 
 
 " 'Tis what I'm thinking too," said Kerry, with a sententious gravity 
 almost revolting — " when the fingers does be going that way, ifs a 
 mighty bad sign. If I seen the hounds working with their toes, I never 
 knew them recover." 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 6S 
 
 CHAPTER IX^ 
 
 A doctor's tisit. 
 
 The niglit was far advanced as the doctor arrived at the O'Donogliue's 
 nouse, drenched with rain, and fatigued by the badness of the roads, 
 where his gig was often compelled to proceed for above a mile at a foot 
 pace. Doctor Roach was not in the most bland of tempers as he 
 reached his destination ; and, of a verity, his was a nature that stood 
 not in any need of increased acerbity. The doctor was a type of a race 
 at one time very general, but now, it is hard to say wherefore, nearly 
 extinct in Ireland. But so it is ; the fruits of the earth change not 
 in course of years more strikingly, than the fashions of men's minds. 
 The habits, popular enough in one generation, survive as eccentricities 
 in another, and are extinct in a third. 
 
 There was a pretty general impression in the world, some sixty or 
 seventy years back, that a member of the medical profession, who had 
 attained to any height in his art, had a perfect right to dispense with all 
 the amenities and courtesies which regulate social life among less privi- 
 leged persons. The concessions now only yielded to a cook, were then 
 extended to a physician; and in accordance with the privilege by 
 which he administered most nauseous doses to the body, he was suffered 
 to extend his dominion, and apply scarcely more palatable remedies to 
 the minds of his patients. As if the ill-flavoured draughts had tinctured 
 the spirit that conceived them, the tone of his thoughts usually smacked 
 of bitters, until at last he seemed to have realized, in his own person, 
 the conflicting agencies of the pharmacopoeia, and was at once acrid, 
 and pungent, and soporific together. 
 
 The College of Physicians could never have reproached Doctor Roach 
 with conceding a single iota of their privileges. Never was there one 
 who more stoutly maintained, in his whole practice through life, the 
 blessed immunity of " the Doctor." The magic word " Recipe," which 
 headed his prescriptions, suggested a tone of command to all he said, 
 and both his drugs and dicta were swallowed without remonstrance. 
 
 It may not be a flattering confession for humanity, but it is assuredly 
 a true one, that the exercise of power, no matter how humble its sphere, 
 •r how limited its range, will eventually generate a tyrannical habit 
 
 F 
 
^ THE O'DONOGHUK. 
 
 m him who wields it. Doctor Roach was certainly not the exceptioD 
 to this rule. The Czar himself was not more autocrat in the steppes o( 
 Russia, than was he in any house where sickness had fomid entrance^ 
 From that hour he planted his throne there. xVll the caprices* of age, 
 all the follies of childhood, the accustomed freedoms of home, the in- 
 dulgences which grow up by habit in a household, had to give way be- 
 fore a monarch more potent than all, " the Doctor." Men bore the 
 infliction with the same patient endurance they summoned to sustain 
 the malady. They felt it to be grievous and miserable, but they looked 
 forward to a period of relief, and panted for the arrival of the hour, when 
 the disease and the doctor would take their departure. together. 
 
 If the delight they experienced at such a consummation was extreme, 
 so to the physician it savoured of ingratitude. *' I saved his life yes- 
 terday," saith he, ",and see how happy he is, to dism.ss me to-day." 
 But who is ever grateful for the pangs of a toothache? — or what 
 l.eart can find pleasure in the memory of sententiousness, senna, and 
 low diet ? 
 
 Never were the blessings of restored health felt with a more suitable 
 thankfulness than by Doctor Roach's patients. To be free once more 
 from his creaking shoes, liis little low dry cough, his harsh accents, his 
 harsher words, his contradictions, his sneers, and his selfishness, shed a 
 halo around recovery, which the friends of the patient could not pro- 
 perly appreciate. 
 
 Such was the individual whose rumbling and rattling vehicle now 
 entered the court-yard of Carrig-na-curra, escorted by poor Terry, who 
 had accompanied him the entire way on foot. The distance he had come, 
 his more than doubts about the fee, the severity of the storm, were 
 not the accessories likely to amend the infirmities of his temper ; while 
 a still greater source of irritation than all existed in the mutual feeling 
 of dislike between him and Sir Archibald M'Nab. An occasional meeting 
 at a little boarding-house in Killarney, which Sir Archy was in the 
 habit of visiting each summer for a few days — the only recreation he 
 permitted himself— had cultivated this sentiment to such a pitch, that 
 they never met without disagreement, or parted without an actual 
 quarrel. The doctor was a democrat, and a Romanist of the first water; Sir 
 Archy was a member of the Scottish Episcopal Church ; and, whatever 
 might have been his early leanings inpolitics, and in whatever companion- 
 ship his active years were passed, experience had taught him the fallacy of 
 many opinions, which owe any appearance of truth or stabiHty they pos- 
 iess, to the fact, that they have never advanced beyond the stage of spe- 
 falative notions, into the realms of actual and oractical existence j — ^but, 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 87 
 
 above all, the pradent Scotchman dreaded the prevalence of these tloc- 
 trines among young and unsettled minds, ever ready to prefer the shon 
 and hazardous career of fortune, to the slow and patient drudgery ot 
 daily industry. 
 
 If the doctor anticipated but little enjoyment in the society of Sir 
 Archy, neither did the latter hope for any pleasure to himself from 
 Roach's company. However, as the case of poor Herbert became each 
 hour more threatening, the old man resoked to bury in oblivion every 
 topic of mutual disagreement, and, so long as the doctor remained in 
 the house, to make every possible or impossible concession to conciliate 
 the good-will of one, on whose services so much depended. 
 
 " Do ye hear V cried Roach in a harsh voice to Kerry, who was 
 summoned from the kitchen-fire to take charge of his horse ; " let the 
 pony have a mash of bran — a hot mash, and don't leave him till he's 
 dry." 
 
 '* Never fear, sir," replied Kerry, as he led the jaded and way-worn 
 beast into the stable, " I'll take care of him as if he was a racer ;" and 
 then, as Roach disappeared, added — " I'd like to see myself strapping 
 the likes of him — an ould mountaineer. A mash of bran, indeed ! 
 Cock him up with bran ! Begorra, 'tis thistles and docks he's most used 
 to ;" and, with this sage reflection on the beast's habits, he locked the 
 stable door, and resumed his former place beside the blazing turf 
 fire. 
 
 O'Donoghue's reception of the doctor was most cordial. He was 
 glad to see him on several accounts. He was glad to see any one who 
 could tell him what was doing in the world, from which all his inter- 
 course was cut oif; he was glad, because the supper was waiting an 
 hour and a half beyond its usual time, and he was getting uncommonly 
 hungry ; and, lastly, he really felt anxious about Herbert, whenever by 
 any chance his thoughts took that direction. 
 
 " How are you. Roach?" cried he, advancing to meet him with an 
 extended hand. " This is a kind thing of you — you've had a dreadful 
 day, I fear." 
 
 " D — ^n me, if I ever saw it otherwise in this confounded glen. I 
 never set foot in it, that I wasn't wet through." 
 
 *'We have our share of rain, indeed," replied the other, with a 
 good-humoured laugh ; " but if we have storm, we have shelter." 
 
 Intentionally misunderstanding the allusion, and applying to the 
 ruined mansion the praise bestowed on the bold mountains, the doctor 
 threw a despairing look around the room, and repeated the word 
 "shelter" in a voice far from complimentary. 
 
G8 
 
 The O'Donogbue's blood was up in a moment. His brow contracted 
 and liis cheek flushed, as, in a low and deep tone, he said — 
 
 ** It is a crazy old concern. You are right enough — neither the 
 ivalls nor the company within them, are like what they once were." 
 
 The look with which these words were given, recalled the doctor to a 
 sense of his own impertinence ; for, like certain tethered animals, who 
 never become conscious of restraint till the check of the rope lays them 
 on their back, nothing short of such a home-blow could have staggered 
 his self-conceit. 
 
 " Ay, ay," muttered he, with a cackling apology for a laugh, " time 
 is telling on us all.— But I'm keeping the supper waiting." 
 
 The duties of hospitality were always enough to make O'Donoghue 
 forget any momentary chagrin, and he seated himself at the table with 
 all his wonted good-humour and aifability. 
 
 As the meal proceeded, the doctor inquired about the sick boy, and 
 the circumstances attending his illness ; the interest he bestowed on 
 the narrative mainly depending on the mention of Sir Marmaduke 
 Travers's name, whose presence in the country he was not aware of 
 before, and from whose residence he began already to speculate on many 
 benefits to himself. 
 
 " They told me,** continued O'Donoghue, " that the lad behaved ad- 
 mirably. In fact, if the old weir-rapid be any thing like what I remem- 
 Der it, the danger was no common one. There used to be a current 
 there strong enough to carry away a dozen horsemen." 
 
 " And how is the young lady ? Is she nothing the worse from the 
 cold, and the drenching, and the shock of the accident ?" 
 
 " Faith, I must confess it, I have not had the grace to ask after her. 
 Living as I have been for some years back, has left me sadly in arrear 
 with every demand of the world. Sir Marmaduke was polite enough 
 to say he'd call on me ; but there is a still greater favour he could 
 bestow, which is, to leave me alone.'* 
 
 " There was a law-suit or dispute of some kind or other between you, 
 was there not V* 
 
 " There is something of that kind," said O'Donoghue, with an air of 
 annoyance at the question ; " but these are matters gentlemen leave to 
 their lawyers, and seek not to mix themselves up with." 
 
 " The strong purse is the sinew of war," muttered the inexorable 
 doctor; "and they tell me he is one of the wealthiest men in 
 England." 
 
 *' He may be, for aught I know or care." 
 
 "Well, well," resumed the other, after a long deliberative pause, 
 
THE O DONOGHTJE. O^ 
 
 "there's no knowing how this Httle adventure may turn out. If youf 
 son saved the girl's Hfe, I scarcely think he could press you so haul 
 about " 
 
 " Take care, sir," broke in O'Donoghue, and with the words he seized 
 the doctor's wrist in his strong grasp ; " take care how you venture to 
 speak of affairs which no wise concern you ;" then, seeing the terrified 
 look his speech called up, he added — " I have been very irritable 
 latterly, and never desire to talk on these subjects ; so, if you please, 
 we'll change the topic." 
 
 The door was cautiously opened at this moment, and Kerry presented 
 himself, with a request from Sir Archibald, that, as soon as Doctor Roach 
 found it convenient, he would be glad to see him in the sick-room. 
 
 "I am ready now," said the doctor, rising from his chairj and not by 
 any means sorry at the opportunity of escaping a tete-a-tcte he had 
 contrived to render so unpalatable to both parties. As he mounted the 
 stairs, he continued in broken phrases to inveigh against the house and 
 the host in a half soliloquy — "A tumble-down old barrack it is — not 
 fifty shillings worth of furniture under the roof — the ducks were as 
 tough as soaked parchment — and where's the fee to come from — I wish 
 I knew that — unless I take one of these old devils instead of it ;" and 
 he touched the frame of a large, damp, discoloured portrait of some 
 long-buried ancestor, several of which figured on the walls of the 
 stair-case. 
 
 " The boy is worse — far worse," whispered a low, but distinct voice 
 beside him. '' His head is now all astray — he knows no one." 
 
 Doctor Roach seemed vexed at the ceremony of salutation being for- 
 gotten in Sir Archibald's eagerness about the youth, and drily answered — 
 
 " I have the honour to see you well, sir, I hope." 
 
 " There is one here very far from well," resumed Sir Archy, neither 
 caring for, nor considering the speech. "We have lost too much time 
 already — I trust ye may na be too late now." 
 
 The doctor made no reply, but rudely taking the candle from his 
 hand, walked towards the bed — 
 
 "Ay, ay," muttered he, as he beheld ^ the lustrous eyes and wide- 
 spread pupils — the rose-red cheek, and dry, cracked lips of the youth ; 
 " he has it sure enough." 
 
 " Has what ?-~what is it ?" 
 
 " The fever — brain fever, and the worst kind of it too." 
 
 "And there is danger then ?" whispered M'Nab. 
 
 "Danger, indeed! I wonder how many come through it. Pshaw! 
 there's no use trying to count his pulse ;" and he threw the baud 
 
70 THE o'dONOGUUE. 
 
 mdclj back upon the bed. " That's going as fast as ever his father 
 vent with the property." A harsh, low, cackhng laugh followed this 
 \)rutal speech, which demanded all Sir Archy's predetermined endurance 
 o suffer unchecked. 
 
 " Do you know me ?" said the doctor, in the loud voice used to 
 iwaken the dormant faculty of hearing. " Do you know me ?" 
 
 *' Yes," replied the boy, staring steadfastly at him. 
 
 " Well, who am I, then ? Am I your father ?" 
 
 A vacant gaze was all the answer. 
 
 *' Tell me, am I your father ?" 
 
 No reply followed, 
 
 " Am I your uncle, then ?" said the doctor, still louder. 
 
 The word, " uncle," seemed to strike upon some new chord of his 
 awakened sense ; a faint smile played upon his parched lips, and his eyes 
 wandered from the speaker, as if in search of some object, till they fell 
 upon Sir Archy, as he stood at the foot of the bed, when suddenly 
 his whole countenance was lighted up, and he repeated the word, 
 " uncle," to himself in a voice indescribably sweet and touching. 
 
 " He has na forgotten me," murmured M'Nab, in a tone of deep 
 emotion. " My ain dear boy — he knows me yet." 
 
 " You agitate him too much," said Roach, whose nature had little 
 sympathy with the feelings of either. " You must leave me alone here 
 1o examine him myself." 
 
 M'Nab said not a word, but, with noiseless step,, stole from the 
 Toom. The doctor looked after him as he went, and then followed to 
 see that the door was closed behind. This done, he beckoned to Kerry, 
 who still remained, to approach, and deliberately seated himself in a 
 chair near the window. 
 
 " Tell me, my good fellow," said he, affecting an air of confidence 
 as he spoke, " an't they all broke here ? Isn't the whole thing smashed ?" 
 
 " Broke — smashed !" repeated Kerry, as he held up both hands in 
 feigned astonishment ; " 'tis a droll smash : begorra, I never see money 
 as plenty this many a year. Sure av there wasn't lashings of it, would 
 he be looking out for carriage-horses, and buying hunters, not to say 
 putting the kennel in order." 
 
 *' Is it truth you are telling ?" said Roach, in astonishment. 
 
 " True as my name is Kerry O'Leary. We offered Lanty Lawler a 
 hundred and twenty guineas on Friday last for a match wheeler, and 
 we're not off of him yet ; he's a big brown horse, with a star on his 
 face ; and the cob for the master cost forty pounds. He'll be here to- 
 morrow, or next day, sure ye'll see him yourself." 
 
THE o'dONO&HUE. 71 
 
 "Tlie place is falling to ruin— the roof will never last the mnter^^ 
 broke in the doctor. 
 
 " Well, and whose fault is it, but that spalpeen Murphy's, that won't 
 set the men to work till he gets oak timber from the Black Say — 'tis the 
 finest wood in the world, they tell me, and lasts for ever and ever." 
 
 ''But, don't they owe money every where in the country? There 
 isn't a little shop in Killarney without an account of their' s in it." 
 
 " Of course they do, and the same in Cork — ay, and in Tralee, for 
 the matter of that. Would you have them not give encouragement to 
 more places nor one ? There's not one of those crayturs would send 
 in their bill — no, though we do be asking for it, week after week. They're 
 afraid of losing the custom ; and I'll engage now, they do be telling you 
 they can't get their money by hook or by crook ; that's it — I knew it 
 well." 
 
 The doctor meditated long on these strange revelations, so very op- 
 posite to all he had heard of the circumstances of the O'Donoghues j 
 and while his own convictions were strongly against Kerry's narrative, 
 that worthy man's look of simplicity and earnest truth puzzled him 
 considerably, and made him hesitate which side to credit. 
 
 After a long pause, from which the incoherent ravings of the sick 
 boy aroused him, he looked up at Kerry, and then, with a motion of 
 his thumb towards the bed, he muttered — 
 
 "He's going fast." 
 
 " Going fast !" echoed Kerry, in a voice very different from his former 
 accent. " Oh, wirra ! there's nothing so bad as death ! Distress and 
 poverty is hard enough, but that's the raal misfortune." 
 
 A dry sarcastic grin from the doctor seemed to say that poor Kerry's 
 secret was discovered. The allusion to want of means came too naturally 
 not to be suggested by present circumstances ; and the readiness of Doc- 
 tor Roach's apprehension clinched the discovery at once. 
 
 *' We'll go down now," said the doctor ; " I believe I know ths 
 whole state of the case ;" and, with these words of ambiguous meaniu 
 he returned to the drawing-room. 
 
THB O'OONOGHVir. 
 
 CHAPTER :X. 
 
 AN EVENING AT '* MARY" M'KELLY's , 
 
 .F sorrow had thrown its sombre shadow over the once-proud house ot 
 ihc O'Donoghuc, within whose walls now noiseless footsteps stole along, 
 and wiiispered words were spoken : a very different scene presented itself 
 at the small hostel of Mary M*Kelly. There, before the ample fire- 
 place, a quarter of a sheep was roasting — while various utensils ol 
 cookery, disposed upon and around the fire, diffused a savoury odour 
 through the apartment. A table, covered with a snow-white napkin, 
 and' containing covers for a party of six, occupied the middle of the 
 room J cups and drinking vessels of richly chased silver, silver forks 
 and spoons, of handsome pattern, were there also — strange and singular 
 spectacle beneath the humble thatch of a way-side cabin. Mary herself 
 displayed in her toilet a more than usual care and attention, and wore 
 in her becoming cap, with a deep lace border, a bouquet of tri-colored 
 ribbons, coquettishly knotted, and with the ends falling loosely on her 
 neck. While she busied herself in the preparation for the table, she 
 maintained from time to time a running conversation with a person who 
 sat smoking in the chimney corner. Although screened from the 
 glare of the fire, the light which was diffused around showed enough 
 of the dress and style of the wearer to recognize him at once for Lanty 
 Lawler, the horse-dealer. His attitude, as he lolled back on one chair, 
 and supported his legs on another, bespoke the perfection of ease, 
 while in the jaunty manner he held the long pipe-stick between his 
 fingers, could be seen the affectation of one who wished to be thought 
 at home, as well as to feel so. 
 
 " What hour did they mention, Mary ?" said he, after a pause of 
 some minutes, during which he puffed his pipe assiduously. 
 
 " The gossoon that came from Beerhaven, said it would be nine o'clock 
 at any rate ; but sure it's nigher to ten now. They were to come up ou 
 the flood tide. Whisht, what was that ? — Wasn't that Hke the noise a 
 wheels ?" 
 
 " No ; that's the wind, and a severe night it is too. ; I'm thinking, 
 Mary, the storm may keep them back." 
 
 "Not a bit of it ; there's a creek down there, they tell me, safer noi 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE, 73 
 
 e'er a harbour in Ireland ; and you'd never see a bit of a vessel till you 
 were straight over her: and sure it's, little they mind weather. That 
 Captain Jack, as they call him, says there's no time for business like a 
 gale of wind. The last night they were here there was two wrecks in 
 the bay." 
 
 " I mind it well, Mary. Faix, I never felt a toast so hard to drink 
 as the one they gave after supper." 
 
 " Don't be talking about it," said Mary, crossing herself devoutly ; 
 "they said it out of devilment, sorra more." 
 
 "Well, may be so," muttered he sententiously. "They're wild 
 fhaps any way, and they've a wild life of it." 
 
 " Troth, if I was a man, tis a life I'd like well," said Mary, with a 
 look of resolute determination, well becoming the speech. " Them's 
 the fine times they have, going round the world for sport, and nothing 
 to care for — as much goold as they'd ask — fine clothes — the best of 
 eating and drinking ; sure there's not one of them would drink out of 
 less than silver." 
 
 " Faix, they may have iron round their ancles for it, after all, Mary." 
 
 "Sorra bit of it — the jail isn't built yet, that would howld them. 
 What's that noise now ? That's them. Oh, no ; it's the water running 
 down the mountain." 
 
 "Well, I wish they'd come any way," said Lanty; "for I must be 
 off early to-morrow — I've an.order from the ould banker here above, foi 
 six beasts, and I'd like to get a few hours' sleep before morning.'* 
 
 " 'Tis making a nice penny you are there, Lanty," said Mary, with 
 a quizzical look from the corner of her eye. 
 
 "A good stroke of business,, sure enough, Mary," replied he, laugh- 
 ingly. " What d'ye think I did with him yesterday morning ? I heerd 
 here, ye know, what happened to the grey mare I bought from Mark 
 O'Donoghue — that she was carried over the weir-gash and drowned. 
 What does I do, but goes up to the Lodge and asks for Sir Marmaduke ; 
 and says I, * I'm come, sir, to offer a hundred and fifty for the little 
 mare I sould you the other day f Ji' a hundred ; 'tis only now I found 
 out her real value, and I can get two hundred for her in Cork, the day I 
 bring her up ; and sure your honour wouldn't prevent a poor man mak- 
 ing a trifle in the way of his trade.' * You're an. honest fellow, Lanty,* 
 says he — divil a lie in it Mary, don't be laughing — * you're an honest 
 fellow ; and although I cannot let you have your mare back again, for 
 she was killed last night, you shall have your own price for the four 
 carriage-horses and the two roadsters I ordered.* With that I began 
 blubbering about the mare, and swore I was as fond of her as if sh.' 
 
f4 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 was my sister. I wish you'd seen his daughter then ; upon my con- 
 science it was as good as a play. 'They have so much feehn',' says she 
 to her father. * For fun,' says I to myself. O murther, murther, Mary, 
 and them's the people that rules us !'* 
 
 " Omadhauns they are, the devil a more !" interposed Mary, whose 
 hearty contempt for the Saxon originated in the facility by which he 
 could be imposed upon. 
 
 "That's what I'm always saying," said Lanty. "I'd rather have 
 the chaytin' than the bayting of John Bull, any day ! You'll humbug 
 him out of his shirt, and faix it's the easiest way to get it after all." 
 
 "It's a mane way, Lanty," interj)osed Mary, with a look of pride ; 
 ** it's a dirty, mane way, and doesn't become an Irishman." 
 
 " Wait till the time comes, Mary M 'Kelly," said Lanty, half 
 angrily, " and maybe I'd be as ready as another." 
 
 " I wish it was come," said Mary, sighing ; " I wish to the Virgin it 
 was ; I'm tired heerin' of the preparations. Sorra one of me knows 
 »rhat more they want, if the stout heart was there. There's eight bar- 
 lels of gunpowder in that rock there," said she, in a low whisper, 
 " behind yer back — you needn't stir, Lanty. Begorra, if a spark was 
 in it, 'twould blow you and me, and the house that's over us, as high 
 as Hungry mountain." 
 
 " The angels be near us !" said Lanty, making the sign of the cross. 
 
 "Ay," resumed Mary, "and muskets for a thousand min, and 
 pikes for two more. There's saddles and bridles, eighteen hogsheads 
 
 5ill." 
 
 " True enough," chimed in Lanty ; " and I have an order for five 
 hundred cavalry horses — the money to be paid out of the Bank of 
 France. Musha, I wish it was some place nearer home." 
 
 "Is it doubting them ye are, Lanty Lawler?" 
 
 " No, not a bit ; but it's always time enough to get the beasts, when 
 tve see the riders. I could mount two thousand men in a fortnight, any 
 day, if there was money to the fore ; ay, and momit them well, too : 
 not the kind of devils I give the government, that won't stand three days 
 of hard work. Musha, Mary, but it's getting very late ; that mutton 
 will be as dry as a stick." 
 
 ** The French likes it best that way," said Mary, with a droll glance, 
 as though to intimate she guessed the speaker's object. "Take a look 
 down the road, Lanty, and try if you can hear any one coming." 
 
 Lanty arose from his comfortable corner with evident reluctance, and 
 laid down his pipe with a half sigh, as he moved slowly towards the doo^ 
 of the cabin, which having unbarred he issued forth into the darkness. 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 75 
 
 **It's likely I'd hear any thing such a night as this," grumbled 1* 
 to himself, " with the trees snapping across, and the rocks tumbling 
 iown ! It's a great storm entirely." 
 
 "Is there any sign of them, Lanty ?" cried Mary, as she held the 
 door ajar, and peeped out into the gloomy night. 
 
 " I couldn't see my hand fornint me." 
 
 " Do you hear nothing ? " 
 
 " Faix I hear enough over my head ; that was thunder ! Is there 
 any fear of it getting at the powder, Mary ?" 
 
 " Divil a fear ; don't be unasy about that," said the stout-hearted 
 Mary. " Can you see nothing at all ?" 
 
 " Sorra a thing, barrin the lights up at Carrig-na-curra ; they're 
 moving about there, at a wonderful rate. What's O'Donoghue doing 
 at all?" 
 
 " 'Tis the young boy, Herbert, is sick," said Mary, as she opened the 
 door to admit Lanty once more. " The poor child is in a fever. Kerry 
 O'Leary was down here this evening for lemons for a drink for him. 
 Poor Kerry ! he was telling me, himself has a sore time of it, with that 
 ould Scotchman that's up there ; nothing ever was like him for scould- 
 ing, and barging, and abusing ; and O'Donoghue now minds nothing 
 inside or out, but sits all day long in the big chair, just as if he was 
 asleep. Maybe he does take a nap sometimes, for he talks of bailiffs, 
 and writs, and all them things. Poor ould man ! it's a bad end, when 
 the law comes with the grey hairs I" 
 
 "They've a big score with yourself, I'll be bound," said Lanty 
 mquiringly. 
 
 " Troth, I'd like to see myself charge them with any thing," said she, 
 uidignantly. " It's to them and their' s I owe the roof that's over me, 
 and my father, and my father's father before me owes it. , Musha, it 
 would become me to take their money, for a trifle of wme and 
 spirits, and tay and tobacco, as if I wasn't proud to see them send down 
 here — the raal ould stock that's in it! Lanty, it must be very late by 
 this. I'm afeard something's wrong up in the bay." 
 
 "'Tis that same I was thinking myself," said Lanty, with a sly look 
 towards the roasted joint, whose savoury odour was becoming a temp- 
 tation overmuch for resistance. 
 
 "You've a smart baste in the stable," said Mary; "he has eaten 
 jQis corn by this time, and must be fresh enough ; just put the saddle 
 on him, Lanty dear, and ride down the road a mile or two — do, and 
 good luck attend you." 
 
 rhere never was a propositioa less acceptable to the individual to 
 
70 THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 whom it was made ; to leave a warm fire-side was bad enough, but to 
 issue forth on a night it would have been inhumanity to expose a dog to, 
 was far too much for his compliance ; yet Lanty did not actually refuse ; 
 no, he had his own good reasons for keeping fair with Mary M 'Kelly ; 
 so he commenced a system of diplomatic delay and discussion, by which 
 time at least might be gained, in which it was possible the long-expected 
 guests would arrive, or the project fall to the ground on its own 
 merits. 
 
 "Which way will they come, Mary ?" said he, rising from his seat. 
 
 " Up the glen, to be sure — what other way could they from the Bay. 
 You'll hear them plain enough, for they shout and sing every step of 
 the road, as if it was their own ; wild de\ils they are." 
 
 "Sing is it? musha, now, do they sing?" 
 
 " Ay, faix, the drollest songs ever ye heerd ; French and Boosian 
 songs — sorra the likes of them going at all." 
 
 " Light hearts they have of their own." 
 
 " You may say that, Lanty Lawler ; fair weather or foul, them's the 
 boys never change ; but come now be alive, and get out the baste." 
 
 "I*m going, Tm going ; it's myself would Uke to hear them sing a 
 Roosian song. Whisht ! what's that ? did ye hear a shout there ?" 
 
 " Here they are ; that's them," said Mary, springing towards thft 
 door, and withdrawing the bolt, while a smart knock was heard, and the 
 same instant, a voice called cHir — 
 
 " Holloa ! house ahoy !' 
 
 The door at the moment flew open, and a short, thick-set looking 
 man, in a large boat cloak, entered, followed by a taller figure, equally 
 muffled. The former dropping his heavy envelope, and throwing off an 
 oil-skin cap from his head, held out his arms wide as, he said — 
 
 "Marie, ma mie ! einbrasse v,oi i' and then, not waiting for a 
 compliance with the request, sprang forward, and clasped the buxom 
 landlady in his arms, and kissed her on each cheek, with an air com- 
 pounded of true feeling, and stage effect. 
 
 " Here's my friend and traveUing companion, Henry Talbot, come to 
 share your hospitality, Mary," said he in English, to which the slightest 
 foreign accent lent a tone of recitative. "One of us, Mary — one 
 of us." 
 
 The individual alluded to had by this time dropped his cloak to the 
 ground, and displayed the figure of a. slight and very young man, whose 
 features were singularly handsome, save for a look of great 'effeminacy ; 
 his complexion was fair as a girl's, and, flushed by exercise, the tint 
 upon his cheek was of a pale rose colour ; he was dressed in a riding 
 
THE O^DONOGHUE. 1$ 
 
 coat, and top boots, which, in the fashion of the day, were worn short, 
 and wrinkled around the leg ; his hair he wore without powder, and 
 long upon his neck; a heavy riding whip, ornamented with silver, ths 
 only weapon he carried, composed his costume — one as unlike his com* 
 pauion's as could be. 
 
 Captain Jacques Flahault was a stout-built, dark-complexioned fellow, 
 of some four or five and forty ; his face a grotesque union of insolence 
 and drollery ; the eyes black as jet, shaded by brows so arched, as to 
 give always the idea of laughing to a countenance, the lower part of 
 which, shrouded in beard and moustache, was intended to look stern 
 and savage. 
 
 His dress was a short blue frock, beneath which he wore a jersey 
 shirt, striped in various colours, across which a broad buff leather 
 belt, loosely'slung, supported four pistols and a dirk ; jack boots reached 
 about the middle of the thigh, and were attached to his waist by 
 thongs of strong leather, no needless precaution apparently, as in their 
 looseness the wearer might at any moment have stepped freely from 
 them ; a black handkerchief, loosely knotted round his neck, displayed 
 a throat brawny and massive as a bull's, and imparted to the whole head 
 an appearance of great size — the first impression every stranger con- 
 ceived regarding him. 
 
 ''Ah! ah! Lawler, you here; how goes it, my old friend? Sit 
 down here, and tell me all your rogueries since we parted. Par Si. 
 Pierre, Henry, this is the \enestfripon in the kingdom" — Talbot bowed, 
 and with a sweetly courteous smile saluted Lanty, as if accepting the 
 speech in the light of an introduction — " a fellow that in the way of his 
 trade could cheat the Saint Pere himself." 
 
 " Where's the others. Captain Jack ?" said Mary, whose patience all 
 this time endured a severe trial — " where's the rest ?" 
 
 " Place pour la potage ! Ma Mie ! — soup before a story ; you shall 
 hear every thing by and by. Let us have the supper at once." 
 
 Lanty chimed in a willing assent to this proposition, and in a few 
 moments the meat smoked upon the table, around which the whole 
 party took their places with evident good-will. 
 
 "While Mary performed her attentions as hostess, by heaping up each 
 plate, and ever supplying the deficiency caused by the appetite of the 
 guests, the others eat on like hungry men. Captain Jacques alone in* 
 termingling with the duties of the table, a stray remark from time to time. 
 
 " Ventre hleu ! how it blows ; if it veers more to the southard, there 
 will be a heavy strain on that cable. Trinquons mon ami. Trinquons 
 toujaurs ; Ma belle Marie^ vou eat nothing." 
 
76 
 
 THE O DONOGHITE. 
 
 " Tis unnsy I am, Captain Jack, about what's become of the othert," 
 said Mrs. M'Kellv. 
 
 *- Another bumper, Ma 3Ite, and I'm ready for the story — the more 
 as it is a brief one. Allans done — now for it. We left the bay about 
 nine o'clock, or half-past, perhaps, intending to push forward to the 
 glen at once, and weigh with the morning's tide, for it happens that 
 this time our cargo is destined for a small creek, on the north-west 
 coast ; our only business here being to land my friend, Hariy" — here 
 Talbot bowed and smiled — " and to .> leave two hogsheads of 
 Bourdeaux, for that very true-hearted, kind, brave homme, Hemsworth, 
 at the Lodge there. You remember last winter we entered into a compact 
 with him to stock his cellar, provided no information of our proceedings 
 reached the revenue from any quarter. "Well, the wine was safely 
 stored in one of the caves on the coast, and we started with a light con- 
 science ; we had neither despatches nor run-brandy to trouble ns — 
 nothing to do but eat our supper ; saluer madame" — here he turned 
 round, and with an air of mock respect kissed Mary's hand — "and get 
 afloat again. As we came near the * Lodge,' I determined to make my 
 visit a brief one ; and so' leaving all my party, Harry included, outside, I 
 approached the house, which, to my surprise, showed lights from nearly 
 every window. This made me cautious, and so I crept stealthily to a 
 low window, across which the curtain was but loosely drawn, and Mort 
 de ma vie 1 what did I behold, but the prettiest face in Europe. Vne 
 ange de heautc. She was leaning over a table copying a drawing, or a 
 painting of some sort or other. Tete bleu ! here was a surprise. I 
 had never seen her before, although I was with Hemsworth a dozen 
 times." 
 
 " Go on — go on," said Lanty, whose curiosity was extreme to hear 
 what happened next. 
 
 "'Eh bien — I tried the sash, but it was fastened, I then went round 
 the house, and examined the other windows, one after the other — all 
 the same. Que /aire ? I thought of knocking boldly at the back-door, 
 but then I should have no chance of a peep at la belle in that way." 
 
 '* "What did you want with a peep at her ?" asked Mary, gruffly. 
 
 " Diable I what did I want? Pour V admirer y V adorer — or, at least 
 to make my respects, as becomes a stranger, and a Frenchman. 
 Pursuivons. There was no entree, without some noise — so I preferred 
 the room she was in, to any other, and gently disengaging my dirk, I 
 slipped it between the two sashes, to lift up the latch that fastened 
 them. Mort bleu ! the weapon slipped, and came slap through the 
 >ane, with a tremendous fracas. She started up, and screamed — there 
 
THE O DCNOGHtnET. 7% 
 
 Iras no use in any more delay. I put my foot through the window, an# 
 pushed open the sash at once — but before I was well in the room, beife 
 were ringing in every quarter of the house, and men's voices calling 
 aloud, and shouting to each other — when, suddenly, the door opened, 
 and whiz went a pistol-ball close by my head, and shattered the shutter 
 behind me. My fellows, outside, hearing the shot, unslung their pieces, 
 and before I could get down to them, poured in a volley — why, where- 
 fore, or upon whom, the de\il himself, that instigated them, can tell. 
 The garrison mustered strong, however, and replied — that they did, 
 by Jove, for one of ours, Emile de Louvois, is badly wounded. I 
 sounded the retreat, but the scoundrels would not mind me — and before 
 I was able to prevent it, teie bleu ! they had got round to the farm- 
 yard, and set fire to the corn-stacks ; in a second, the corn and hay 
 blazed up, and enveloped houss and all in smoke. I sounded the retreat 
 once more, and off the villains scampered, with poor Emile, to the boat; 
 and I, finding my worthy friend here an inactive spectator of the whole 
 from a grove near the road, resolved not to give up my supper — and so, 
 me void ! — but come,, can none of you explain this affair 1 What is 
 Hemsworth doing, with all this armed household, and this captive 
 princess ?" 
 
 " Is the * Lodge' burned down ?'' said Lanty, whose interest in the 
 inhabitants had a somewhat selfish origin, 
 
 " No, they got the fire under. I saw a wild-looking devil mount 
 one of the ricks, with a great canvas sail, all wetted, and drag it over 
 the burning stack — and before I left the place, the Lodge was quite 
 safe." 
 
 " I'm sorry for it," said Marj?-, with a savage determination. " I'm 
 sorry to the heart's core. Luck nor gi'ace never was in the glen, since 
 the first stone of it was laid — nor will be again, till it is a ruin ! Why 
 didn't they lay it in ashes, when they were about it ?" 
 
 " Faith, it seemed to me," said Talbot, in a low soft voice, " they 
 would have asked nothing better. I never saw such bull-dogs in my 
 life. It was all you could do, Flaha alt, to call them off." 
 
 " True enough," replied Jacques, laughing. " They enjoy a bris^e 
 Hke that with all their hearts." 
 
 '^ The English won't stay long here, after this night," was Lanty s 
 sage reflection, but one which he did not utter aloud in the present 
 company. And then, in accordance with Jacques' request, he pro- 
 ceeded to explain by what different tenants the Lodge became occupied 
 since his last visit ; and that an English baronet and his daughter, 
 vith a household of many servants, had replaced Hemsworth and hi* 
 
BO THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 few domestics. At every stage of the recital, Flahault stopped tlie 
 narrative, to give him time to laugh. To him the adventure was full 
 of drollery. Even the recollection of his wounded comrade little damped 
 his enjoyment of a scene, which might have been attended by the saddest 
 results ; and he chuckled a hundred timss of er what he suspected the 
 Englishman must feel, on this, his first visit to Ireland. " I could rob 
 the mail to-morrow, for the mere fun of reading his letters to his 
 friends," said he. " Mort bleu ! what a description of Irish rapparrees, 
 five hundred in number, armed with pikes." 
 
 " I wish ye'd gave him the cause to do it," said Mary, bitterly — 
 " what brings them here ? who wants them ? or looks for them ?" 
 
 " You are right, Mary," said Talbot, mildly. " Ireland for the 
 Irish !" 
 
 " Ay, Ireland for the Irish !" repeated Mary and Lanty ; and the 
 sentiment was drank with all the honours of a favoured toast. 
 
 For some time the party continued to discuss Flahault's story, and 
 calculate on every possible turn the affair might give rise to. All agree- 
 ing, finally, on one point, that Sir Marmaduke would scarcely venture 
 to protract his stay in a country, where his visit had been signalized by 
 such a reception. The tone of the conversation seemed little to accord 
 with Captain Jacques* humour, whose convivial temperament found 
 shght pleasure in protracted or argumentative discussions of any kind. 
 
 " Que le diahle Vimporte^^' cried he, at last. " This confounded talk 
 has stopped the bottle this half-hour. Come, Talbot, let's have a song, 
 
 my lad; never shake your head, mon enfant. "Well, then, here 
 
 goes." 
 
 Thus saying, Flahault pushed back his chair a little from the table, 
 and in a rich deep bass voice, which rung through the high rafters of 
 the cabin, chanted out the following rude verses, to a French vaudeville 
 air — giving the final e of the French words, at the end of each line, that 
 peculiar accentuation of a — which made the word sound contrahanda ! 
 
 Though this information as to Captain Jacques' performance seems 
 of little moment, yet suck was the fact, that any spirit the doggerel 
 Dossessed could only be attributed to the manner of the singer, and 
 the efifect produced by the intonation we have mentioned. 
 
 LA CONTRABANDE. 
 
 A bumper, " mes enfans," to swallow your care, 
 
 A full bumper, we pledge, " a L'Irlande ;'* 
 The land of " belles femmes — le pays de bonne chefe, 
 
 •* Et toujours de la Contrabandc.** 
 
THE o'dONOGBUE. 81 
 
 8ome like to make love, and some like to make war. 
 
 Some of beauty obey "' la commande ;" 
 But what is a glance from an eye, "bleu," or "noir,** 
 
 Except it be, " la Contrabande." 
 
 When a prince takes the cash that a peasant can't sparer 
 
 And lets him lie down " sur la lands ;" 
 Call it, as you like — but the truth is, I swear, 
 
 " C'est bien pire que — la Contrabande." 
 
 Stolen kisses are ever the sweetest, we're told, 
 
 They sink like a "navire qui fende ;" 
 And what's true of a kiss, is the same, too, of gold. 
 
 They're both, in their way, *' Contrabande !** 
 
 When kings take your money, they won't even say, 
 
 " Mon ami le Dieu vous le rende ;" 
 While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay, 
 
 " C'est partout et toujours, Contrabande.** 
 
 The good things of life are not equal, I'm sure. 
 Then, how pleasant to make the "amende;" 
 To take from the wealthy, and give to the poor, 
 *• Voila ! que j'appelle, Contrabande." 
 
 Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange. 
 
 That even " La France et L'Irlande," 
 If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange, 
 
 There are folks who call that, " Contrabande." 
 
 " Vive la Contrabande, mes amis,'* shouted out Jacques, as he arose 
 glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every 
 voice repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able. 
 
 " 'Tis an elegant song, any way," said Lanty, " if one only under- 
 stood it all — and the tune's mighty like the ' Cruiskeen Lawn.' " 
 
 " Well, Harry," said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder, 
 *' will the song persuade you to turn smuggler ? I fear not. You'd 
 rather practise your own * Contrabande' among the bright eyes and 
 dark locks of the capital. Well, there are worse * metiers.' I have 
 had a turn at it these fifteen years, and whether on the waters or 
 Ontario, or Champlain, or scudding along under the fog-banks of the 
 Scheldt, I never grew weary of it. But, now for a little business talk — 
 where is the Padre ? where's Father Luke ? was he not to have been 
 hereto-night?" 
 
 Mary whispered the answer in the captain'*: ear. 
 
 o 
 
iS THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 •* All I parhleUf** exclaimed lie aloud — " is it so ? Practising a little 
 
 * Contrabande' of his own — trying to see a poor fellow safe over the 
 frontier, into the next world." 
 
 " Fie for shame. Captain Jacques," said Mary, with pious horror. 
 " That's not the way to talk of the holy oflfices." 
 
 " I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivieres, 
 he's the boy could despatch them without trouble." 
 
 Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault's new 
 turn of the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he 
 went on — 
 
 " We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois 
 Rivieres, when a messenger came from Lachegon, for the Pere to 
 administer the last rites to a * mourant.' Maurice promised to be there 
 in half-an-hour, but never stirred — and though three other messengers 
 came for him, the answer was all the same — until, at last came word, 
 
 * Cest trop tardy il est mort^ 
 
 " * Trop tard /' said Maurice, ' not a bit of it ; give me a pen and 
 mk, and some paper.' With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and 
 wrote — 
 
 " *MoN CHER Pierre — Pais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre 
 diable, qui s'est glisse hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement 
 il etait bien presse ; mais ta I'arrangera pour le mieux. 
 
 " * Ton viel ami, 
 
 " * Maurice Dulang. 
 *♦ * St. Pierre, I, la Conciergerie au Paradis.' 
 
 " * Put that in his mouth,' said Maurice, * and there's no fear of 
 him.*" 
 
 "'Twas a blessed gospel he gave him," said Mary, who did not com- 
 prehend the French portion of the story, "and sure it's as good as 
 any thing." 
 
 "We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at 
 Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine — ^but though the Com- 
 missaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a bre- 
 viary in his portmanteau, and they couldn't let him off. Pauvre bete ! 
 To travel about the world with the * piece de conviction' in his posses- 
 sion. What, Harry, no more wine ?" 
 
 " I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a tempta- 
 tion." 
 
 " A bouquet, every glass of it ! What say you. Master Lawler — 
 does it suit your palate V* 
 
THE o'donoghue. 83 
 
 *• I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,*' said Lanty ; 
 *rm not genteel enough for wine, God help me — but it's time to 
 turn in, any how — and there's Mary asleep already." 
 
 " I don't stir till I finish the flask," said Jacques, firmly ; " and ir 
 you won't drink, you needn't grudge me your company. It's hard to 
 say when we meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn't that so V 
 
 " Yes, and that's the point I wish to come to — where and how shall 
 I find a mount ? — I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, 
 but he has not made his appearance.'* 
 
 " You never fell upon your legs more fortunately — here's your man 
 for a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what's to be had now ?" 
 
 " Devil a thing can be got for love or money," said Lanty. " If the 
 gentleman only told me yesterday " 
 
 " Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the 
 Western Ocean — but that's gone by — ^let us talk of to-day." 
 
 " My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, 
 I'll sell him ; but he's a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price." 
 
 " Has he strength and speed for a fast ride," said Talbot, " and will 
 his condition bear it ?" 
 
 " I'll answer for it — you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if 
 you give him ten minutes* rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom." 
 
 " That's enough — what's his price ?" 
 
 ''Take a look at him first," replied Lanty, "for if you are judge 
 of a beast, you'll not refuse what I ask you." With these words he 
 lighted a candle, and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against 
 the wall, and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, 
 by a narrow passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by 
 Talbot, Flahault remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. 
 Scarcely, however, had the two figures disappeared in the distance, when 
 he shook Mary violently by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, 
 but collected tone — 
 
 "Mary— Mary, I say— is that fellow all safef' 
 
 "Ay is he safe," said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a 
 second. " Why do you ask now ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you why — for myself I care not a sous — I'm here to-day, 
 away to-morrow — but Talbot's deep in the business — his neck's in the 
 halter — can we trust Lawler on his account — a man of rank and large 
 fortune as he is, cannot be spared — what say you ?" 
 
 **You may trust him. Captain," said Mary, "he knows his life 
 would not be his own two hours if he turned informer — and then 
 this Mr. Talbot , he's a great man you tell me ?" 
 
64 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "He's a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the 
 game — that's all I know, Mary — and, indeed, the present voyage was 
 more to bring him over, than any thing else — but hush, here they 
 come." 
 
 " You shall have your money — you've no objection to French gold, 
 I hope — for several years I have seen no other," said Talbot entering. 
 
 " I know it well," said Lanty, " and would just as soon take it, as if 
 it had King George on it." 
 
 " You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far oflf — will that do ?" 
 said the youth, as he emptied a hea\ily filled purse of gold upon the 
 table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer. 
 
 " As well as the best, sir," said Lanty, as he stored the money in 
 his long leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket. 
 
 " Will Mrs. M*Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake," said 
 the youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Vene- 
 tian work, and threw it gallantly over Mary's ; "this is the first shel- 
 ter I have found, after a long exile from my native land ; and you, my 
 old comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are 
 in the lugger — and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at 
 once — I should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems 
 over." 
 
 Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young 
 man and the others ; for, although he had mingled but httle in the 
 evening's conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the 
 charm of his good looks, had won their favourable opinions ; besides 
 that he was pledged to a cause which had all their sympathies. 
 
 While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and 
 bridled the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still 
 raging fiercely, and the night dark as ever. 
 
 "You'd better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him," said 
 Mary, as she looked out into the wild and dreary night. 
 
 «'Tis what I mean to do," said Lanty, " I'll show him as far as the 
 turn of the road." 
 
 Though the stranger declined the proffered civility, Lanty was firm 
 in his resolution, and the young man, vaulting lightly into the saddle, 
 called out a last farewell to the others, and rode on beside his guide. 
 
 Mary had scarcely time to remove the remains of the supper, when 
 Lanty re-entered the cabin. 
 
 "He's the noble-hearted fellow, anyway," said he, "and never took 
 a shiLUng off the first price I asked him ;" and with that he put his 
 hand into his breast pocket to examine, once more, the strange coin oi 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 86 
 
 France. With a start, a tremendous oath broke from him — " My mo- 
 ney — my pocket-book is lost," exclaimed he, in wild excitement, while he 
 ransacked pocket after pocket of his dress. *'Bad luck to that glen, 
 I dropt it out there, and with the torrent of water that's falling, it 
 will never be found — och, murther, this is too bad." 
 
 In vain the others endeavoured to comfort and console him — all their 
 assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its being discovered the 
 next morning, were in vain. Lanty re-lighted the lantern, and mutter- 
 ing maledictions on the weather, the road, and his] own politeness, he 
 issued forth to search after his treasure, an occupation which, with 
 all his perseverance, was unsuccessful ; for when day was breaking, he 
 was still groping along the road, cursing his hard fate, and every thing 
 which had any share in inflicting it. 
 
 *' The money is not the worst of it," said Lanty, as he threw himself 
 down, exhausted and worn out, on his bed. " The money's not the 
 worst of it — there was papers in that book, I wouldn't have seen for 
 double the amount." 
 
 Long after the old smuggler was standing out to sea the next day, 
 Lanty Lawler wandered backwards and forwards in the glen, now search- 
 ing among the wet leaves that lay in heaps by the way side, or, equally 
 in vain, sounding every rivulet and water-course which swept past. His 
 search was fruitless ; and well it might be — the road was strewn with 
 fragments of rocks and tree-tops for miles — while even yet the swollen 
 stream tore wildly past, cutting up the causeway in its passage, and 
 foaming on amid the wreck of the hurricane. 
 
 Yet the entire of that day did he persevere, regardless of the beating 
 rain, and the cold, drifting wind, to pace to and fro, his heart bent upon 
 recovering what he had lost. 
 
 *'Yer sowl is set upon money; devil a doubt of it, Lanty," said 
 Mary, as dripping with wet, and shaking with cold, he at last re-enter- 
 ed the cabin ; " sorra one of me would go rooting there, for a crock oi, 
 goold, if I was sure to find it." 
 
 " It is not the money, Mary, I tould you before — it's something else 
 was in the pocket-book," said he, half angrily, while he sat down to 
 brood in silence over his misfortune. 
 
 " 'Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then," said she, with a spice ot 
 iealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his ad- 
 dresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable 
 
 " May be it is, and may be it is not," was the cranky reply. 
 
 " Well, she'll have a saving husband, any way," said Mary, tartly, 
 " and one that knows how to keep a good grip of the money.'* 
 
86 THE o'donoghub. 
 
 The horse-dealer made no answer to this enconium on his economy, 
 but with eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on his loss ; meanwhile 
 Mrs. M'Kelly's curiosity, piqued by her ineffectual efiforts to obtain 
 information, grew each instant stronger, and at last became irrepressible. 
 
 *• Can't you say what it is you've lost? sure there's many a one goes 
 by, here, of a Saturday to market — and if you leave the token " 
 
 " There's no use in it — sorra bit," said he, despondingly. 
 
 " You know your own saycrets best," said Mary, foiled at every 
 effort ; "and they must be the dhroll saycrets too, when you're so much 
 afraid of their being found out." 
 
 '' Troth then," said Lanty, as a ray of his old gallantry shot across 
 his mind ; " troth then, there isn't one I'd tell a saycret too as soon as 
 yourself, Mary M 'Kelly ; you know the most of my heart already, and 
 why wouldn't you know it all ?" 
 
 " Faix it's little I care to hear about it," said Mary, with an affecta- 
 tion of indifference, the most finished coquetry could not have surpassed. 
 •* Ye may tell it, or no, just as ye plaze." 
 
 " That's it now," cried Lanty — " that's the way of women, the whole 
 world over ; keep never minding them, and bad luck to peace or ease 
 you get ; and then try and plaze them, and see what thanks you have. 
 I was going to tell you all about it." 
 
 "And why don't you?" interrupted she, half fearing lest she might 
 have pulled the cord over- tight already ; " why don't you tell it, Lanty 
 dear?" 
 
 These last words settled the matter. Like the feather that broke 
 the camel's back, these few and slight syllables were all that was want- 
 ing to overcome the horse-dealer's resistance. 
 
 "Well, here it is now," said he, casting, as he spoke, a cautious 
 glance around, lest any chance listener should overhear him. "There 
 was in that pocket-book, a letter, sealed with three big seals, that 
 Father Luke gave me yesterday morning, and said to me, * Lanty 
 Lawler, I'm going over to Bally voumey, and after that, I'm going on 
 to Cork, and it's mighty likely I'll go as far as Dublin, for the Bishop 
 may be there, and if he is, I must follow him; and here's a letter,' says 
 he, * that you must give the O'Donoghue with your own hands' — them 
 was the words — 'with your own hands, Lanty ; and now swear you'll 
 not leave itto any one else, but do as I tell you ;' and, faix, I took my 
 oath of it, and see, now, it's lost ; may I never, but I don't know how 
 I'll ever face him again ; and sure God knows what was in it." 
 
 ** And there was three seals on it," said Mary, musingly, as if such 
 extraordinary measures of secrecy could bode nothing good. 
 
THE O DO.NOGHUE. 87 
 
 '* Each of them as big as a half-crown-— and it was thick inside too ; 
 musha 'twas the evil day I ever set eyes on it !'* and with this allusion to 
 the lost money, which, by an adroitness of superstition, he coupled with 
 the bad luck the letter had brought him, Lanty took his farewell of 
 Mary, and, with a heavy heart, set out on his journey. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MISTAKBS ON A. I. li SIDES. 
 
 The occurrence so briefly mentioned by Flahault, of the night attack 
 on the " Lodge,'' was not so easily treated by the residents ; and so many 
 different versions of the affair were in circulation, that Miss Travers, the 
 only one whose information could have thrown any light upon it, -was 
 confused by the many marvels she heard, and totally unable to recall to 
 mind what had really taken place. Sir Marmaduke himself examined 
 the servants, and compared their testimony ; but fear and exaggeration 
 conspired to make the evidence valueless. Some asserting that there 
 were at least a hundred assailants surrounding the house at one time — 
 others, that they wore a kind of uniform, and had their faces blackened 
 — some again had seen parties prowling about the premises during the 
 day, and could positively swear to one man, " a tall fellow in a ragged 
 blue coat, and without shoes or stockings" — no uncommon phenomena 
 in those parts. But the butler negatived all these assertions, and stout- 
 ly maintained that there had been neither attack nor assailants — that 
 t.ie whole affair was a device of Terry's, to display his zeal and bravery ; 
 and, in short, that he had set fire to the rick in the haggard, and "got 
 up" the affray for his own benefit. 
 
 In proportion as any fact occurred to throw discredit on the testimony 
 of each, he who proffered it became a thousand times more firm and re- 
 solute in his assertion — circumstances dubious a moment before, were 
 then suddenly remembered and sworn to, with numerous little aids to 
 corroboration newly recalled to mind. To one point, however, all the 
 evidence more or less converged, and that was, to accuse Terry of being 
 the cause, or at least an accomplice in the transaction. Poor fellow — his 
 own devotedness had made enemies for him every where — the alacrity with 
 
88 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 which he mounted the burning stack was an offence not soon to be for- 
 gotten by those who neither risked Hfe nor Hmb ; nor were the taunts he 
 lavished on their sluggish backwardness to be forgiven now. Unhappilyj 
 too, Terry was not a favourite among the servants : he had never learnt 
 how much deference is due from the ragged man to the pampered menial 
 of a rich household ; he had not been trained to that subserviency oi 
 demeanour which should mark the intercourse of a poor, houseless, 
 friendless creature like himself, with the tagged and lace-covered ser- 
 vants of a wealthy master. Terry, by some strange blunder of his na- 
 ture, imagined that, in his freedom and independence, he was the 
 better man of the two ; he knew that to do nothing, was the preroga- 
 tive of the great; and as he fulfilled that condition to a considerable 
 extent, he fancied he should enjoy its privileges also. For this reason 
 ne had ever regarded the whole class of servants as greatly his inferiors ; 
 and although he was ready and willing to peril his life at any moment 
 for Sir Marmaduke or his daughter, the merest common-place services 
 he would refuse to the others, without a moment's hesitation. Nekher 
 intimidation could awe, nor bribery bend him — his nature knew not 
 what fear was in any shape, save one — that of .being apprehended and 
 shot for a deserter — and as to any prospect of buying his good offices, 
 that was totally out of the question. 
 
 In an Irish household Terry's character would have been appreciated 
 at once. The respect which is never refused to any bereavement, but, 
 in particular, to that greatest of all afflictions, would have secured for 
 him, there, both forgiveness and affection — ^his waywardness and ca- 
 price would have been a law to the least good-tempered servant of the 
 family; but Sir Marmaduke's retainers were all English, and had about 
 as much knowledge of, or sympathy with, such a creature, as he himseh 
 possessed of London life and manners. 
 
 As his contempt was not measured by any scale of prudence, but 
 coolly evinced on every occasion of their intercourse, they, one and all, 
 detested him beyond bounds — most, asserting that he was a thorough- 
 paced knave, whose folly was a garb assumed to secure a life of idleness 
 — and all, regardinghim in the light of a spy, ever ready to betray them 
 to their master. 
 
 When, therefore, one after another, the servants persisted in either 
 openly accusing or insinuating suggestions against Terry, Sir Marma- 
 duke became sorely puzzled. It was true, he himself had witnessed his 
 conduct the night before ; but if their version was correct, all his daring, 
 energy, and boldness were so many proofs against him. He was, indeed, 
 reluctant to think so badly of the poor fellow — but how discredit the evi- 
 

 T' 
 
 V/y7,^//'//./yyyA< 
 
 <y 
 
THE o'dONOGHTJE. S9 
 
 dence of his entire household ? His butler had been in his service for 
 years — and oh ! what a claim for all the exercise of evil influence — for 
 all the petty tyranny of the low-minded and the base-born — tracking its 
 way through eaves-dropping, and nnsinuating its venom in moments ol 
 
 unguarded freedom. His footman too but why go on ? His daughter 
 
 alone rejected the notion with indignation; but in her eager vindication 
 of the poor fellow's honour, her excitement militated against success — 
 for age thus ever pronounces upon youth, and too readily confounds a 
 high-spirited denunciation of wrong, with a mistaken, ill-directed enthu- 
 siasm. He listened, it is true, to all she said of Terry's devotedness 
 and courage — of his artless, simple nature — of his single-minded, gentle 
 character; but by a fatal tendency, too frequent as we advance in 
 years, the scales of doubt ever lean against, and not to the side favour- 
 able to human nature, and as he shook his head mournfully, he said — 
 " I wish I did not suspect him." 
 
 " Send for him at least," said his daughter, as with an effort she re- 
 strained the emotion that agitated her ; " speak to him yourself." 
 " To what end, my child, if he really is innocent?" 
 "Oh! yes, indeed — indeed he is," she exclaimed, • as the tears at 
 IcHgth fell fast upon her cheek. 
 
 " "Well then, be it so," said Sir Marmaduke, as he rung the bell, 
 and ordered Terr}' to be sent for. 
 
 "While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her hands, her fa- 
 ther paced slowly up and down the room ; and so absorbed was he in his 
 thoughts, that he had not noticed Terry, who had meanwhile entered 
 the room, and now stood respectfully beside, the door. When the old 
 man's eyes did fall on him, he started back, with horror and astonish- 
 ment. The poor fellow's clothes were actually reduced to a mass of 
 burnedrags — one sleeve was completely gone, and, there, could be seen 
 his bare arm scorched and blackened by the fire — a bandage of coarse 
 linen wrapping the hand and fingers — a deep cut marked his brow — and 
 his hair was still matted and clotted with the blood — ^while his face was 
 of the colour of death itself. 
 
 '' Canyon doubt him now, father,'* whispered the young girl, as she 
 gazed on the poor fellow, whose wandering eyes roamed over the orna- 
 ments of the chamber, in total unconsciousness of himself and his suf- 
 ferings. 
 
 " Well, Terry," said Sir Marmaduke after a pause, " what account 
 do you give of last night's business ?" 
 
 "That's a picture of Keim-an-Eigh," said Terry, as he fixed his large 
 eyes, open to their widest extent, on a framed drawing on the wall. 
 " There's the Eagle's Cliff, and that's Murrow Waterfall — and there's 
 
90 Tin: o'donoghuk. 
 
 the lake — ay, and see if there isn't a boat on it. Well, well, but it's 
 beautiful — one could walk up the shepherd's path there, where the goat 
 is — ay, there's a fellow going up — musha, that's me — I'm going over 
 to Cubber-na-creena, by the short cut." 
 
 " Tell me all you know of what happened last night, Terry,'* re- 
 peated Sir Marmaduke. 
 
 " It was a great fire, devil a doubt of it," said Terry, eagerly ; 
 " the blaze from the big stack was twice as high as the roof ; but when 
 I put the wet sail of the boat on it, it all went into black smoke ; it 
 nearly choked me." 
 
 * How did it catch fire first, Terry ? can you tell us that ?" 
 
 " They put a piece of tindir in it ; I gave them an ould rag, and 
 they rubbed it over with powder, and set it burning.' 
 " Who were they that did this ?" 
 
 * The fellows that threw me down — what fine pistols they had, with 
 silver all over them ! They said that they would not beat me at all, and 
 they didn't either. When I gave them the rag, they said, • Now, my 
 lad, we'll show you a fine fire ;' and, true for them, I never seen a 
 grander." 
 
 In this vague, rambling strain, did Terry reply to every question put 
 to him, his thoughts ever travelling in one narrow circle. Who they 
 were that fired the haggard, how many, and what kind of appearance 
 they wore, he knew nothing of whatever ; for in addition to his natural 
 imbecility of mind, the shock of the adventure, and the fever of his 
 wounds and bruises, had utterly routed the small remnant of under- 
 standing which usually served to guide him. 
 
 To one question only did his manner evince hesitation and doubt in 
 the answer, and that was, when Sir Marmaduke asked him, how it 
 happened that he should have been up at the Lodge at so late an hour, 
 since the doors were all locked and barred a considerable time previous. 
 
 Terry's face flushed scarlet at the question, and he made no reply ; he 
 stole a sharp, quick glance towards Miss Travers, beneath his eyelids, 
 but as rapidly withdrew it again^ when his colour grew deeper and 
 deeper. 
 
 The old man marked the embarrassment, and all his suspicions were 
 revived at once. ** You must tell me this, Terry," said he, in a voice 
 of some impa'tience ; " I insist upon knowing it." 
 
 " Yes, Terry, speak it out freely ; you can have no cause for con- 
 cealment," said Sybella, encouragingly. 
 
 " I'll not tell it !" said he, after a pause of some seconds, during 
 which he seemed to have been agitating within himself all the reason* 
 on either side— "I'll nottellit." 
 
THE o'dONOGHUB. 91 
 
 «• Come, sir,'* said Sir Marmaduke angrily, *' I must and will know 
 this ; your hesitation has a cause, and it shall be known." 
 
 The boy started at the tones so unusual to his ears, and stared at the 
 speaker in mute astonishment. 
 
 " I am not displeased with you, Terry— at least I shall not be, if 
 you speak freely and openly to me. Now, then, answer my question — 
 What brought you about the Lodge at so late an hour ?" 
 
 *' I'll not tell," said the youth resolutely. 
 
 " For shame, Terry," said Sybella, in a low, soothing voice, as she 
 drew near him ; *'how can you speak thus to my father. You would 
 not have me displeased with you ?" 
 
 The boy's face grew pale as death, and his lips quivered with agita- 
 tion, while his eyes, glazed with heavy tears, were turned downwards ; 
 still he never spoke a word. 
 
 ' Well, what think you of him, now ?" said Sir Marmaduke in a 
 whisper to his daughter. 
 
 " That he is innocent — perfectly innocent," repHed she, triumphantly. 
 " The poor fellow has his own reasons — shallow enough, doubtless — for 
 his silence ; but they have no spot or stain of guilt about them. 
 Let me try if I cannot unfathom this business — I'll go down to the 
 boat-house." 
 
 The generous girl delayed not a moment, but hastened from the room 
 as she spoke, leaving Sir Marmaduke and Terry silently confronting 
 each other. The moment of his daughter's departure. Sir Marmaduke 
 felt relieved from the interference her good opinion of Terry suggested, 
 and, at once altering his whole demeanour, he walked close up to him, 
 and said — 
 
 "I shall but give you one chance more, sir. Answer my question 
 now, or never." 
 
 " Never, then !" rejoined Terry, in a tone of open defiance. 
 
 The words, and the look by which they were accompanied, overcame 
 the old man's temper in a moment, and he said — 
 
 " I thought as much. I guessed how deeply gratitude had sunk in 
 such a heart. Away ! Let me see you no more." 
 
 The boy turned his eyes from the speaker till they fell upon his own 
 seared and burned hmb, and the hand swathed in its rude bandage. 
 That mute appeal was all he made, and then burst into a flood of tears. 
 The old man turned away to hide his own emotions, and when he 
 looked round, Terry was gone. The hall door lay open. He had 
 passed out and gained the lawn — no sight of him could be seen. 
 
99 THE O OONOGHT7E. 
 
 " I know it, father, I know it all now," said Sybella, as she camt 
 running up the slope from the lake. 
 
 " It is too late, my child : he has gone — left us for ever, I fear," 
 said Sir ISIarmaduke, as in shame and sorrow he rested his head upon 
 her shoulder. 
 
 For some seconds she could not comprehend his words ; and, when 
 at last she did so, she burst forth — 
 
 "And, oh, father, think how we have wronged him. It was in his 
 care and devotion to us, the poor fellow incurred"* our doubts. His 
 habit was to sit beneath the window each night, so long as lights gleamed 
 within. Till they were extinguished, he never sought his rest, The 
 boatman tells me this, and says, his notion was, that God watches 
 over the dark hours only, and that man's precautions were needed up 
 to that time." 
 
 "With sincere and heartfelt sorrow Sir Marmaduke turned away. 
 Servants were despatched on foot and horseback to recover the idiot 
 boy, and persuade him to return ; but his path lay across a wild and 
 mountain region, where few could follow ; and at nightfall the mes- 
 sengers returned unsuccessful in their search. 
 
 If there was real sorrow over his departure in the parlour, the very 
 opposite feeling pervaded the kitchen. There, each in turn exulted in 
 his share of what had occurred, and took pains to exaggerate his 
 claims to gratitude, for having banished one so unpopular and 
 unfriended. 
 
 Alarm at the attack of the previous night, and sorrow for the unjust 
 treatment of poor Terry, were not Sir Marmaduke's only emotions on 
 this sad morning. His messenger had just returned from Carrig-na- 
 curra with very dispiriting tidings of Herbert O'Donoghue. Respect for 
 the feelings of the family imder the circumstances of severe illness, had 
 induced him to defer his intended visit to a more suitable opportunity ; 
 but his anxiety for the youth's recovery was unceasing, and he awaited 
 the return of each servant sent to inquire after him, with the most pain- 
 ful impatience. In this frame of mind was he as evening drew near, 
 and he wandered down his avenue to the road-side to learn some 
 minutes earlier the last intelligence of the boy. It was a calm and 
 Deaceful hour ; not a leaf moved in the still air ; and all in the glen 
 seemed bathed in the tranquil influence of the mellow sunset. The 
 contrast to the terrific storm which so lately swept through the moun- 
 tain-pass was most striking, and appealed to the old man's heart, as 
 reflecting back the image of human life, so varying in its aspect, so 
 
THE o'donoghue, , 93 
 
 ciwrngeful of good and evil. He stood and meditated on the passages 
 of Ills own life, whose tenor had, till now, been so equable, but whose 
 fortunes seemed already to participate in the eventful fate of a distracted 
 country. He regretted, deeply regretted, that he had ever come to 
 Ireland. He began to learn how little power there is to guide the helm 
 of human fortune, when once engaged in the stormy current, and he saw 
 himself already the sport of a destiny he had never anticipated. 
 
 If he was puzzled at the aspect of a peasantry, highly gifted with 
 intelligence, yet barbarously ignorant — active and energetic, yet indo- 
 lent and fatalist — the few hints he had gathered of his neighbour, the 
 O'Donoghue, amazed him still more ; and by no effort of his imagination 
 could he conceive the alliance between family pride and poverty — ^be- 
 tween the reverence for ancestry, and an utter indiiference to the pre- 
 sent. He could not understand such an anomaly as pretension without 
 wealth ; and the only satisfactory explanation he could arrive at, to 
 himself, was, that in a wild and secluded tract, even so much superiority 
 as this old chieftain possessed, attracted towards him the respect of all 
 humbler and more lowly than himself, and made even his rude state 
 seem affluence and power. If in his advances to the O'Donoghue he 
 had observed all the forms of a measured respect, it was because he felt 
 so deeply his debtor for a service, that he would omit nothing in the 
 repayment : his gratitude was sincere and heartfelt, and he would not 
 admit any obstacle in the way of acknowledging it. 
 
 Beflecting thus, he was suddenly startled by the sound of wheels 
 coming up the glen — ^he listened, and now heard the low trot of a horse, 
 and the admonitions of a man's voice, delivered in tones of anger and 
 impatience. The moment after, an old-fashioned gig, drawn by a small 
 miserable pony, appeared, from which a man had dismounted to ascend 
 the hill. 
 
 " A fine evening, sir," said Sir Marmaduke, as the stranger, whose 
 dress bespoke one of the rank of gentleman, drew near. 
 
 The other stopped suddenly, and surveyed the baronet without speak 
 ing ; then, throwing down the collar of his great coat, which he wore 
 high round his face, he made a respectful salute, and said — 
 
 ** A lovely evening, sir. I have the honour to see Sir Marmaduke 
 Travers, I believe? May I introduce myself. Doctor Roach, of Killarney?" 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! Then you are probably come from Mr. O'Donoghue's 
 house ? Is the young gentleman better this evening ?" 
 
 Roach shook his head dubiously, but made no reply. 
 
 " I hope, sir, you don't apprehend danger to his life V* asked Sil 
 Marmaduke, with an effort to appear cnhn ;.s he spoke. 
 
94 , THE o'donoghuk. 
 
 "Indeed I do, then,** said Roach, firmly; "the miscTiiefs done 
 already." 
 
 " He's not dead V said Sir Marmaduke, almost breathless in his 
 terror. 
 
 " Not dead ; but the same as dead : effusion will carry him oiF some 
 time to-morrow." 
 
 ** And can you leave him in this state ? Is there nothing to be done ? 
 Nothing you could suggest ?" cried the old man, scarcely able to re- 
 press his indignant feeling at the heartless manner of the doctor. 
 
 " There's many a thing one might try," said Roach, not noticing the 
 temper of the question, " for the boy is young ; but for the sake of a 
 chance, how am I to stay away from my practice and my other patients ? 
 And indeed slight a prospect as he has of recovery, my own of a fee is 
 slighter still. I think I've all the corn in Egypt in my pocket this 
 minute," said he, slapping his hand on his purse : " one of the late 
 king's guineas, wherever they had it lying by till now." 
 
 "I am overjoyed to have met you, sir," said Sir Marmaduke hastily, 
 and by a great exertion concealing the disgust this speech suggested, 
 " I wish for an opinion about my daughter's health — a cold, I fancy — ^but 
 to-morrow will do better. Could you return to Mr. O'Donoghue's to- 
 night ? I have not a bed to offer you here. This arrangement may 
 serve both parties, as I ffjrvently hope something may yet be done fcr- 
 the youth." 
 
 " I'll visit Miss Travers in the morning with pleasure." 
 
 " Don't leave him, sir, I entreat you, till I send over ; it will oe quite 
 time enough when you hear from me : let the youth be your first care, 
 doctor ; in the mean while accept this slight retainer, for I beg you to 
 consider your time as given to me now," and with that he pressed 
 several guineas into the willing palm of the doctor. 
 
 As Roach surveyed the shining gold, his quick cunning divined the 
 old baronet's intentions, and with a readiness long habit had per- 
 fected, he said — 
 
 *'The case of danger before all others, any day. I'll turn about at 
 once and see what can be done for the lad." 
 
 Sir Marmaduke leaned towards him, and said some words hastily in 
 a low whispering voice. 
 
 "Never fear — never fear. Sir Marmaduke," was the reply, as he 
 mounted to the seat of his vehicle, and turned the pony's head once 
 more down the glen. 
 
 " Lose no time, I beseech you," cried the. old man, waving his hand 
 in token of adieu ; nor was the direction mih ceded, for, using his whip 
 
(yy. 
 
 ?yOiyc/u-^'//>'y/^/'97y^'^/^Ay (yt^^y^J^^^^^y^y '^ v^;^^^ 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 90 
 
 mthfedoubied energy,, the doctor sped along the road at a canter, which 
 threatened annihilatio:^ to the frail vehicle at every bound of the animal. 
 
 " Five hundred !" muttered Sir Marmaduke to himself, as he looked 
 after him. "I'd give half my fortune to see him safe through it." 
 
 Meanwhile Roach proceeded on his way, speculating on all the gain 
 this fortunate meeting might bring to him, and then meditating what 
 reasons he should allege to the O'Donoghue for his speedy return. 
 
 " I'll tell him a lucky thought struck me in the glen," muttered he; 
 " or, what ! if I said I forgot something — a pocket-book, or case of in- 
 struments — any thing will do ;'* and, with this comfortable reflection, he 
 urged his beast onward. 
 
 The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow 
 causeway, which led to the old keep ; and here, now, Kerry O'Leary was 
 closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a 
 bolt and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. 
 The sound of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman's 
 ear, for he hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of 
 the gate, and as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred 
 with iron, resembled the grated aperture of a convent door. 
 
 "You're late this time, any how,'* cried Kerry. "Tramp back again, 
 friend, the way you came ; and be thankful it's myself seen you ; for, 
 by the blessed Father, if it was Master Mark was here, you'd carry away 
 more lead in your skirts than you'd like." 
 
 "What, Kerry?— what's that you're saying?" said the astonished 
 doctor ; " don't you know me, man ?" 
 
 "Kerry's my name, sure enough; but artful as yoif are, you'll just 
 keep the other side of the door. Be off now, in God's name. 'Tis a 
 fair warning I give you ; and faix if you. won't listen to rayson, you 
 might hear worse ;'* and as he spoke, that ominous sound, the click oi 
 a gun-cock, was heard, and the muzzle of a carbine peeped between the 
 iron bars. 
 
 " Tear-and-ounds ! ye scoundrel ! you're not going to fire a bullet 
 at me ?" 
 
 " 'Tis slugs they are," was the reply, as Kerry adjusted the piece, 
 and seemed to take as good an aim as the darkness permitted ; " divil 
 a more nor slugs, as you'll know soon. I'll count three, now, and may 
 I never wear boots, if I don't blaze, if you're not gone before it's over. 
 Here's one," shouted he, in a louder key. 
 
 *' The saints protect me, but I'll be murdered," muttered old Roach, 
 blessing himself, but imable from terror to speak aloud, or stir frc:n the spot, 
 
 "Here's two.!" cried Kerry, still louder. 
 
96 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 •* I*m going ! — I'm going ! give me time to leave this blasted place ; 
 bad luck to the day and the hour I ever saw it." 
 
 ** It's too late," shouted Kerry. " Here's three !" and as he spoke 
 bang went the piece, and a shower of slugs and duck-shot came pepper- 
 ing over the head and counter of the old pony ; for in his fright. 
 Roach had fallen on his knees to pray. The wretched quadruped, thus 
 rudely saluted, gave a plunge and a kick, and then wheeled about with 
 an alacrity long forgotten, and scampered down the causeway with the 
 old gig at his heels, rattling as if it were coming in pieces. Kerry 
 broke into a roar of laughter, and screamed out — 
 
 "I'll give you another yet, begorra! that's only a true copy; but 
 you'll get the original now, you ould varmint I" 
 
 A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, 
 was the only response ; for in his fear he thought the contents of the 
 piece were in his body. 
 
 " Musha, I hope he isn't dead," said Kerry, as he opened the wicket 
 cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. " Mister Cassidy — Mister 
 James, get up now — it's only joking I was. — Holy Joseph j is he kilt f 
 and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry 
 stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. " By 
 all that's good, I've done for the sheriff," said he, as he stood over the 
 body. "Oh! wirra, wirra! who'd think a few grains of shot would 
 kill him." 
 
 " What's the matter here ? who fired that shot ?" said a deep voice, 
 as Mark O'Donoghue appeared at Kerry's side, and snatching the 
 lantern, held it down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor. 
 
 " I'm murdered ! I'm murdered !" was the faint exclamation of old 
 Roach. " Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O'Leary mur- 
 dered me." 
 
 " "Where are you wounded 1 where' s the ball ?" cried Mark, tearing 
 open the coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety. 
 
 " I don't know, I don't know ; it's inside bleeding I feel." 
 
 " Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you ; you're 
 frightened, that's all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we'll help him in." 
 
 But Kerry had fled ; the idea of the gallows had just shot across his 
 mind, and he never waited for any further disclosures about his victim ; 
 but deep in the recesses of a hay-loft he lay cowering in terror, and 
 endeavouring to pray. Meanwhile Mark had taken the half lifeless 
 body on his shoulder, and with the ease and indifference he would have 
 bestowed upon an inanimate burden, coolly carried him into the parlour, 
 and threw him upon a sofa. 
 
THE O'dONOGHUE. QT 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE OLEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 "What have you got there, Mark?" called out the O'Donoghue, as 
 the young man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the 
 sofa. 
 
 " Old Roach, of Killarney," answered Mark sullenly. " That con- 
 founded fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to 
 what we were saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff ; he 
 fired a charge of slugs at him — that's certain ; but I don't think there's 
 much mischief done." As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and 
 without any waste of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor's throat. 
 "You're nothing* the worse, man," added he, roughly; "you've given 
 many a more dangerous dose yourself, I'll be bound, and people have 
 survived it too." 
 
 " I'm better now," said Roach, in a faint voice ; " I feel something 
 better ; |)ut may I never leave this spot if I don't prosecute that scoun- 
 drel, O'Leary. It was all malice — I can swear to that." 
 
 " Not a bit of it, Roach ; Mark says the fellow mistook you for 
 Cassidy." 
 
 " No, no — don't tell me that : he knew me well ; but I foresaw it 
 all. He filled my pony with water ; I might as well be rolling a barrel 
 before me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite 
 against me for giving him nothing ; but he shall hang for it."" 
 
 " Come, come^ Roach, don't be angry ; it's all past and over now ; 
 the fellow did it for the best." 
 
 "Did it for the best! Fiiel a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow- 
 creature for the best !" 
 
 " To be sure he did," broke in Mark, with an imperious look and 
 tone. " There's no harm done, aud you need not make such a work 
 about it." 
 
 " Where's the pony and the gig, then ?" called out Roach, suddenly 
 remembering the last sight he had of them. 
 
 " I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty 
 kettles at his tail. They'll stop him at last ; and if they shouldn't, I 
 don't suppose it matters much : the whole yoke wasn't worth a five 
 
 H 
 
00 THE O DONOGHUS. 
 
 pound note — no, even giving the owner into the bargain,** muttered he, 
 as he turned away. 
 
 The indignity of this speech acted Hke a charm upon Roach ; as 
 i{ galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust 
 his hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his 
 invariable signal for close action. "What, sir, do you tell me that my 
 conveniency, with the pony, harness and all '* 
 
 "Have patience. Roach," interposed the old man ; "Mark was but 
 jesting. Come over and join us here." At the same instant the door 
 was flung suddenly wide, and Sir Archy rushed in, with a speed very 
 unlike his ordinary gait. " There's a change for the better," cried he, 
 joyfully ; " the boy has made a rally, and if we could overtake that d — d 
 auld beestie, Roach, and bring him back again, we might save the lad." 
 
 "The d d auld beestie," exclaimed Roach, as. he sprung from 
 
 the sofa and stood before him, "is very much honoured by your flat- 
 tering mention of him." Then turning towards the O'Donoghue, he 
 added — " Take your turn out of me now, when you have me ; for, 
 by the Father of Physic, you'll never see Denis Roach under this roof 
 again." 
 
 The O'Donoghue laughed till his face streamed with the emotion, 
 and he rocked in his chair like one in a convulsion. " Look, Archy," 
 cried he — " see now ! — hear me. Roach," were the only words he could 
 utter between the paroxysms, while M*Nab, the very picture of shame 
 and confusion, stood overwhelmed with his blunder, and unable to say 
 a word. 
 
 "Let us not stand fooling here," said Mark, gruffly, as he took the 
 Doctor's arm ; " come and see my brother, and try what can be done 
 for him." 
 
 With an under-growl of menace and rage, old Roach suffered himself 
 to be led away by the young man. Sir Archy following slowly, as they 
 mounted the stairs. 
 
 Although alone, the O'Donoghue continued to laugh over the scene 
 he had just witnessed ; nor did he know which to enjoy more — the stifled 
 rage o;" the Doctor, or the mingled shame and distress of M*Nab. It 
 was, indv ed, a rare thing to obtain such an occasion for triumph over 
 Sir Archy, whose studied observance of all the courtesies and proprieties 
 of life, formed so strong a contrast with his own careless and indifferent 
 habits. 
 
 " Archy will never get over it — thaf s certain, and begad he shan't 
 
 do so for want of a reminder. The d d auld beestie !" and with the 
 
 words came back his laughter, which had not ceased as Mark re-entered 
 

 M' 
 
THE o'donoghtje. 99 
 
 e room. "Well, lad," he cried, "ha-^e they made it up — what has 
 Sir Archy done with him ? " 
 
 " Herbert's better,'* said the youth, in a low deep voice, and with a 
 look that sternly rebuked the heartless forgetfulness of his father. 
 
 "Ah! better, is he? Well, that is good news, Mark; and Roach 
 thinks he may recover ?" 
 
 " He has a chance now ; a few hours will decide it. Roach will sit 
 up with him till four o'clock, and then, I shall take the remainder of the 
 night, for my uncle seems quite worn out with watching." 
 
 "No, Mark, my boy, you must not lose your night's rest; you've 
 had a long and tiresome ride to-day." 
 
 "I'm not tired, and I'll do it," replied he, in the determined tone of 
 his self-willed habit — one, which his father had never sought to control, 
 from infancy upwards. There was a long pause after this, which Mark 
 broke, at length, by saying — " So, it is pretty clear now that our game is 
 up — the mortgage is foreclosed. Hemsworth has noticed the Bally- 
 vourney tenants not to pay us the rents, and the ejectment goes on." 
 
 " What of Callaghan ?" asked the O'Donoghue, in a sinking voice. 
 
 "Refused — flatly refused to renew the bills. If we give him five 
 hundred down," said the youth, with a bitter laugh, " he says, he'd 
 strain a point." 
 
 " You told him how we were circumstanced, Mark ? Did you men- 
 tion about Kate's money?" 
 
 " No," said Mark, sternly, as his brows met in a savage frown. " No, 
 sir, I never said a word of it. She shall not be made a beggar of, for 
 our faults. I told you before, and I tell you now, I'll not suffer it." 
 
 "But hear me, Mark. It is only a question of time. I'll 
 repay " 
 
 " Repay !" was the scornful echo of the young man, as he turned a 
 withering glance at his father. 
 
 " Then there's nothing but ruin before us," said the O'Donoghue, in 
 a solemn tone — " nothing !" 
 
 The old man's head fell forward on his bosom, and, as his hands 
 dropped listlessly down at either side, he sat the very impersonation of 
 overwhelming affliction, while Mark, with heavy step and slow, walked 
 up and down the roomy chamber. 
 
 "Hemsworth's clerk hinted something about this old banker's inteu- 
 f ion of building here," resumed he, after a long interval of silence. 
 
 "Building where ? — over at ' the Lodge ?' " 
 
 "No, here — at Carrig-na-curra — throwing down this, old place, I sup- 
 pose, and erecting a modem villa instead." 
 
100 THE O'dONOGHUE. 
 
 " Wliat !" exclaimed the O'Donoghue, with a look of fiery indigna- 
 tion. " Are they going to grub us out, root and branch ? Is it not 
 enough to banish the old lords of the soil, but they must remove their 
 very landmarks also ?" 
 
 " It is for that he's come here, I've no doubt," resumed Mark ; " he 
 only waited to have the whole estate in his possession, which this term 
 frill give him." 
 
 " I wish he had waited a Httle longer — a year, or at most, two, would 
 nave been enough," said the old man, in a voice of great dejection, then 
 added, with a sickly smile — " You have httle aifection for the old walls, 
 Mark." 
 
 The youth made no reply, and he went on — " Nor is it to be won- 
 dered at. You never knew them in their happy days ! but I did, Mark 
 — ay, that I did. I mind the time well, when your grandfather was 
 the head of this great county— when the proudest and the best in tke 
 land stood uncovered when he addressed them, and deemed the highest 
 honour they could receive, an invitation to this house. In the very room 
 where we are sitting, I've seen thirty guests assembled, whose names 
 comprised the rank and station of the province ; and yet, all — every 
 
 man of them, regarded him as their chief, and he was so, too the 
 
 descendant of one who was a king." 
 
 The animated features of the young man, as he listened, encouraged 
 the O'Donoghue, and he went on. "Thirty-seven thousand acres de- 
 scended to my grandfather, and even that was but a moiety of our 
 former possessions." 
 
 " Enough of this," interrupted Mark rudely. "It is but an unpro- 
 fitable theme. The game is up, father," added he, in a deep stern 
 voice, "and I, for one, have little fancy to wait for the winner to claim 
 the stakes. Could I but see you safely out of the scrape, I'd be many a 
 mile away, ere a week was over." 
 
 " You would not leave me, boy !" cried the old man, as he grasped 
 the youth's hands in his, and gazed on him with streaming eyes. "You 
 would not desert your poor old father. Oh, no — no, Mark ; this would 
 not be like you. A Httle patience, my child, and death will save you 
 that cruelty." 
 
 The young man's chest heaved and fell like a swelling wave ; but he 
 never spoke, nor changed a muscle of his rigid features. 
 
 " I have borne all misfortunes well till now," continued the father. 
 " I cared httle on my own account, Mark ; my only sorrow was for 
 -yon ; but so long as we were together, boy — so long as hand in hand 
 ve stood against the storm, I felt that my courage never failed me. Stay 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 101 
 
 by me, then, Mark — tell me tliat whatever comes, yotill never leave 
 me. Lei it not be said, that when age and affliction fell upon the 
 O'Donoghue, his son — the boy of his heart — deserted him. You 
 shall command in every thing," said he, with an impassioned tone, 
 as he fixed his eyes upon the youth's countenance. ** I ask for nothing 
 but to be near you. The house — the property — all shall be yours." 
 
 "What house — what property — do you speak of?" said Mark, 
 rudely. "Are we not beggars ?" 
 
 The old man's head dropped heavily; he relinquished the grasp of 
 his son's hand, and liis outstretched arm fell powerless to his side. 
 " I was forgetting," murmured he, in a broken voice — " it is as you 
 say — you are right, Mark — you must go." 
 
 Few and simple as the words were, the utterance sunk deep into the 
 young man's heart ; they seemed the last effort of courage wrung from 
 despair, and breathed a pathos he was unable to resist. 
 
 " I'll not leave you," said he, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper : 
 " there's my hand upon it," and he wrung in his strong grasp the 
 unresisting fingers of the old man. "That's a promise, father, and 
 now let us speak no more about it." 
 
 " I'll get to my bed, Mark," said the O'Donoghue, as he pressed 
 his hands upon his throbbing temples. It was many a day since any- 
 thing like emotion had moved him, and the conflict of passion had 
 worn and exhausted him. " Good-night, my boy — my own boy ;" and 
 he fell upon the youth's shoulder, half choked with sobs. 
 
 As the O'Donoghue slowly ascended the stairs, towards his bed- 
 room, Mark threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in his 
 hands. His sorrow was a deep one. The resolve he had just aban- 
 doned, had been for many a day the cherished dream of his heart — his 
 comfort under every affliction — his support against every difficulty. 
 To seek his fortune in some foreign service — to win an honourable 
 name, even though in a strange land, was the whole ambition of his 
 life ; and so engrossed was he in his own calculations, that he never 
 deigned a thought of what his father might feel about it. The 
 poverty that eats its way to the heart of families seldom fails to loosen 
 the ties of domestic affection. The daily struggle, the hourly conflict 
 with necessity, too often destroy the delicate and trustful sense of 
 protection that youth should feel towards age. The energies that 
 should have expanded into homely affection and mutual regard, are 
 spent in warding off a common enemy ; and with weary minds and 
 seared hearts the gentler charities of life have few sympathies. Thus 
 was it" here. Mark mistook his selfishness for a feeling 'of indepen- 
 
'02 THE 0*DONOGHUB. 
 
 dence ; he thought indiflference to others meant confidence in himself 
 and he was not the first who made the mistake. 
 
 Tired with thinking, and harassed with difficulties, through which he 
 could see no means of escape, he threw open the window, to sufi'er the 
 cool night air to blow upon his throbbing temples, and sat down beside 
 thecasement, to enjoy its refreshing influence. The candles had burned 
 down in -the apartment, and the fire, now reduced to a mere mass of 
 red embers, scarce threw a gleam beyond the broad hearth-stoue. The 
 old tower itself 'flung a dark shadow upon the rock, and across the road 
 beneath it, and, except in the chamber of the sick boy, in a distant part 
 of the building, not a light was to be seen. 
 
 The night was calm and star-lit : a stillness almost painful reigned 
 around. It seemed as if exhausted nature, tired with the work of 
 storm and hurricane, had sunk into a deep and wearied sleep. Thou- 
 sands of bright stars speckled the dark sky ; yet the light they shed 
 upon the earth, but dimly distinguished mountain and valley, save 
 where the calm surface of the lake gave back their lustre, in a heaven, 
 placid and motionless as their own. Now and then, a bright meteor 
 would shoot across the blue vault, and disappear in the darkness ; while 
 in tranquil splendour, the planets shone on, as though to say, the 
 higher destiny is to display an eternal brightness, than the brilliancy 
 of momentary splendour, however glittering its wide career. 
 
 The young man gazed upon the sky. The lessons which, from human 
 lips, he had rejected with scorn and impatience, now sunk deeply into 
 his nature, from those silent monitors. The stars looked down, like 
 eyes, into his very soul, and he felt as if he could unburthen his whole 
 heart of its weary load, and make a confidence with heaven. 
 
 " They point ever downwards," said he to himself, as he watched 
 the bright streak of the faUing stars, and moralized on their likeness 
 to man's destiny.. But as he spoke, a red line shot up into the 
 sky, and broke into ten thousand glittering spangles, shedding over 
 glen and mountain, a faint but beauteous gleam, scarce more lasting 
 than the meteor's flash. It was a rocket sent up from the border 
 of the Bay, and was quickly answered by another from the remote end 
 of the .Glen. The youth started, and leaning out from the window, 
 looked down the valley ; but nothing was to be seen or heard — all was 
 silent as before, and already the flash of the signals, for such they must 
 have been he could not doubt, had faded away, and the sky shone in 
 its own spangled beauty. 
 
 " They are smugglers !" muttered Mark, as he sank back in his chair; 
 Cor in that wild district such signals were employed without much feais 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 103 
 
 hy those who either could trust the revenue as accomplices, or dare 
 them by superior numbers. More than once it had occurred to him 
 to join this lawless band, and many a pressing invitation had he 
 received from the leaders to do so ; but still, the youth's ambition, save 
 in his darkest hours, took a higher and a nobler range : the danger of 
 the career was its only fascination to him. Now, however, all these 
 thoughts were changed : he had given a solemn pledge to his father 
 never to leave him ; and it was with a feeling of half apathy he sat, 
 pondering over what cutter it might be that had anchored, or whose 
 party were then preparing to land their cargo. 
 
 ** Ambrose Denner, belike," muttered he to himself, " the Flem- 
 ish fellow, from the Scheldt — a greedy old scoundrel too, he refused a 
 passage to a poor wretch that broke the jail in Limerick, because he 
 could not pay for it. I wish the people here may remember it to 
 him. Maybe its Hans ** der Teufel," though, as they call him ; or 
 Flahault — ^he's the best of them, if there be a difference. I've half 
 a mind to go down the Glen and see ;" and while he hesitated, a low, 
 monotonous sound of feet, as if marching, struck on his ear ; and as 
 he listened, he heard the distant tramp of men, moving in, what seemed, 
 a great number. These could not be the smugglers, he well knew : 
 reckless and fearless as they were, they never came in such large bodies 
 as these noises portended. 
 
 There is something solemn in the sound of marching heard in the 
 stillness of the night, and so Mark felt it, as with cautious breathing 
 he leaned upon the window, and bent his ear to listen. Nearer and 
 nearer they came, till at last the footfalls beat loudly on the dull 
 ground as, in measured tread, they stepped. At first a dark moving 
 mass, that seemed to fill the narrow road, was all he could discern, but as 
 this came closer, he could perceive that they marched in companies or 
 divisions, each headed by his leader, who, from time to time, stepped 
 from his place, and observed their order and precision. They were all 
 country people ; their dress, as well as he could discern, the common 
 costume of every day, undistinguished by any military emblem. Nor 
 did they carry arms ; the captains alone wore a kind of white scarf 
 over the shoulder, which could be distinctly seen, even by the imperfect 
 light. They, alone, carried swords, with which they checked the move- 
 ments from time to time. Not a word was uttered in the dense ranks 
 — ^not a murmur broke the stillness of the solemn scene, as that host 
 poured on. The one command, " Right shoulders forward — wheel !'* 
 being given at intervals, as the parties defiled beneath the rock, at 
 which place the road made an abrupt turning. 
 
 So strange the spectacle, so different from all he had ever witnessed 
 
104 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 or heard of, the youth more than once half doubted lest, a wearied and 
 fevered brain had not called up the illusion ; but as he continued to 
 ^aze on the moving multitude, he was assured of- its reality ; and now 
 /ms he harassed by conjectures what it all should mean. For nearly 
 an hour — to him it seemed many such — the human tide flowed on, till at 
 length the sounds grew fainter, and the last party moved by, followed, 
 at a Httle distance, by two figures on horseback. Their long cloaks con- 
 cealed the wearers completely from his view, but he could distinctly 
 mark the steel scabbards of swords, and hear their heavy clank agamst 
 the horses' flanks. 
 
 Suff'ering their party to proceed, the horsemen halted for a few 
 seconds at the foot of the rock, and as they reined in, one called out 
 to the other, in a voice, every syllable of which fell distinctly on 
 Mark's ears — 
 
 "That's the place, Godfrey; and even by this light you can judge 
 of its strength." 
 
 " But why is he not with us ?" said the other hastily. " Has he 
 not an inheritance to win back — a confiscation to wipe out?" 
 
 " True enough," said the first speaker ; *' but eighty winters do not 
 improve a man's nerve for an hazardous exploit. He has a son though, 
 and, as I hear, a bold fellow." 
 
 " Look to him, Harvey : it is of moment that we should have one 
 so near the Bay. See to this quickly. If he be like what you say, 
 
 and desires a command " The rest was lost in the sound of 
 
 their retreating hoofs, for already the party resumed their journey, and 
 were in a few minutes hidden from his view. 
 
 With many a conflicting doubt, and many a conjecture, each wilder 
 than the other, Mark pondered over what he had seen, nor noted the time 
 as it sHpped past, till the grey tint of day-dawn warned him of the 
 hour. The rumbling sounds of a country cart just then attracted his 
 attention, and he beheld a countryman, with a little load of turf, on 
 his way to the market at Killarney. Seeing that the man must have 
 met the procession, he called aloud — 
 
 " I say, my good man, where were they all marching, to-night — 
 those fellows?" 
 
 "What fellows, your honour ?" said the man, as he touched his hat 
 obsequiously. 
 
 "That great crowd of people — you could not help meeting them — 
 there was no other road they could take." 
 
 " Sorra man, woman, or child I seen, your honour, since I left 
 home, and that's eight miles from this," and, so saying he followed his 
 Journey, leaving Mark in greater bevdlderment than before. 
 
TBS O'POXOGHUE* 10& 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ** THE GUARDSMAN." 
 
 Leaving for a brief season Glenflesk and its inhabitants, we shall 
 ask of our readers to accompany us to London, to a scene somewhat 
 different from that of our last chapter. 
 
 In a handsomely furnished drawing-room in 'St. James's street, 
 where the appliances of ease and luxury were blended with the evi- 
 dence of those tastes so popular among young men of fashion of the 
 period, sat, or rather lay, in a deep cushioned arm-chair, a young 
 officer, who, even in the dishabille of the morning, and with the evi- 
 dent traces of fatigue and dissipation on his brow, was strikingly hand- 
 some. Though not more than three or four-and-twenty, the habits of 
 his life, and the assured features of his character, made him appear 
 several years older. In figure he was tall and well-proportioned, while 
 his countenance bore those lineaments which are pre-eminently distin- 
 guished as Saxon, — massive but well-chiselled features, the harmony 
 of whose expression is even more striking than their individual excel- 
 lence, a look of frank daring, which many were prone to attribute to 
 superciliousness, was the most marked trait in his face, nor was the 
 impression lessened by a certain " hauteur ^^^ which military men of the 
 time assumed, and which, he, in particular, somewhat prided himself on. 
 
 The gifts of fortune and the graces of person will often seem to 
 invest their possessor with attributes of insolence and overbearing, 
 which are, in reality, nothing more than the unbridled buoyancy of 
 youth and power revelling in its own exercise. 
 
 We have no fancy to practise mystery with our reader, and shall at 
 once introduce him to Frederick Travers, Sir Marmaduke's only son^ 
 and Captain in the first regiment of Guards. Wealth and good looks 
 were about as popular fifty years ago, as they are in the year we write 
 in, and Frederick Travers was as universal a favorite in the circles 
 he frequented as any man of his day. Courtly manners, spirits 
 nothing could depress, a courage nothing could daunt, expensive tastes, 
 gratified as rapidly as they were conceived, were all accessaries which 
 v^on their way among his acquaintances, and made them proud of his 
 intimacy* and boastful of his friendship. That circumstances Hke these 
 
106 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 should have rendered a young man self-willed and imperious, is not to 
 be wondered at, and such was he in reality — less, however, from the 
 unlimited license of his position, than from an hereditary feature which 
 distinguished every member of his family, and made them as intolerant 
 of restraint, as they were wayward in purpose. The motto of their 
 house was the index of their character, and in every act and thought 
 they seemed under the influence of their emblazoned inscription, " *A 
 tort et li travers." 
 
 Over his father, Frederick Travers exercised an unhmited influence ; 
 from his boyhood upward he had never met a contradiction, and the 
 natural goodness of his temper, and the afi'ectionate turn of his dispo- 
 sition, made the old man believe in the excellence of a system, whose 
 success lay less in its principle, than in the virtue of him, on whom 
 it was practised. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke felt proud of his son's career in the world, and 
 enjoyed to the utmost all the flattery which the young man's acceptance in 
 society conferred ; he was proud of him, almost as much as he was fond 
 of him, and a letter from Frederick had alwavs the effect of restoring 
 his spirits, no matter how deep their depression the moment before. 
 
 The youth returned his father's aff'ection with his whole heart ; he 
 knew and valued all the high and generous principles of his nature ; he 
 estimated with an honest pride those gifts which had won Sir Mar- 
 maduke the esteem and respect of his fellow-citizens ; but yet, he 
 thought he could trace certain weaknesses of character, from which his 
 own more enlarged sphere of life had freed him. 
 
 Fashionable associates, the society of men of wit and pleasure, seem 
 often to suggest more acute and subtle views of life, than are to be 
 obtained in less exalted and distinguished company ; the smart savings 
 and witty epigrams which are current among clever men appear to be 
 so many texts in the wisdom of the world. Nothing is more common 
 than this mistake ; nothing more frequent than to find, that inter- 
 course with such people diffuses few, if any, of their distinguishing 
 merits among their less gifted associates, who rarely learn any thing 
 from the intercourse, but a hearty contempt for all who are debarred 
 from it. Frederick was of this school ; the set he moved in was his 
 reUgion — ^their phrases, their prejudices, their passions, he regarded as 
 standards for all imitation. It is not surprising, then, if he conceived 
 many of his father's notions obsolete and antiquated, and had they not 
 been his, he would have treated them as ridiculous. 
 
 This somewhat tedious explanation of a character with whom we 
 hare not any very lengthened business hereafter, demands some 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 107 
 
 apology from us, still, without it we should be unable to explain 
 to our reader the reason of those events to whose narrative we are 
 hastening. 
 
 On the table, among the materials of a yet untasted breakfast, lay 
 an open letter, of which, from time to time, the young man read, and as 
 often threw from him, with expressions of impatience and anger. A 
 night of more than ordinary dissipation had made him irritable, and 
 the contents of the epistle did not seem of a character to calm him. 
 
 " I knew it" said he at last, as he crushed the letter in his hand. 
 " I knew it, well ; my poor father is unfit to cope with those savages ; 
 what could ever have persuaded him to venture among them I know 
 not ! the few hundreds a year the whole estate produces, are not 
 worth as many weeks' annoyance. Hems worth knows them well ; he 
 is the only man fit to deal with them. Heigho ! " said he, with a 
 sigh, " there is nothing for it I suppose, but to bring them back again 
 as soon as may be — and this confounded accident Hemsworth has met 
 with in the Highlands, will lay him on his back these five weeks — I 
 must e'en go myself. Yet nothing was ever more ill-timed. The 
 Queen's fete at Frogmore, fixed for Wednesday; there's the tennis 
 match on Friday, — and Saturday, the first day of the Stag hounds. It is 
 too bad. Hemsworth is greatly to blame ; he should have been candid 
 about these people, and not have made his Pandemonium an Arcadia. 
 My father is also to blame ; he might have asked my advice about this 
 trip ; and Sybella, too — why didn't she write ? She above all should 
 have warned me about the folly ;" and thus did he accuse in turn all 
 the parties concerned in a calamity, which, after all, he saw chiefly 
 reflected in the inconvenience it caused himselfi 
 
 Now, assuredly, Hemsworth requires some vindication at our hands. 
 It had never entered into that worthy man's most imaginative con- 
 ceptions, to believe a visit from Sir Marmaduke to his Irish property 
 within the reach of possibility ; for although, as we have already said, 
 lie was in the constant habit of entreating Sir Marmaduke to bestow 
 this mark of condescension on his Irish tenants, he ever contrived 
 to accompany the recommendation with certain casual hints about the 
 habits and customs of the natives, as might well be supposed sufficient 
 to deter a more adventurous traveller than the old baronet ; and while 
 he pressed him to come, and see for himself, he at the same time 
 phed him with newspapers and journals, whose columns were crammed 
 with the fertile theme of outrage ; the editorial comments on which 
 often indicated a barbarism even deeper than the oflFence they 
 aiFected to deplore. The accident which ultimately led to Sir Mar- 
 
lOS THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 maduke's hurried journey, was a casualty which Hemsworth had 
 overlooked, and when he heard that the family were actually domes- 
 ticated at ** the Lodge," his regrets were indeed great. It was only on the 
 day before the intelligence reached him — for the letter had followed 
 him from place to place for a fortnight — that he had the misfortune to 
 break his leg, by a fall from a cliff in deer shooting. "Whatever the 
 urgency of the measure, he was totally incapable of undertaking a 
 Journey to Ireland, whither, under other circumstances, he would have 
 hastened with all speed. Hemsworth' s correspondent, of whom we 
 shall have occasion to speak more, hereafter, was the sub-agent of the 
 estate, — a creature of his own, in every sense, and far more in his 
 interest, than in that of his principal. He told him, in forcible terms, 
 how Sir Marmaduke had commenced his work of Irish reformation ; 
 that, already, both the baronet and his daughter had undertaken the task 
 of improvement among the tenantry ; that rents were to be lowered, 
 school-houses erected, medical aid provided for the sick and suffering, 
 more comfortable dwellings built, more liberal wages allowed; he 
 narrated, how rapidly the people, at first suspicious and distrustful, were 
 learning to feel confidence in their benefactor, and anxious to avail 
 themselves of his benevolence ; but more than all, he dwelt upon the 
 conviction, which every hour gained ground among them, that Hems- 
 worth had misrepresented the landlord, and that, so far from being him- 
 self the instrument of, he had been the obstacle to, their welfare and hap- 
 piness. The letter concluded with a pressing entreaty for his speedy 
 return to " the Lodge,'* as, should he be longer absent, the mischiei 
 would become past remedy. 
 
 Never did agent receive an epistle more alarming ; he saw the 
 game, for whijch he had been playing half a lifetime, slip from him 
 at the very moment of winning. For above twenty years his heart 
 was set upon becoming the owner of the estate ; all his plans, his 
 plots, his machinations, had no other end or object. From the deepest 
 stroke of his policy, to the most trivial act of his power, he had held 
 this in view. By his artful management a veil was intercepted between 
 the landlord and the people, which no acuteness on either side could 
 penetrate. The very acts intended as benefits by the owner of the soil, 
 passed through such a medium, that they diverged from their destined 
 direction, and fell, less as blessings than inflictions. The landlord 
 was taught to regard the tenant, as incurably sunk in barbarism, igno- 
 rance, and superstition. The tenant to suppose the landlord, a 
 cruel, unfeeling task-master, with no care but for his rent ; neither 
 sympathy for their sufferings, nor sorrow for their calamities. Hems- 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 109 
 
 wortlb played his game like a master ; for while obtaining the smallest 
 amount of rental for his chief, he exacted the most onerous and 
 impoverishing terms from the people. Thus diminishing the apparent 
 value of the property, he hoped one day to be able to purchase, and 
 at the same time preparing it for becoming a lucrative and valuable 
 possession, for although the rents were nominally low, the amount of 
 fees and " duty-labor" were enormous. There was scarcely a man upon 
 the property whose rent was paid to the day and hour, and for the 
 favour of some brief delay, certain services were exacted, which virtually 
 reduced the tenants to a vassalage the most miserable and degrading. 
 
 If, then, the eye ranged over a district of a poverty-struck and starving 
 peasantry, with wretched hovels, naked children, and rude, unprofitable 
 tillage, let the glance but turn to the farm around " the Lodge," and, 
 there, the trim fences, the well-weeded corn, and the nicely- cultivated 
 fields, were an evidence of what well-directed labour could effect ; and the 
 astounding lesson"seemed to say : — Here is an object for imitation. Look 
 at yonder wheat : see that clover, and the meadow beyond it. They 
 could all do likewise. Their land is the same, the climate the same, 
 the rent the same; but yet ignorance and obstinacy are incurable. 
 They will not be taught — prefer their own barbarous ways to newer and 
 better methods — in fact, are beyond the lessons of either precept or 
 example. 
 
 Yet what was the real case ? To till that model-farm, to make these fields 
 the perfection you see them, families were starving — age, left to totter to 
 the grave, uncared-for — manhood, pining in want and misery, and infancy, 
 to dawn upon suffering, to last a life long. Duty-labour calls the poor man 
 from the humble care of his own farm, to come, with his whole house, 
 and toil upon the rich man's fields, the requital for which is some poor 
 grace of a week's or a month's forbearance, ere he be called on for that 
 rent these exactions are preventing him from earning. Duty-labour 
 summons him from his own profitless ground, to behold the fruits his 
 exertions are raising for another's enjoyment, and of which he must never 
 taste! Duty-labour culls the days of fairsky and supshine, and leaves him 
 the gloomy hours of winter, when, with darkness without, and despair 
 within, he may brood, as he digs, over the disproportioned fortunes of 
 his tyrant and himself ! Duty-labour is the type of a slavery, that har- 
 dens the heart, by extinguishing all hope, and uprooting every feeling of 
 self-confidence and reliance, till, in abject and degraded misery, the 
 -wretched man grows reckless of his life, while his vengeance yearns for 
 •that of his task master. 
 
 Nor does the system end here ; — the agent must be conciliated by 
 
110 TB£ o'dONOGHUB, 
 
 presents of various kinds ; — the humble pittance, wrung from imsery, 
 and hoarded up by industry, must be offered to him, as the means of 
 obtaining some poor and petty favour, most frequently, one, the -rightful 
 due of the asker. A tyranny like this spreads its baneful influence far 
 beyond the aflflictions of mere poverty — it breaks down the spirit, it 
 demoralizes the heart of a people ; for where was black-mail ever ex- 
 torted, that it did not engender cruelty on the one hand, and abject 
 slavery on the other ? 
 
 So far from regarding those placed above them in rank and station, 
 as their natural friends and protectors, the peasantry felt the great man 
 as their oppressor ; they knew him not, as their comforter in sickness, 
 their help in time of trouble — they only saw in him, the rigid exactor of 
 his rent, the merciless task-master, who cared not for time or season, 
 save those that brought round the period of repayment ; and as, year 
 by year, poverty and misery ate deeper into their natures, and hope 
 died out, fearful thoughts of retribution flashed upon minds, on which no 
 prospect of better days shone ; and, in the gloomy desolation of their 
 dark hours, they wished and prayed for any change, come in what 
 shape, and surrounded by what danger it might, if only this 
 bondage should cease. 
 
 Men spoke of their light-heartedness, their gaiety of temper, their 
 flashing and brilliant wit. How little they knew that such qualities, by 
 some strange incongruity of our natures, are the accompaniments of 
 deeply-reflective and imaginative minds, overshadowed by lowering 
 fortune. The glittering fancy, that seems to illumine the path of life, 
 it often but the wild-fire that dances over the bleak and desolate 
 heath. 
 
 Their apathy and indifference to exertion was made a matter of re- 
 proach to them ; yet, was it ever known that toil should be voluntary, 
 when hopeless, and that labour should be endured without a prospect of 
 requital ? 
 
 We have been led, almost unconsciously, into this somewhat length- 
 ened digression, for whidi, even did it not bear upon the circumstances 
 of our story, we would not seek to apologize to our reader. Such we 
 believe to have been, in great part, the wrongs of Ireland — the fertile 
 source of those thousand evils under which the land was suffering. From 
 this one theme have arisen, most, if not all, the calamities of the country, 
 "Rappywere it, if we could say that such existed no longer — that such a 
 state of things was a matter for historical inquiry, or an old man's me- 
 mory — and that in our own day, these instances were not to be found 
 among us. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. Ill 
 
 When Hemsworth perceived that the project of his life was in peril, 
 he bethought him of every means by which the danger could be 
 averted. Deep and well-founded as was his confidence in the cleverness 
 of his deputy, his station was an insurmountable barrier to his utility 
 at the present conjuncture. Sam "Wylie, for so this worthy was called, 
 was admirable as a spy, but never could be employed as minister pleni- 
 potentiary : it needed one, now, who should possess more influence over 
 Sir Marmaduke himself. For this purpose, Frederick Travers alone 
 seemed the fitting person ; to him, therefore, Hemsworth wrote a letter 
 marked "strictly confidential," detailing, with pains-taking accuracy, the 
 inevitable misfortunes Sir Marmaduke' s visit would entail upon a people, 
 whose demands no benevolence could satisfy, whose expectations no 
 concessions could content. 
 
 He narrated the fearful instances of their vengeance, whenever disap- 
 pointment had checked the strong current of their hopes ; and told, with 
 all the semblance of truth, of scenes of bloodshed and murder, no cause 
 for which could be traced, save in the dark suspicions of a people long 
 accustomed to regard the Saxon as their tyrant. 
 
 The night attack upon " the Lodge" furnished also its theme of 
 terror ; and so artfully did he blend his fact and fiction, his true state- 
 ment, and his false inference, that the young man read the epistle with 
 an anxious and beating heart, and longed for the hour, when he should 
 recal those he held dearest, from such a land of anarchy and misfortune. 
 
 Not satisfied with the immediate object in view, Hemsworth inge- 
 niously contrived to instil into Frederick's mind misgivings as to the 
 value of an estate thus circumstanced, representing, not without some 
 truth on his side, that the only chance of bettering the condition of a 
 peasantry so sunk and degraded, was by an actual residence in the midst 
 of them, a penalty, which to the youth, seemed too dear for any requital 
 whatever. 
 
 On a separate slip of paper, marked " to be burned when read,'* Fre- 
 derick deciphered the following lines : — 
 
 " Above all things, I would caution you regarding a family wno, 
 though merely of the rank of farmer, affect a gentility which had its 
 origin some dozen centuries back, and has had ample opportunity to leak 
 out in the meantime ; these are the * O'Donoghues,' a dangerous set, 
 haughty, ill-conditioned, and scheming. They will endeavour, if they 
 can, to obtain influence with your father, and I cannot too strongly re- 
 present the hazard of such an event. Do not, I entreat you, suffer his 
 compassion, or mistaken benevolence, to be exercised in their behalf. 
 Were they merely unworthy, I should say nothing on the subject; but 
 
112 THE O^DONOGHUS. 
 
 they are highly and eminently dangerous, in a land, where their claims 
 are regarded as only in abeyance — deferred, but not obliterated, bt 
 confiscation. 
 
 "E. H." 
 
 It would in no wise forward the views of our story, were we to detail to 
 our readers the affecting scenes which preluded r*rederick's departure 
 from London, the explanations he was called on to repeat, as he went 
 from house to house, for a journey at once so sudden and extraordinary ; 
 for even so late as fifty years ago, a visit to Ireland was a matter oi 
 more moment, and accompanied by more solemn preparation, than 
 many now bestow on an overland journey to India. The Lady Marys 
 and Bettys of the fashionable world regarded him pretty much as the 
 damsels of old did some doughty knight, when setting forth on his way 
 to Palestine. That filial affection could exact such an instance of devo- 
 tion, called up their astonishment, even more than their admiration ; 
 and many were the cautions, many the friendly counsels, given to the 
 youth for his preservation in a land so rife with danger. 
 
 Frederick was a soldier, and a brave one ; but still, he was not 
 entirely divested of those apprehensions which the ignorance of the day 
 propagated ; and although only accompanied by a single servant, they 
 were both armed to the teeth, and prepared to do valiant battle, if need 
 be, against the Irish " rogues and rapparrees." 
 
 Here, then, for the present, we shall leave him, having made 
 his last "adieux" to his friends, and set out on his journey to 
 Ireland. 
 
THK o'dONOGHUE. 113 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THB COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTUEB. 
 
 Brief as has been the interval of our absence from Glenflesk, time's 
 changes have been there. Herbert O'Donoghue had experienced a for- 
 tunate change in his malady, and on the day following Roach's eventful 
 return, became actually out of danger. The symptoms of his disease, 
 so suddenly subdued, seemed to reflect immortal honour on the Doctor, 
 who certainly did* not scruple to attribute to his skill, what, with more 
 truth, was owing to native vigour and youth. Sir Archy alone was 
 ungrateful enough to deny the claim of physic, and slightly hinted tt 
 Roach, that he had at least benefited his patient by example, if not 
 precept, since he had slept the entire night through, without awaking. 
 The remark was a declaration of war, at once ; nor was Roach slow to 
 accept the gage of battle — ^in fact, both parties were well wearied 
 of the truce, and anxious for the fray. Sir Archibald had only waited 
 till the moment Roach's services in the sick-room could be safely dis- 
 pensed with, to re-open his fire ; while Roach, harassed by so unexpected 
 a peace, felt like a beleaguered fortress during the operation of the 
 miners, and knew not when, and how, the dreaded explosion was te 
 occur. Now, however, the signal-gun was fired — ^hesitation was at 
 an end ; and, of a verity, the champions showed no disinchnation for the 
 field. 
 
 " Ye'll be hungry this morning. Doctor," said Sir Archy, "and I have 
 ordered breakfast a bit early. A pick o' ham at twelve o'clock, and a 
 quart of sherry, aye gives a man a relish for breakfast." 
 
 "Begad so it might, or for supper too,'* responded Roach, "when 
 the ham was a shank bone, and the sherry-bottle like a four ounce mix- 
 ture." 
 
 " Ye slept surprisingly after your shght refection. I heerd ye snoring 
 like a grampus." 
 
 " 'Twasn't the night-mare, from indigestion, any how," said Roach, 
 with a grin. " I'll give you a clean bill of health from that malady 
 here." 
 
 " It's weel for us, that we ken a cure for it — more than ye can say 
 for the case you've just left." 
 
114 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 " I saved the boy*s life," said Roach indignantly. 
 
 " Assuredly ye did na kill him, and folks canna a' ways say as muckle 
 for ye. We maun thank the Lord for a' his mercies ; and he vouch- 
 safed you, a vara sound sleep." 
 
 ' How this controversy was to be carried on further, it is not easy to 
 say ; but at this moment the door of the breakfast-room opened cau- 
 tiously, and a wild rough head peeped stealthily in, which gradually 
 was followed by the neck, and in succession the rest of the figure of 
 Kerry O'Leary, who, dropping down on both knees before the Doctor, 
 cried out in a most lamentable accent — 
 
 " Oh ! Docther darlint — Docther dear — forgive me — for the love of 
 Joseph, forgive me !" 
 
 Roach's temper was not in its blandest moment, and his face grew 
 purple with passion, as he beheld the author of his misfortunes at his feet. 
 
 " Get out of my sight, you scoundrel, I never want to set eyes Dn 
 you, till I see you in the dock — ay, with handcuffs on you." 
 
 "Oh, raurther, murther, is it take the law of me, for a charge of 
 swan drops? Oh, Docther acushla, don't say you'll do it." 
 
 " I'll have your life, as sure as my name's Roach." 
 
 " Try him wi' a draught," interposed M'Nab. 
 
 " Begorra, I'm willin'," cried Kerry, grasping at the mediation. ** Til 
 take any thing, barrin' the black grease he gave the masther — ^that 
 would UW the divil." 
 
 This exceptive compliment to his skill was not so acceptable to the 
 Doctor, whose passion boiled ovei> at the new indignity. 
 
 "Ill spend fifty guineas, but I'll hang you, — there's my word on it." 
 
 " Oh, wirra ! wirra !" cried Kerry, whose apprehensions of how much 
 law might be had for the money, made him tremble all over — " that's 
 what I get for tramping the roads all night after the pony." 
 
 " Where's the pony — ^where's the gig ?" called out Roach, suddenly 
 reminded by material interests, that he had more at stake than mere 
 vengeance. 
 
 " The beast is snug in the stable — that's where he is, eating a peck 
 of oats — last year's com — divil a less." 
 
 "And the gig?" 
 
 " Oh, the gig, is it ? Musha, we have the gig too," responded Kerry, 
 but with a reluctance that could not escape the shrewd questioner. 
 
 ** Where is it, then V* said Roach, impatiently. 
 
 " Where would it be, but in the yard ? — ^we're going to wash it.** 
 
 The Doctor did not wait for the conclusion of this reply, but hastening 
 from the room, passed down the few stairs that led towards the old 
 
THE O'dONOGHUE. 115 
 
 court-yard, followed by Sir Archy and Kerry, the one, eager to witness 
 the termination of the scene — the other, muttering in a very different 
 spirit — " Oh, but it's now we'll have the divil to pay I" 
 
 As soon as "Roach arrived at the court-yard, he turned his eyes on 
 every side, to seek his conveyance ; but although there were old har- 
 rows, broken ploughs, and disabled wheel-barrows in numbers, nothing 
 was there, that bore any resemblance to what he sought. 
 
 "Where is it ?" said he, turning to Kerry, with a look of exasperation 
 that defied all attempt to assuage by mere ** blarney" — " where is it ?'* 
 
 ** Here it is, then," said O'Leary, with the tone of one, whose courage 
 was nerved by utter despair, while at the same time, he drew forth two 
 wheels and an axle, the sole surviving members of the late vehicle. 
 As he displayed the wreck before them, the ludicrous — always too strong 
 for an Irish peasant, no matter hojv much it may be associated with his 
 own personal danger — overcame his more discreet instincts, and he 
 broke forth into a broad grin, while he cried — "* There's the inside of 
 her, now !' as Darby Cossoon said, when he tuk his watch in pieces, 
 * and begorra, we'll see how she's made, any way !' " 
 
 This true history must not recount the expressions in which Roach 
 permitted himself to indulge ; it is enongh to say, that his passion took 
 the most violent form of invective, against the house, the glen, the 
 family, and their retainers, to an extreme generation, while he stamped 
 and gesticulated Hke one insane. 
 
 " Ye'U hae sma' space for yer luggage in yon,'* said M'Nab, with one 
 of his driest laughs, while he turned back and re-entered the house. 
 
 " Where's my pony ? — where's my pony ?" shouted out the Doctor, 
 determined to face all his calamities at once. 
 
 " Oh, faix, he's nothing the worse," said Kerry, as he unlocked the 
 door of the stable, and pointed with all the pride of veracity to a beast 
 in the stall before them. " There he is, jumping hke a kid, out of his 
 skin wid' fun this morning." 
 
 Now, although the first part of Kerry's simile was assuredly incorrect, 
 as no kid, of which we have any record, ever bore the least resemblance 
 to the animal in question, as to the fact of being "out of his skin," 
 there could not be a second opinion, the beast being almost entirely 
 flayed from his shoulders to his haunches, his eyes being represented by 
 two globular masses, about'the size of billiard-balls, and his tail bearing 
 some affinity to an overgrown bamboo, as it hung down, jointed and 
 knotted, but totally destitute of hair. 
 
 "The thief of the world," said Kerry, as he patted him playfully; 
 
116 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *• he stripped a trifle of hair off him with kicking ; but a Httle gun- 
 powder and butter will bring it on again, in a day or two." 
 
 *' Liar that thou art, Kerry — it would take a cask of one, and a 
 firkin of the other to make up the necessary ointment !" 
 
 Tliere are some evils which no anticipation can paint equal to their 
 severity, and these, in compensation perhaps, are borne for the most 
 part, without the same violent exuberance of sorrow lesser misfortunes 
 elicit. So it was — Roach spoke not a word: one menace of his 
 clenched hand towards Kerry, was the only token he gave of his 
 mahce, and he left the stable. 
 
 " I've a note here for Doctor Roach," said a servant, in Sir Marma- 
 duke's livery, to Kerry, as he proceeded to close and lock the stable- 
 door. 
 
 ** I'm the person," said the Doctor, taking the billet and breaking 
 the seal. " Have you the carriage here now ?" asked he, when he 
 had finished reading. 
 
 " Yes, sir, it's on the road. Sir Marmaduke desired me not to drive 
 up, for fear of disturbing the sick gentleman." 
 
 "I'm ready, then," said the Doctor ; " and never casting a look back- 
 ward, nor vouchsafing another word, he passed out of the gate, and 
 descended towards the high road. 
 
 " I'll take good care of the baste till I see you, sir," shouted Kerry 
 after him ; and then, as the distance widened, he added, "and may I never 
 see your ould yallow wig^ agin, I pray this day. Divil take me, bui 
 I hopeiyou've some of the slugs in ye, after all ;" and with these pious 
 wishes, expressed fervently, Kerry returned to the house, his heart 
 considerably lightened by the Doctor's departure. 
 
 Scarcely was he seated beside the kitchen fire — the asylum he 
 regarded as -his own — when, all fears for his misconduct and its conse- 
 quences past, he began speculating in a very Irish fashion, on the 
 reasons of the Doctor's sudden departure. 
 
 "He's off now to * the Lodge' — devil fear him — faix if he gets in there, 
 they'll not get him out so asy — they'll have a pain for every day of 
 fhe week before he leaves them. Well, well, thanks be to God, he's out 
 of this." 
 
 " Is he gone, Kerry ?" said Mrs. Branagan. " Did he leave a ' cure' 
 for Master Herbert before he went ?" 
 
 " Sorra bit," cried Kerry, as if a sudden thought struck him, 
 ** that's what he didn't !" and without hesitating another moment, ^e 
 sprung from his chair, and mounted the stairs towards the parlour, 
 where now the O'Donoghue, Mark, and Sir Archj were assembled at 
 breakfast. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. . 117 
 
 •* He's away, sir, he's otf again," said Kerry, as though the nature 
 of his tidings did not demand any more ceremonious preliminary. 
 
 "Who's away ? Who's gone ?" cried they all in hreath. 
 
 " The Doctor, sir. Doctor Roach. There was a chap in a skyrblue 
 livery came up with a bit of a letter for him to go down there, and 
 when he read it, he just turned about, this way," here Kerry performed 
 a not over graceful pirouette, ** and. without saying by yer leave, he 
 walks down the road and gets into the coach. * Won't you see Master 
 Herbert before you go, sir,' says I ; * sure you're not leaving him that 
 way ?* but bad luck to one word he'd say, but went away wid a gran on 
 him." 
 
 " What !" cried Mark, as his face crimsoned viith passion. ** Is 
 this true ? — are you sure of what you're saying ?" 
 
 " I'll take the book an it," said Kerry, solemnly. 
 
 " Well, Archy," said the O'Donoghue, addressing his brother-in-law. 
 "You are a good judge of these matters. Is this conduct on the part 
 of our neighbour suitable or becoming ? Was it exactly right and 
 proper to send here for one, whose services we had taken the trouble to 
 seek, and might much have needed besides ? Should we not have been 
 consulted, think you ?" 
 
 " There's not a poor farmer in the glen would not resent it !" cried 
 Mark, passionately. 
 
 " Bide a wee, bide a wee," said Sir Archy, cautiously, " we hae na 
 heard a' the tale yet. Eoach may perhaps explain." 
 
 " He had better not come here, to do so," interrupted Mark, as he 
 strode the room in passion ; " he has a taste for hasty departures, anJ, 
 by G — , I'll help him to one ; for out of that window he goes, as sme 
 as my name is Mark." 
 
 " 'Tis the way to serve him, divil a doubt," chimed in Kerry, who 
 was not sorry to think how agreeably he might thus be relieved from 
 any legal difficulties. 
 
 "I am no seeking to excuse the man," said Sir Archy, temperately. 
 "It's weel kenned we hae na muckle love- for ane anither ; but fair 
 play is bonnie play." 
 
 " I never heard a mean action yet, but there was a Scotch adage to 
 warrant it," muttered Mark, in a whisper inaudible by the rest. 
 
 " Its no' improbable but that Sir Marmaduke Travers did ask if the 
 Doctor could be spared, and it's no' impossible, either, that Roach took 
 the answering the question in his ain hands." 
 
 '* I don't think so," broke in Mark ; "the whole thing bears a dif- 
 ferent aspect. It smacks of Enghsh courtesy to an Trish kern." 
 
116 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 " By Jove, Mark is right," said the 0*Donoghue, whose prejudices, 
 strengthened by poverty, too readily chimed in with any suspicion of 
 intended insult. « 
 
 " They were not long learning the game," said Mark, bitterly ; "they 
 are, if I remember aright, scarce two months in the country, and, see, 
 they treat us as * mere Irish* already. 
 
 *• Ye*r ower hasty, Mark. I hae na muckle respect for Roach, nor 
 wad I vouch for his good breeding ; but a gentleman, as this Sir Mar- 
 maduke's note bespeaks him ." 
 
 " What note ? I never heard of it." 
 
 " Oh ! it was a polite kind of message, Mark, to say he would be 
 obUged if I pennitted him to pay his respects here. I forget to tell 
 you of it." 
 
 "Does the enemy desire a peep at the fortress, that he may calcu- 
 late how long we can hold out ?" said the youth, sternly. 
 
 " Begorra, with the boys from Ballyvoumey and Inchigeela, we'll 
 howld the place agin the Enghsh army," said Kerry, mistaking 
 the figurative meaning of the speech ; and he rubbed his hands with 
 delight at the bare prospect of such a consummation. 
 
 Sir Archy turned an angry look towards him, and motioned with his 
 hand for him to leave the room. Kerry closed the door after him, 
 and for some minutes the silence was unbroken. 
 
 "What does it matter after all?" said the O'Donoghue, with a sigh. 
 "It is a mere folly to care for these things, now. When the garment 
 is worn and threadbare, one need scarce fret that the lace is a little 
 tarnished." 
 
 " True, sir, quite true ; but you are not Doxmd to forget or forgive 
 him, who would strip it rudely off, even a day or an hour before its 
 time." 
 
 " There is na muckle good in drawing inferences from imaginary evils. 
 Shadows are a' bad enough ; but they needna hae children and grand- 
 ehildren ; and so I'll even take a cup :' tea to the callant ;" and 
 thus, wise in practice and precept. Sir Archibald left the room, while 
 O'Donoghue and Mark, already wearied of the their>ft ceased to discuss 
 it further. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE, 119 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPEETT. 
 
 In the small, but most comfortable apartment of the Lodge, which in 
 virtue of its book-shelves and smartly bound volumes was termed "the 
 Study," sat Sir Marmaduke Travers. Before him was a table covered 
 with writing materials, books, pamphlets, prints, and drawings; his 
 great arm-chair was the very ideal of lounging luxury, and in the soft car- 
 pet his slippered feet were almost hidden. Through the window at his 
 right hand, an alley in the beech-wood opened a view of mountain 
 scenery, it would have been difficult to equal in any country of 
 Europe. In a word, it was a very charming little chamber, and might 
 have excited the covetousness of those whose minds must minister to 
 their maintenance, and who rarely pursue their toilsome task, save de- 
 barred from every sound and sight that might foster imagination. How 
 almost invariably is this the case ! "Who has not seen, a hundred times 
 over, some perfect little room, every detail of whose economy seemed 
 devised to sweeten the labour of the mind, teeming with its many apph- 
 ances for enjoyment, yet encouraging thought more certainly than mi- 
 nistering to luxury — with its cabinet pictures, its carvings, its. antique 
 armour, suggestive in turn of some passage in history, or some page in 
 fiction; — who has not seen these devoted to the half hour lounge 
 over a newspaper, or the tiresome examination of house expenditure 
 with the steward, while he, whose mental flights were soaring midway 
 'twixt earth and heaven, looked out from some gloomy and cobwebbed 
 pane upon a forest of chimneys, surrounded by all the evils of poverty, 
 and tortured by the daily conflict with necessity. 
 
 Here sat Sir Marmadulte, a great volume like a ledger open before 
 him, in which, from time to time, he employed himself in making short 
 memoranda. Directly in front of him stood, in an attitude of respectful 
 attention, a man of about five-and-forty years of age, who, although 
 dressed in an humble garb, had yet a look of something above the com- 
 mon ; his features were homely, but intelHgent, and though a quick 
 sharp glance shot from his grey eye when he spoke, yet in his soft, 
 smooth voice the words came forth with a measured calm, that served 
 to indicate a patient and gentle disposition. His frame betokened 
 
120 
 
 strength, wliile bis face was pale and colourless, and without the other 
 indications of active health in his gait and walk, would have implied a 
 dehcacy of constitution. This was Sam Wylie the sub-agent — one 
 whose history may be told in a few words : — His father had been a but- 
 ler in the O'Donoghue house, where he died, leaving his son, a mere 
 child, as a legacy to his master. The boy, however, did not turn out 
 well ; delinquencies of various kinds — theft among the number — were 
 discovered against him ; and after many, but ineffectual efforts, to reclaim 
 him, he was turned off, and advised, as he wished to escape worse, to 
 leave the county. ^ He took the counsel, and did so; nor for many a 
 year after was he seen or heard of. A report ran that he passed four- 
 teen years in transportation ; but however that might be, when he next 
 appeared in Kerry, it was in the train of a civil engineer, come to make 
 surveys of the county. His cleverness and skill in this occupation re- 
 commended him to the notice of Hems worth, who soon after appointed 
 him as bailiff, and, subsequently, sub-agent on the estate ; and in this 
 capacity he had now served about fifteen years, to the perfect satisfac- 
 tion, and vfith the full confidence of his chief. Of his " antecedents," Sir 
 Marmaduke knew nothing ; he was only aware of the implicit trust 
 Hemsworth had in him, and his own brief experience perfectly concur- 
 red in the justice of the opinion. He certainly found him intelligent, 
 and thoroughly well-informed on all connected with the property. 
 When questioned, his answers were prompt, direct, and to the purpose ; 
 and to one of Sir Marmaduke's business habits, this quahty possessed 
 merit of the highest order. If he had a fault with him, it was one he 
 could readily pardon — a leniency towards the people — a desire to palli- 
 ate their errors and extenuate their failings— and always to promise well 
 for the future, even when the present looked least auspicious. His 
 hearty concurrence vdth all the old baronet's plans for improvement 
 were also highly in his favour ; and already Wylie was looked on as "a 
 very acute fellow, and with really wonderful shrewdness for his station;'* 
 as if any of that acuteness or that shrewdness, so estimated, could have 
 its growth in a more prolific soil, than in the heart and mind of one bred 
 and reared among the people ; who knew . their habits, their tone of 
 thinking, their manners, and their motives — not through any false 
 medium of speculation and theory, but practically, innately, instinctively 
 ■^-who had not studied the peasantry like an algebraic formula, or a 
 problem in Euclid, but read them, as they sat beside their turf fires, in 
 the smoke of their mud hovels, cowering from the cold of winter, and 
 gathering around the scanty meal of potatoes — the only tribute they had 
 not rendered to the landlord. 
 
THE O'dONOGHUE. 121 
 
 •* Jftoger Sweeny," said Sir Marmaduke — " Roger Sweeny complaius 
 of his distance from the bog ; he cannot draw his turf so easily, as when 
 he Hved on that swamp below the lake ; but I think the change ought 
 to recompense him for the inconvenience." 
 
 " He's a Ballyvourney man, your honour," said Sam, placidly, "and if 
 you couldn't bring the turf up to his door, and cut it for him, and stack 
 it, and carry a creel of it inside, to make the fire, he'd not be content." 
 
 " Oh, that's it — is it?" said Sir Marmuduke, "accepting an explanation 
 he was far from thoroughly understanding. " Then here' s Jack Heffernan 
 — what does this fellow mean, by saying that a Berkshire pig is no good?" 
 
 " He only means, your honour, that he's too good for the place, and 
 wants better food than the rest of the family." 
 
 "The man's a fool, and must learn better. Lord Mudford told me 
 that he never saw such an excellent breed, and his swine-herd is one of 
 the most experienced fellows in England. "Widow Mul — Mul — what ?" 
 said he, endeavouring to spell an unusually long name in the book be- 
 fore him—" MuUa " 
 
 " MuUahedert, your honour," slipped in WyHe, " a very dacent 
 crayture." 
 
 "Then why won't she keep those bee-hives; can't she see what an 
 excellent thing honey is in a house — if one of her children was sick, for 
 instance?" 
 
 " True for you, sir," said Sam, without the slightest change of fea- 
 ture. " It is wonderful how your honour can have the mind to think 
 of these things — upon my word, it's surprising." 
 
 " Samuel M'Elroy refuses to drain the field — does he?" 
 
 " No, sir ; but he says the praties isn't worth digging out of dry 
 ground, nor never does grow to any size. He*s a Ballyvourney man, 
 foo, sir." 
 
 " Oh, is he ?" said Sir Marmaduke, accepting this as a receipt in full 
 for any degree of eccentricity. 
 
 " Shamus M'Gillicuddy — heavens what a name ! This Shamus ap- 
 pears a very desperate fellow ; he beat a man the other evening, coming 
 back from the market." 
 
 " It was only a neighbour, sir ; they live fornint each other.'* 
 
 "A neighbour ! but bless my heart, that makes it worse." 
 
 " Sure, sir, it was nothing to speak of; it was Darby Lenahan said 
 vour honour's bull was a pride to the place, and Shamus said the 
 O'Donoghue's was a finer baste any day ; and from one word they came to 
 another, and the end of it was, Lenahan got a crack on the scull that 
 laid him Quivering on the daisies." 
 
192 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 ** Savage mflaan, that Shamus ; I'll keep a sharp eye on him.* 
 
 "Faix, and there's no need — he*s a Bally vourney man." 
 
 The old baronet looked up from his large volume, and seemed for a 
 )nomeut undecided whether he should not ask the meaning of a phrase, 
 which, occurring at every moment, appeared most perplexing in signifi- 
 cation ; but the thought that by doing so, he should confess his igno- 
 rance before the sub-agent, deterred him, and he resolved to leave the 
 interpretation to time and his own ingenuity. 
 
 " What of this old fellow, who has the mill ? — ^has he consented to 
 have the overshot wheel ?" 
 
 " He tried it on Tuesday, sir," said Sam, with an almost imper- 
 ceptible smile, " and the sluice gave way, and carried off the house and 
 the end of the bam into the tail race. He's gone in, to take an action 
 again your honour for the damages.'* 
 
 " Ungrateful rascal ! I told him I'd be at the whole expense myself, 
 and I explained the great saving of water the new wheel would ensure 
 him." 
 
 " True, indeed, sir ; but as the stream never went dry for thirty 
 years, the ould idiot thought it would last his time. Begorra, he had 
 enough of water on Tuesday, anyhow." 
 
 " He's a Ballyvourney man, isn't he ?" 
 
 " He is sir," replied "Wyhe, with the gravity of a judge. 
 
 Another temptation crossed Sir Marmaduke*s mind, but he withstood 
 it, and went on — 
 
 " The mountain has then been divided as I ordered, has it ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; the lines were all marked out before Saturday." 
 
 " Well, I suppose the people were pleased to know, that they have, 
 each, their own separate pasturage ?'* 
 
 " Indeed, and, sir, I won't tell you a Ke — they are not ; they'd rather 
 it was the ould way still." 
 
 " What, have I taken all this trouble for nothing then ? — is it pos- 
 sible that thejr'd rather have their cattle straying wild about the country, 
 than see them grazing peaceably on their own land ?" 
 
 "That's just it, sir; for, you see, when they had the mountain 
 among them, they fed on what they could get ; one, had maybe a flock 
 of goats, another, maybe a sheep or two, a heifer, an ass, or a bullsheen. 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 " A little bull, your honour ; and they didn't mind if one had more 
 nor another, nor where they went, for the place was their own ; but now, 
 that it is all marked out and divided, begorra, if a beast is got tres- 
 passing, out comes some one with a sticky and wallops him back again, 
 
THE o'donoghue. 123 
 
 and then the man that owns him, natural enough, would' nt see shame on 
 his cow, or whatever it was, and that leads to a fight ; and faix, there*s 
 not a day now, but there's blood spilt over the same boundaries." 
 
 " They're actually savages !" said Sir Marmaduke, as he threw his 
 spectacles over his forehead, and dropped his pen from his fingers in mute 
 amazement ; "I never heard — I never read of such a people." 
 
 " They're Bally vourney men," chimed in "WyHe, assentively. 
 
 "D d " 
 
 Sir Marmaduke checked himself suddenly, for the idea flashed on 
 him that he ought at least to know what he was cursing, and so he 
 abstained from such a perilous course, and resumed his search in the 
 big volume. Alas ! his pursuit of information was not more successful 
 as he proceeded: every moment disclosed some case, where, in his 
 honest efforts to improve the condition of the people, from ignorance of 
 their habits, from total unconsciousness of the social differences of two 
 nations, essentially unlike, he discovered the failure of his plans, and 
 unhesitatingly ascribed to the prejudices of the peasantry, what with more 
 justice might have been charged against his own unskilfulness. He forgot 
 that a people long neglected cannot at once be won back — that con- 
 fidence is a plant of slow growth ; but more than all, he lost sight of 
 the fact, that to engraft the customs and wants of richer communities, 
 upon a people sunk in poverty and want — to introduce among them new 
 and improved modes of tillage — to inculcate notions which have taken 
 ages to grow up to maturity, in more favoured lands, must be attended 
 with failure and disappointment. On both sides the elements of suc- 
 cess were wanting. The peasantry saw — for, however strange it may 
 seem, through every phase of want and wretchedness their intelHgence 
 and apprehension suffer no impairment — they saw his anxiety to serve 
 them ; they believed him to be kind-hearted and well-wishing, but they 
 knew him to be also wrong-headed and ignorant of the country, and 
 what he gained on the score of good feeling, he lost on the score of 
 good sense ; and Paddy, however humble his lot, however hard his con- 
 dition, has an innate reverence for abiHty, and can rarely feel attach- 
 ment to the heart, where he has not felt respect for the head. It is not 
 a pleasant confession to make, yet one might explain it without detri- 
 ment to the character of the people, but assuredly, popularity in Ireland 
 would seem to depend far more on intellectual resources, than on moral 
 principle and rectitude. Romanism has fostered this feeling, so natural 
 is it to the devotee to regard power and goodness as inseparable, and to 
 associate the holiaess of religion, with the sway and influence of the 
 ^sthood. If the tenantry regarded the landlord as a simple-hearted. 
 
124 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 crotchety old gentleman with no harm in him, the landlord belieyed 
 them to be almost incurably sunk in barbarism and superstition. Their 
 native courtesy in declining to accept suggestions they never meant to 
 adopt, he looked [on as duplicity ; he could not understand that the 
 matter-of-fact sternness of English expression has no parallel here ; 
 that poUteness, as they understood it, has a claim, to which truth itself 
 may be sacrificed ; and he was ever accepting in a literal sense, what the 
 people intended to be received with its accustomed qualification. 
 
 But a more detrimental result followed than even these : the truly 
 well-conducted and respectable portion of the tenantry felt ashamed to 
 adopt plans and notions they knew inapplicable and unsaited to their 
 con lition ; they therefore stood aloof, and by their honest forbearance 
 incurred the reproach of obstinacy and barbarism ; while the idle, the 
 lazy, and the profligate, became converts to any doctrine or class of 
 opinion, which promised an easy life and the rich man's favour. These, 
 at first sight, found favour vdth him, as possessing more intelligence and 
 tractibility than their neighbours, and for them, cottages were built, 
 rents abated, improved stock introduced, and a hundred devices orga- 
 nized to make them an example for all imitation. Unhappily the con- 
 ditions of the contract were misconceived : the people believed that all 
 the landlord required was a patient endurance of his benevolence ; they 
 never reckoned on any reciprocity in duty ; they never dreamed that a-^ 
 Swiss cottage cannot be left to the fortunes of a mud cabin ; that stag- 
 nant pools before the door, weed-grown fields, and broken fences, har- 
 monize ill with rural pailings, drill cultivation, and trim hedges. They 
 took all they could get, but assuredly they never understood the obliga- 
 tion of repayment. They thought (not very unreasonably perhaps), 
 " it's the old gentleman's hobby that we should adopt a number of 
 habits and customs we were never used to — live in strange houses and 
 work with strange tools. Be it so ; we are willing to gratify him," said 
 they, "but let him pay for his whistle." 
 
 He, on the other hand, thought they were greedily adopting what 
 they only endured, and deemed all converts to his opinion who lived on 
 his bounty. Hence, each morning presented an array of the most 
 worthless, irreclaimable of the tenantry around his door, all eagerly 
 seeking to be included in some new. scheme of regeneration, by which 
 they understood three meals a day and nothing to do. 
 
 How to play off these two distinct and very opposite classes, Mr. 
 Sam "Wylie knew to perfection; and while he made it appear that 
 one portion of the tenantry whose rigid rejection of Sir Marmaduke's 
 doctrines proceeded from a sturdy spirit of self-confidence and indepen* 
 
THE o'donoghue. 125 
 
 •dence, were a set of wild, irreclaimable savages ; he softly insinuated his 
 compliments on the success in other quarters, while, in his heart he well 
 knew what results were about to happen 
 
 "They're here now, sir," said Wyhe, as he glanced through the 
 mndow towards the lawn, where, with rigid punctuality Sir Marmaduke 
 each morning held his levee; and where, indeed, a very strange and 
 motley crowd appeared. 
 
 The old baronet threw up the sash, and as he did so, a general mar- 
 mur of blessings and heavenly invocations met his ears — sounds, that 
 if one were to judge from his brightening eye and beaming counte- 
 nance, he relished well. No longer, however, as of old, suppliant, and 
 entreating, with 'tremulous voice and shrinking gaze did they make their 
 advances. These people were now enlisted in his army of "regenerators ;' 
 they were converts to the landlords manifold theories of improved 
 .agriculture, neat cottages, pig-styes, dove-cots, bee-hives, and heaven 
 knows what other suggestive absurdity, ease and affluence ever devised 
 >to plate over the surface of rude and rugged misery. 
 
 "The Lord bless your honour every morning you rise, 'tis the ihgant 
 little place ye gave me to live in. Musha, 'tis happy and comfortable I 
 do be every night, now, barrin' that the slates does be falling betimes — 
 bad luck to them for slates, one of them cut little Joe's head this 
 .morning, and I brought him up for a bit of a plaster." 
 
 This was the address of a stout, middle-aged woman, with a man's 
 ?great coat around her in lieu of a cloak. 
 
 ** Slates falling — why doesn't your husband fasten them on again ? 
 ''he said he was a handy fellow, and could do any thing about a house." 
 
 " It was no he then ; Thady Morris is a good warrant for a job any 
 ..day, and if it was thatch was on it " 
 
 "Thatch — why, woman, I'll have no thatch; I don't want the 
 r cabins burned down, nor will I have them the filthy hovels they 
 -used to be." 
 
 '/Why would your honour? — sure there's rayson and sinse agin it," 
 was the chorus of all present, while the woman resumed — 
 
 " Well, he tried that same too, your honour, and if he did, by my 
 sowl, it was worse for him, for when he seen the slates going off every 
 minit with the wind, he put the harrow on the top' " 
 
 " The harrow — ^put the harrow on the roof?" 
 
 " Just so — wasn't it natural ? But as sure as the wind riz, down came 
 -the harrow, and stript every dirty kippeen of a slate away with it.* 
 
 " So the roof is off," said Sir Marmaduke with stifled rage. 
 
 " Tis as clean as my five fingers, the same rafters," said she with 
 tmmoved gravity. 
 
126 
 
 THE O DON06HT7E, 
 
 "This is too bad— Wylie, do you hear this?" said the old gentle, 
 nan, \fdth a face dark mth passion. 
 
 "Aye," chorused in some half dozen fViends of the woman— 
 " nothing stands the wind like the thatch." 
 
 Wyhe whispered some words to his master, and by a side gesture, 
 motioned to the woman to take her departure. The hint was at once 
 taken, and her place immediately filled by another. This was a short 
 little old fellow, in yellow rags, his face concealed by a handkerchief, 
 on removing which, he discovered a countenance that bore no earthly 
 resemblance to that of a human being : the eyes were entirely concealed 
 by swollen masses of cheek and eye-lid — the nose might have been 
 eight noses — and the round* immense lips, and the small aperture be- 
 tween, looked like the opening in a ballot-box. 
 
 "Who is this? — what's the matter here?" said Sir Marmaduke, as 
 lie stared in mingled horror and astonishment at the object before 
 him. 
 
 " Faix, ye may well ax," said the little man, in a thick guttural voice. 
 " Sorra one of the neighbours knew me this morning. I'm Tim 
 M^Garrey, of the cross-roads." 
 
 " "What has happened to you then V asked Sir Marmaduke, some- 
 what ruffled by the sturdy tone of the ragged fellow's address. 
 
 " 'Tis your own doing, then — divil a less — you may be proud of 
 your work." 
 
 " My doing ! — ^how do you dare to say so ?" 
 
 " 'Tis no darin* at all — 'tis thrue, as I'm here. Them bloody bee- 
 hives you made me take home wid me, I put them in a comer of the 
 house, and by bad luck it was the pig's comer, and, sorra bit, but she 
 rooted them out, and upset them, and with that, the varmint fell upon 
 us all, and it was two hours before- we killed them — divil such a fight 
 ever ye seen : Peggy had the beetle, and I the griddle, for flattening 
 them agin the wall, and maybe we didn't work hard, while the childer 
 was roarin* and bawlin' for the bare life." 
 
 " Gracious mercy, would this be credited ? — could any man conceive 
 barbarism like this ?" cried Sir Marmaduke, as with uplifted hands he 
 stood overwhelmed with' amazement. 
 
 Wylie again whispered something, and again telegraphed to the appli- 
 cant to move off; but the little man stood his ground and continued. 
 " 'Twas a heifer you gave Tom Lenahan, and it's a dhroll day, the 
 M'Garrey's wara't as good as the Lenahans, to say we'd have nothing but 
 bees, and them was to get a dacent baste !" 
 
 "Stand aside, sir," said Sir Marmaduke ; "Wylie has got my ordera 
 about you. Who is this f" 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 1^ 
 
 " Faix, me, sir — Andrew Maher. I'm come to give your honour the 
 key — I couldn't stop there any longer." 
 
 " What ! not stay in that comfortable house, with the neat shop I 
 Uad built and stocked for you ? What does this mean ?" 
 
 " 'Tis just that, then, your honour — the house is a nate little place, 
 and barrin* the damp, and the little grate, that won't burn turf at all, 
 one might do well enough in it ; but the shop is the divil entirely." 
 " How so — what's wrong about it ?*' 
 
 ** Every thing's wrong about it. First and foremost, your honour, 
 the neighbours has no money ; and though they might do mighty well 
 for want of tobacco, and spirits, and bohea, and candles, and soap, and 
 them trifles, as long as they never came near them, throth they couldn't 
 have them there fornint their noses, without wishing for a taste ; and so 
 one comes in for a pound of sugar, and another wants a ha' porth of 
 nails, or a piece of naygar-head, or an ounce of starch — and divil a 
 word they have, but 'put it in the book, Andy.' By my conscience, 
 it's a quare book would hould it all." 
 
 " But they'll pay in time — they'll pay when they sell the crops." 
 " Bother j lax yer honour's pardon — I was manin' they'd see me 
 far enough first. Sure, when they go to market, they'll have the rint, 
 and the tithe, and the taxes ; and when that's done, and they get a sack 
 of seed potatoes for next year, I'd like to know where's the money 
 that's to come to me ?" 
 
 "Is this true, Wylie? — are they as poor as this ?" asked Sir Mar- 
 maduke. 
 
 Wylie' s answer was still a whispered one. 
 
 " Well," said Andy, with a sigh, " there's the key any way. I'd 
 rather be tachin' the gaffers again, than be keeping the same shop." 
 
 These complaints were followed by others, differing in kind and com- 
 plexion, but all, agreeing in the violence with which they were urged, 
 and all, inveighing against " the improvements" Sir Marmaduke 
 was so interested in carrying forward. To hear them, you would 
 suppose that the grievances suggested by poverty and want, were more 
 hi unison with comfort and enjoyment, than all the appliances wealth can 
 bestow: and that the privations to which habit has inured us, are 
 sources of greater happiness, than we often feel in the use of unre- 
 Btricted hberty. 
 
 Far from finding any contented. Sir Marmaduke only saw a few 
 among the number, willing to endure his bounties, as the means of ob- 
 taining other concessions they desired more ardently. They would 
 keep their cabins clean, if any thing was to be made by it : they'd weed 
 
128 TBS ODONOGHVX. 
 
 tlieir potatoes, if Sir Marmaduke would only offer a price for the weeds. 
 In fact, they were ready to engage in any arduous pursuit of cleanliness, 
 decency, and propriety, but it must be for a consideration. Otherwise, 
 they saw no reason fbr encountering labour, which brought no requital ; 
 and the real benefits offered to them, came so often associated with new- 
 fangled and absurd innovations, that, both became involved in the same 
 disgrace, and both sunk in the same ridicule together. These were the 
 refuse of the tenantry ; for we have seen that the independent feeling of 
 the better class held them aloof from all the schemes of " improvement," 
 which the others, by participating in, contaminated. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke might, then, be pardoned, if he felt some sinking of 
 the heart at his failure ; and, although encouraged by his daughter 
 to persevere in his plan to the end, more than once he was on the brink 
 of abandoning the field in discomfiture, and confessing that the game 
 was above his skill. Had he but taken one-half the pains to learn 
 something of national character, that he bestowed on his absurd efforts 
 to fashion it to his Hking, his success might have been different. He 
 would, at least, have known how to distinguish between the really 
 deserving, and the unworthy recipients of his bounty — between the 
 honest and independent peasant, earning his bread by the sweat of his 
 brow, and the miserable dependant, only seeking a life of indolence, at 
 any sacrifice of truth or character; and even this knowledge, small 
 HS it may seem, will go far in appreciating the difficulties which attend 
 all attempts at Irish social improvement, and explain much of the suc- 
 cess or failure observable in different parts of the country. But Sir 
 Marmaduke fell into the invariable error of his countrymen — he first 
 suffered himself to be led captive, by " blarney," and when heartily 
 sick of the deceitfulness and trickery of those who employed it, coolly 
 lat down with the conviction, that there was no truth in the land. 
 
THE o'donoghuk* 196 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "THE FOREIGN LETTB E." 
 
 The arrival of a post-letter at the O'Donoghue house was an occur" 
 rence of sufficient rarity to create some excitement in the household 
 and many a surmise, as to what new misfortune hung over the family 
 was hazarded between Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O'Leary, as the latter 
 poised and balanced the epistle in his hand, as though its weight and 
 form might assist him in his divination. 
 
 After having conned over all the different legal processes which he 
 deemed might be conveyed in such a shape, and conjured up in his ima- 
 gination a whole army of sheriffs, sub-sheriffs, bailiffs, and drivers, of 
 which the ominous letter should prove the forerunner, he heaved a 
 heavy sigh at the gloomy future his forebodings had created, and slowly 
 ascended towards his master's bed-room. 
 
 " How is Herbert ?" said the O'Donoghue, as he heard the footsteps 
 beside his bed, for he had been dreaming of the boy a few minutes 
 previous. " Who is that ? Ah 1 Kerry. Well, how is he to-day ?" 
 
 " Troth there's no great change to spake of," said Kerry, who, not 
 having made any inquiry himself, and never expecting to have been 
 questioned on the subject, preferred this safe line of reply, as he 
 deemed it, to a confession of his ignorance. 
 
 "Did he sleep well, Kerry?" 
 
 " Oh ! for the matter of the sleep we won't boast of it. But here's a 
 letter for your honour, come by the post." 
 
 *' Leave it on the bed, and tell me about the boy." 
 
 "Faix there's nothing particular, then, to tell yer honour — sometimes 
 he'd be one way, sometimes another — and more times the same way 
 again. That's the way he'd be all the night through." 
 
 The O'Donoghue pondered for a second or two, endeavouring to 
 frame some distinct notion from these scanty materials, and then said — 
 
 " Send Master Mark to me." At the same instant he drew aside the 
 curtain, and broke the seal of the letter. The first few lines, however, 
 seemed to satisfy his curiosity, although the epistle was written in a 
 close hand, and extended over three sides of the paper and he threw 
 
 K 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 it carelessly on the bed, and lay down again once more. During aK 
 this- time, however, Kerry managed to remain in the room, and, while 
 affecting to arrange clothes and furniture, keenly scrutinized the features 
 of his master. It was of no use, however. The old man's looks 
 were as apathetic as usual, and he seemed already to have forgotten the 
 missive Kerry had endowed with so many terrors and misfortunes. 
 
 " Herbert has passed a favourable night,'* said Mark, entering a few 
 moments after. ** The fever seems to have left him, and, except for 
 debility, I suppose there is httle to ail him. What !-=-a letter ! Who 
 is this from r 
 
 " From Kate," said the old man hstlessly. " I got as far as * My 
 dear uncle ;* the remainder must await a better Hght, and, mayhap, 
 sharper eyesight too — for the girl has picked up this new mode of 
 scribbling, which is almost unintelligible to me." 
 
 As the O'Donoghue was speaking, the young man had approached 
 the window, and was busily perusing the letter. As he read, his face 
 changed colour more than once. Breaking off, he said — 
 
 "You don't know, then, what news we have here ? More embarrass- 
 ment — ay, by Jove, and a heavier one than even it seems at first 
 sight. The French armies, it appears, are successful all over the Low 
 Countries, and city after city falling into their possession ; and so, 
 the convents are breaking up, and the Sacr6 Coeur, where Kate is, has 
 set free its inmates, who are returning to their friends. She comes 
 here." 
 
 " What ! — here?" said the O'Donoghue, with some evidence of doubt at 
 intelligence so strange and unexpected. "Why, Mark, my boy, that's 
 impossible — the house is a ruin ; we haven't a room ; we have no ser- 
 vants, and have nothing hke accommodation for the girl." 
 
 " Listen to this, then," said Mark, as he read from the letter : — 
 * You may then conceive, my dear old papa — for I must call you the 
 oH name again, now that we are to meet — ^how happy I am to visit 
 Carrig-na-curra once more. I persuade myself I remember the old beech 
 wood in the glen, and the steep path beside the waterfall, and the 
 wooden railings to guard against the precipice. Am I not right ? And 
 there's an ash tree over the pool, lower down. Cousin Mark climbed 
 it to pluck the berries for me, and fell in, too. There's memory 
 for you !" 
 
 " She'll be puzzled to find the wood now," said the O'Donoghue, with 
 a sad attempt at a smile. " Go on, Mark." 
 
 ** It's all the same kind of thing : she speaks of Molly Cooney's 
 cablOf and the red boat-house, and fifty things that are gone many a 
 
THE o'dONOGHTJE. 131 
 
 day ago. Strange enough, she remembers what I myself have long 
 since forgotten. ' How I long for my own little blue bed-room, that 
 looked out on Keim-an-eigh !' " 
 
 " There, Mark — don't read any more, my lad. Poor dear Kate ! — 
 what would she think of the place now ?" 
 
 " The thing is impossible," said Mark, sternly ; " the girl has got a 
 hundred fancies and tastes, unsuited to our rude life ; her French 
 habits would ill agree with our barbarism. You must write to your 
 cousin — that old Mrs. Bedingfield — if that's her name. She must take 
 her for the present, at least ; she offered it once before." 
 
 " Yes," said the old man, with an energy he had not used till now, 
 "she did, and I refused. My poor brother detested that woman, 
 and would never, had he lived, have entrusted his daughter to her 
 care. If she likes it, the girl shall make this her home. My poor 
 Harry's child shall not ask twice for a shelter, while I have one to offer 
 her." 
 
 " Have you thought, sir, how long you may be able to extend the 
 hospitality you speak of? Is this house now your own, that you can 
 make a proffer of it to any one ? — and if it were, is it here, within these 
 damp, discoloured walls, with ruin without and within, that you'd de- 
 sire a guest — and such a guest ?" 
 
 " What do you mean, boy V* 
 
 " I mean what I say. The girl educated in the midst of luxury, 
 pampered and flattered — we heard that from the Abbe — what a favourite 
 she was there, and how naturally she assumed airs of command and 
 superiority over the girls of her own age — truly, if penance were the 
 object, the notion is not a bad one." 
 
 " I say it again — this is her home. I griere it should be so rude a 
 one — but, I'll never refuse to let her share it." 
 
 " Nor would I," muttered Mark, gloomily, "if it suited either her 
 habits, or her tastes. Let her come, however ; a week's experience 
 will do more to undeceive her than if we wrote letters for a twelve- 
 month." 
 
 "You must write to her, Mark ; you must tell her, that matters have 
 not gone so well with us latterly — that she'll see many changes here ; 
 but mind, you say how happy we are to receive her." 
 
 " She can have her choice of blue bed-rooms, too — shall I say that ?" 
 said Mark, almost savagely. " The damp has given them the proper 
 tinge for her fancy ; and as to the view she speaks of, assuredly there 
 is nothing to baulk it : the window has fallen out many a day ago, 
 liiat looked on Keim-an-eigh." 
 
}82 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 " How can you torture me this way, boy V* said the old man, with a 
 look of imploring, to which his white hairs and aged features gave a 
 most painful expression. But Mark turned away, and made no answer. 
 
 "My uncle," said he, after a pause, "must answer this epistle. 
 Letter-writing is no burthen to him. In fact, I believe, he rather hkes 
 it ; so here goes to do him a favour. It is seldom the occasion pre- 
 sents itself." 
 
 It was not often that Mark O'Donoghue paid a visit to Sir Archibald 
 in his chamber ; and the old man received him as he entered with all 
 the show of courtesy he would have extended to a stranger — a piece of 
 attention which was very far, indeed, from relieving Mark of any por- 
 tion of his former embarrassment. 
 
 " I have brought you a letter, sir,'* said he, almost ere he took 
 his seat — "a letter which my father would thank you xto. reply to. It 
 is from my cousin Kate, who is about to return to Ireland, and take up 
 her abode here." 
 
 "Ye dinna mean she's doming here, to Carrig-na-curra ?" 
 
 " It is even so ! though I don't wonder at your finding it hard of 
 behef." 
 
 " It's mair than that — ^it's far mair — ^it*s downright incredible." 
 
 " I thought so, too ; but my father cannot agree with me. He will 
 not believe that this old barrack is not a baronial castle ; and persists 
 in falling back on what is past, rather than look on the present, not to 
 speak of the future." 
 
 " But she canna live here, Mark," said Sir Archy, his mind ever 
 dwelling on the great question at issue. "There's no' a spot in the 
 whole house she could inhabit. I ken something of these French 
 damsels, and their ways ; and the strangers that go there for education 
 are a' worse than the natives. I mind the time I was in Paris with his 
 
 Royal " Sir Archy coughed, and reddened up, and let fall his 
 
 snufF-box, spilling all the contents on the floor. 
 
 " Gude save us, here's a calamity ! It was real macabaw, and cost 
 twa shillings an ounce. I maun even see if I canna scrape it up wi* a 
 piece of paper ;" and so, he set himself diligently to glean up the 
 scattered dust, muttering, all the time, maledictions on his bad luck. 
 
 Mark never moved nor spoke the entire time ; but sat with the open 
 letter in his hand, patiently awaiting the resumption of the discussion. 
 
 "Weel, weel," exclaimed Sir Archy, as he resumed his seat once 
 more ; " let us see the epistle, and perhaps we may find some clue to 
 put her off." 
 
 " My father insists on her coming," said Mark, sternly. 
 
THE O DONOGHUE 
 
 133 
 
 "So he may, lad," replied Sir Archy; "but she may ha*e her ain 
 reasons for declining — dinna ye see that ? This place is a ruin. Wha's 
 to say it is no' undergoing a repair — that the roof is off, and will not 
 be on for sax months to come. The country, too, is in a vara dis- 
 turbed state. Folks are talking in a suspicious way." 
 
 Mark thought of the midnight march he had witnessed ; but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " There's a fever, besides, in the house, and wha can tell the next to 
 tak' it. The Lord be mercifu' to us !" added he gravely, as if the lat- 
 ter thought approached somewhat too close on a temptation of Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 " If she's like what I remember her as a child," replied Mark, " your 
 plan would be a bad one for its object. Tell her the place is a ruin, and 
 she'd give the world to see it for bare curiosity ; say, there was a likeli- 
 hood of a rebellion, and she would risk her life to be near it ; and as 
 for a fever, we never were able to keep her out of the cabins when there 
 was sickness going. Faith, I believe it was the danger, and not the be- 
 nevolence, of the act charmed her." 
 
 " You are no' far wrang. I mind her weel — she was a saucy cutty ; 
 and I canna forget the morning she gave me a bunch o' thistles on my 
 birth day, and ca'ed it a * Scotch bouquey.' " 
 
 "You had better read the letter in any case," said Mark, as he pre- 
 sented the epistle. Sir Archy took it, and perused it from end to end 
 without a word ; then laying it open on his knee, he said — 
 
 *' The lassie's heart is no' far wrang, Mark, depend upon it. Few 
 call up the simple memories o' childish days, if they have no' retained 
 some of the guileless spirit that animated them. I wad like to see her 
 mysel'," said he, after a pause. " But what have we here in the post- 
 script ?" — and he read aloud the following lines : — 
 
 " I have too good a recollection of a Carrig-na-curra household, to 
 make any apology for adding one to the number below stairs, in the 
 person of my maid. Mademoiselle Hortense, from whose surprise and 
 astonishment at our Irish mountains I anticipate a rich treat. She is 
 a true Parisian, who cannot believe in any thing outside the Boulevards. 
 What will she think of Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O'Leary ? — and what 
 will they think of her ?" 
 
 " Lord save us, Mark, this is an awfu' business j a French waiting 
 woman here ! Why, she might as weel bring a Bengal tiger ! I protest 
 I'd rather see the one than the other." 
 
 " She'll not stay long ; make your mind easy about her ; nor will 
 Kate either, if she need such an attendant." 
 
134 THE O'DONOGHITE. 
 
 " True enough, Mark, we maun let the malady cure itsel' ; and so, 
 I suppose, the lassie must even see the nakedness o' the land wi' her 
 ain eyes, though I'd just as soon we could * put the cover on the par- 
 ritch,' as the laird said, * and make the fules think it brose.' It's no 
 ower pleasant to expose one's poverty." 
 
 ** Then you'll write the letter," said Mark, rising, " and we must 
 do what we can, in the way of preparation. The time is short enough 
 too, for that letter was written almost a month ago — she might arrive 
 this very week." 
 
 As he spoke, the shuffling somids of feet were heard in the corridor 
 outside ; the young man sprung to the door, and looked out, and just 
 caught sight of Kerry O'Leary, with a pair of boots under his arm, 
 descending the stairs. 
 
 " That fellow, Kerry — listening as usual," said Mark. " I heard him 
 at my door about a fortnight since, when I was talking to Herbert, and I 
 sent a bullet through the panuel — I thought it might cure him." 
 
 " I wonder it did na kill him !" exclaimed M'Nab in horror. 
 
 " No, no, my hand is too steady for that. I aimed at least two inches 
 above his head — it might have grazed his hair." 
 
 ** By my word, I'll no' play the eaves-dropper wi' you, Mark ; or, at 
 least, I'd like to draw the charge o' your pistols first." 
 
 " She can have my room," said Mark, not heeding the speech. 
 ** I'll take that old tower they call the guard-room ; I fancy I shall not 
 be dispossessed for a considerable time," — and the youth left the cham- 
 ber to look after the arrangements he spoke of. 
 
 '"Tis what I tould you," said Kerry, as he drew his stool beside the 
 idtchen fire; "I was right enough, she's coming back again to live 
 here — I was listening at the door, and heerd it all." 
 
 "And she's laving the blessed nunnery !" exclaimed Mrs. Branagan, 
 with a holy horror in her countenance — " desarting the elegant place, 
 with the priests, and monks, and friars, to come here again, in the 
 middle of every wickedness and divilment — ochone! ochone!" 
 
 " What wickedness and what divilment are you spaking about ?" said 
 Kerry, indignantly, at the aspersion thus cast on the habits of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Branagan actually started at the bare idea of a contradiction, 
 and turned on him a look of fiery wrath, as she said : — 
 
 ** Be my conscience you're bould to talk that way to me ! — What wick- 
 edness! Isn't horse-racing, card-playing, raffling, wickedness? Isn't 
 drinking and swearin' wickedness? Isn't it wickedness to kill three 
 sheep a week, and a cow a fortnight, to feed a set of dirty spalpeens of 
 grooms and stable chaps ? Isn't it wickedness — botheration to you — 
 
THE o'donoghue. 135 
 
 but I wouldn't be losing my time talking to you ! When was one of ye 
 at his duties ? Answer me that. How mach did one of ye pay at 
 Ayster or Christmas, these ten years ? Signs on it. Father Luke hasn't 
 a word for ye when he comes here — he trates ye with contimpt." 
 
 Kerry was abashed and terrified. He Httle knew when he pulled up 
 the sluice-gate, the torrent that would flow down ; and now, would have 
 made any "amende," to establish a truce again ; but Mrs. Branagan was 
 a woman, and, having seen the subjugation of her adversary, her las 
 thought was mercy. 
 
 " Wickedness, indeed ! It*s fifty years out of purgatory, sorra less, to 
 live ten years here, and see what goes on." 
 
 " Divil a lie in it," chimed in Kerry, meekly ; " there's no denying 
 a word you say." 
 
 " I'd like to see who'd dare deny it — and, sign's on it, there's a curse 
 on the place — nothing thrives in it." 
 
 " Faix, then, ye mustn't say that, any how," said Kerry, insinuatingly: 
 " you have no ray son to spake again it. 'Twas Tuesday week last I 
 heerd Father Luke say — it was to myself he said it — * How is Mrs. 
 Branagan, Kerry V says he. ' She's well and hearty your reverence,' 
 says I. * 111 tell you what she is, Kerry,' says he, * she's looking just as 
 I knew her five-and-thirty years ago ; and a comelier, dacenter woman 
 wasn't in the three baronies. I remember well,' says he, * I seen her 
 at the fair of Killarney, and she had a cap with red ribbons.' Hadn't 
 ye a cap with red ribbons in it ?" 
 
 A nod was the response. 
 
 " True for him, ye see he didn't forget it ; and says he, ' She took the 
 shine out of the fair ; she could give seven pounds, and half a distance, 
 to ere a girl there, and beat her after by a neck.' " 
 
 ** What's that ye're saying ?" said Mrs. Branagan, who didn't compre- 
 hend the figurative language of the turf, particularly when coming from 
 Father Luke's lips. 
 
 ** I'm saying ye were the purtiest woman that walked the fair-green," 
 said Kerry, correcting his phraseology. 
 
 " Father Luke was a smart little man then himself, and had a nate 
 leg and foot." 
 
 " Killarney was a fine place I'm tould," said Kerry, with a dex- 
 terous shift to change the topic. " I wasn't often there myself, but 
 I heerd it was the iligant fair entirely." 
 
 " So it was," said Mrs. Branagan ; " there never was the kind o? 
 sport and divarsion wasn't there. It begun on a Monday and weil" 
 through the week; and short enough the time was. There was dancing. 
 
1B6 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 and fighting, and singing, and * stations,' up to Aghadoe and down again 
 on the bare knees, and a pilgrimage to the holy well — three times 
 round that, maybe after a jig two hours long ; and there was a dwarf 
 that tould fortunes, and a friar that sould gospels agin fever, and fallin* 
 sickness, and ballad-singers, and play-actors. Musha, there never was 
 the Uke of it ;" and in this strain did she pour forth a flood of impas- 
 sioned eloquence on the recollection of those carnal pleasures and 
 enjoyments which, but a few minutes before, she had condemned so 
 rigidly in others, nor was it till at the very close of her speech that 
 she suddenly perceived how she had wandered from her text ; then with a 
 heavy groan she muttered — "Ayeh! we're sinful craytures,thebestofus." 
 
 Kerry responded to the sentiment with a fac-simile sigh, and the 
 peace was ratified. 
 
 " You wouldn't believe now what Miss Kate is bringing over with 
 her — faix, you wouldn't believe it." 
 
 " Maybe a monkey," said Mrs. Branagan, who had a vague notion 
 that France lay somewhere within the tropics. 
 
 " WoTrse nor that.** 
 
 " Is it a bear ?" asked she again. 
 
 " No, but a French maid, to dress her hair, and powder her, and 
 put patches on her face." 
 
 " Whisht, I tell you," cried Mrs. Branagan, " and don't be talking 
 that way. Miss Kate was never the one to turn to the likes of them 
 things." 
 
 " 'Tis truth I'm telling ye then ; I heard it all between the master 
 and Master Mark, and afterwards with ould Sir Archy, and the three 
 of them is in a raal fright about the maid ; they say she'll be the divil 
 for impidence." 
 
 " Will she then !" said Mrs. Branagan, with an eye glistening in 
 anticipation of battle. 
 
 *' The never a day's peace or ease we're to have again, when she's 
 here — 'tis what the master says. ' I pity poor^Mrs. Branagan,' says 
 he ; ' she's a quiet crayture that wont take her own part, and ' " 
 
 " Won't I ? Be my conscience, we'll soon see that." 
 
 " Them's his words — * and if Kerry and she don't lay their heads 
 together to make the place too hot ifor her, she'll bully the pair o^ 
 them.' " 
 
 " Lave it to myself— lave it to me alone, Kerry O'Leary." 
 
 '* I was thinking that same, ma'am," said Kerry, with a droll leer 
 as he spoke ; " Fd take the odds on you any day, and never ask thf 
 name of the other horse." 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 137 
 
 '* I'll lay the mark of my fingers on her av she says * pays,* " said 
 Mrs. Branagau, with an energy that looked like truth. 
 
 Meanwhile, Kerry, perceiving that her temper was up, spared nothing 
 to aggravate her passion, retailing every possible and impossible affront 
 the new visitor might pass off on her, and expressing the master's 
 sorrows at the calamities awaiting her. 
 
 " If she isn't frightened out of the country at once, there's no help 
 for it," said he at last. " I have a notion myself, but sure maybe it's a 
 bad one." 
 
 " What is it then ? — spake it out free." 
 
 " 'Tis just to wait for the chaise — she'll come in a chaise, it's likely." 
 
 But what was Kerry's plan, neither Mrs. Branagan nor the reader are 
 destined to hear, for at that moment a loud summons at the hall door — 
 a very unusual sound — announced the arrival of a stranger ; Kerry, 
 therefore, had barely time for a hasty toilet with a pocket-comb, before 
 a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, as he 
 hastened to receive the visitor. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI r. 
 
 "KATE o'dONOGHUE." 
 
 Before Kerry O'Leary had reached the hall, the object around 
 whose coming all his schemes revolved, was already in her uncle's 
 arms. 
 
 " My dear, dear Kate !" said the old man, as he embraced her again 
 and again, while she, overcome by a world of conflicting emotions, 
 concealed her face upon his shoulder. 
 
 '* This is Mark, my dearest girl — cousin Mark." 
 
 The girl looked up, and fixed her large full eyes upon the countenance 
 of the young man, as, in an attitude of bashful hesitation, he stood, 
 uncertain how far the friendship of former days warranted his 
 advances. She, too, seemed equally confused ; and when she held ow 
 her hand, and he took it half coldly, the meeting augured but poorl* 
 for warmth of heart on either side. 
 
138 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 " And Herbert — where is he ?" cried she eagerly, hoping to cover 
 the chilling reception by the inquiry — " and my uncle Archy " 
 
 " Is here to answer for himsel'," said M'Nab, quietly, as he came 
 rapidly forward and kissed her on either cheek ; and, with an arm 
 leaning on each of the old men, she walked forward to the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " And are you alone, my dear child — ^have you come alone ?" said 
 the O'Donoghue. 
 
 " Even so, papa ; — ^my attached and faithful Hortense left me at 
 Bristol. Sea sickness became stronger than affection. She had a dream, 
 besides, that she was lost, devoured, or carried off by a merman — I 
 forget what. And the end was, she refused to go further, and did 
 her best to persuade me to the same opinion. She didn't remember 
 that I had sent on my effects, and that my heart was here already." 
 
 " My own dearest child !" said 0*Donoghue, as he pressed her 
 hand fervently between his own. 
 
 " But how have ye journeyed by yoursel* f* said Sir Archy, as he 
 gazed on the slight and delicate figure before him. 
 
 " Wonderfully well, uncle. During the voyage every one was most 
 polite and attentive to me. There was a handsome young Guardsman 
 who would have been more, had he not been gentleman enough to know 
 that I was a lady. And, once at Cork, I met, the very moment of 
 landing, with a kind old friend. Father Luke, who took care of me 
 hither. He only parted with me at the gate, not wishmg to interfere, as 
 he said, with our first greetings. But I don't see Herbert— where 
 is he ?" 
 
 " Poor Herbert has been dangerously ill, my dear," said the father, 
 " I scarcely think it safe for him to see you." 
 
 " No, no," interposed Sir Archy, feelingly. " If the sight of her 
 can stir the seared heart of an auld carle hke mysel', it wad na be the 
 surest way to calm the frenzied blood of a youth." 
 
 Perhaps Sir Archy was not far wrong. Kate O'Donoghue was, 
 indeed, a girl of no common attraction. Her %ure, rather below than 
 above the middle size, was yet so perfectly moulded, that for very 
 symmetry and grace it seemed as if such should have been the standard 
 of womanly beauty, while her countenance had a character of loveliness, 
 even more striking than beautiful ; her eyes were large, full, and of a 
 liquid blue that resembled black; her hair, a rich brown, through 
 which a golden tinge was seen to run, almost the colour of an autumn 
 sun-set, giving a brilliancy to her complexion which, in its transparent 
 beauty, needed no such aid ; but her mouth was the feature whose 
 
THE 0*DONOGHTJE. 139 
 
 expression, more than any other, possessed a peculiar charm. In speaking, 
 the rounded Hps moved with a graceful undulation, more expressive than 
 mere sound, while, as she hstened, the slightest tremble of the lip 
 harmonizing with the brilliant glance of her eyes, gave a character of 
 rapid intelligence to her face, well befitting the vivid temper of her 
 nature. She looked her very self — a noble-hearted, high-spirited girl, 
 without a thought save for what was honourable and lofty ; one who 
 accepted no compromise vdth a doubtful line of policy, but eagerly 
 grasped at the right, and stood firmly by the consequence. Although 
 educated within the walls of a convent, she had mixed, her extreme 
 youth considered, much in the world of the city she lived in, and was 
 thus as accomplished in all the " usage,'* and conventional habits of 
 society, as she was cultivated in those gifts and graces which give it 
 all its ornament. To a mere passing observer there might seem 
 somewhat of coquetry in her manner ; but very little observation would 
 «how, that such unerring gracefulness cannot be the result of mere 
 practice, and that, innate character had assumed that garb which best 
 suited it, and not one to be merely worn for a season. Her accent, too, 
 when she spoke English, had enough of foreign intonation about it to 
 lay the ground for a charge of affectation ; but he should have been a sturdy 
 critic who could have persisted in the accusation. The fear was rather, 
 that one leaned to the very fault of pronunciation as an excellence, so 
 much of piquancy did it occasionally lend to expressions, which, from other 
 lips, had seemed tame and common-place. To any one who has seen 
 the graceful coquetry of French manner engrafted on the more meaning 
 eloquence of Irish beauty, my effort at a portrait will appear a very 
 meagre and barren outhne ; and I feel how poorly I have endeavoured 
 to convey any idea of one, whose Spanish origin had left a legacy of 
 gracefulness and elegance, to be warmed into life by the fervid cha- 
 racter of the Celt, and tempered again by the consummate attraction of 
 French manner. 
 
 The ease and kindhness of spirit with which she sat between the two 
 old men, listening in turn to each, or answering with graceful alacrity 
 the questions they proffered — the playful delicacy with which she evaded 
 the allusions they made from time to time to the disappointment the 
 ruined house must have occasioned her — and the laughing gaiety with 
 which she spoke of the new life about to open before her, were actually 
 contagious. They already forgot the fears her anticipated coming had 
 inspired ; and gazed on her with the warm affection that should wait on 
 a welcome* Oh ! what a gift is beauty, and how powerful its influence, 
 vrlien strengthened by the rich eloquence of a spotless nature, beaming 
 
140 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 from beneath long-lashed lids, when two men like these, seared and 
 hardened by the world's ills — broken on the wheel of fortune — should feel 
 a glow of long-forgotten gladness in their chilled hearts as they looked 
 upon her ? None could have guessed, however, what an eflPort that 
 seeming light-heartedness cost her. Poor girl ! Scarcely was she alone, 
 and had closed the door of her room behind her, when she fell upon the 
 bed in a torrent of tears, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. All 
 that Father Luke had said as they came along — and the kind old man 
 had done his utmost to break the shock of the altered state of her uncle's 
 fortunes — was far from preparing her for the cold reality she witnessed. 
 It was not the ruined walls, the treeless mountain, the desolate and 
 dreary look of all around, that smote upon her heart ; sad as these signs 
 were, her grief had a higher source : it was the sight of that old man 
 she called father, tottering feebly to the grave, surrounded by images of 
 poverty and misfortune. It was the aspect of Mark, the cousin, she had 
 pictured to her mind as an accomplished gentleman in look and 
 demeanour ; the descendant of a house more than noble — the heir of 
 a vast property ; and now she saw him, scarce in gesture and manner 
 above the peasant — in dress, as slovenly and uncared for. She was 
 prepared for a life of monotonous retirement and isolation. She was 
 ready to face the long winter of dreary solitude — but not in such 
 company as this. That she never calculated on. Her worst anticipations 
 had never conjured up more than an unchequered existence, vnth. little 
 to vary or relieve it ; and now, she foresaw a life to be passed amid the 
 miserable straits and shifts of poverty, with all its petty incidents and 
 lowering accidents, to lessen her esteem for those she wished to look 
 up to and love. And this was Carrig-na-curra, the proud castle she 
 had so often boasted of to her school companions, the baronial seat she 
 had loved to exalt above the antique chateaux of France and Flanders ; and 
 these the haughty relatives, whose pride she mentioned as disdaining 
 the alliance of the Saxon, and spurning all admixture of blood vdth a race 
 less noble than their own. The very chamber she sat in, how did it 
 contradict her own animated descriptions of its once comforts and luxuries ! 
 Alas ! it seemed to be like duplicity and falsehood, that she had so 
 spoken of these things. More than once she asked herself — " Were 
 they always thus ?" Poor child ! she knew not that poverty can bring 
 sickness, and sorrow, and premature old age. It can devastate the 
 fields, and desolate the aifections, and make cold both heart and home 
 together 
 
 If want stopped short at privation, men need not to tremble at itc 
 approach. It is in the debasing and degrading influence of poverty its 
 
THE o'dONOGHU£. 141 
 
 real terror lies. It is in the plastic facility with which the poor man shifts 
 to meet the coming evil, that the high principle of rectitude is sacrificed, 
 and the unflinching course of honour deviated from. "When the proud 
 three decker, in all the majesty of her might, may sail along her course 
 unaltered, the humble craft, in the same sea, must tack, and beat, and 
 watch for every casualty of the gale to gain her port in safety. These 
 are the trials of the poor, but proud man. It is not the want of liveried 
 lacqueys, of plate, of equipage, and all the glittering emblems of 
 wealth, that smite his heart, and break his spirit. It is the petty 
 subterfuge he is reduced to, that galls him — it is the sense of struggle 
 between his circumstances and his conscience — ^between what he does, 
 and what he feels. 
 
 It is true, Kate knew not these things, but yet she had before her the 
 results of them too palpably to be mistaken. Sir Archibald was the 
 only one on whom reverse of fortune had not brought carelessness and 
 coarseness of manner. He seemed, both in dress and demeanour, little 
 changed from what she remembered him years before ; nor had time, 
 apparently, fallen on him with heavier impress in other respects. What 
 was Herbert like ? was the question ever rising to her mind, but with 
 little hope that the answer would prove satisfactory. 
 
 "While Kate O'Donoghue was thus pondering over the characters of 
 those with whom she was now to live, they, on the other hand, were 
 exerting themselves to the utmost to restore some semblance of its an- 
 cient comfort to the long-neglected dwelling. A blazing fire of bog 
 deal was lighted in the old hall, whose mellow glare glanced along the 
 dark oak wainscot, and threw a rich glow along the corridor itself, to 
 the very door of the tower. In the great chamber, where they sat, 
 many articles of furniture, long disused and half forgotten, were now 
 collected, giving, even by their number, a look of increased comfort to 
 the roomy apartment. Nor were such articles of ornament as they posr 
 sessed forgotten. The few pictures which had escaped the wreck of 
 damp and time were placed upon the walls, and a small miniature of 
 Kate, as a child — a poor performance enough — was hung up over the 
 chimney, as it were to honour her, whose presence these humble prepa- 
 rations were made to celebrate. Sir Archy, too, as eager in these ar- 
 rangements as Mark himself, had brought several books and illustrated 
 volumes from his chamber to scatter upon the tables ; while, as if for a 
 shrine for the deity of the place, a little table of most elaborate mar- 
 quetrie, and a richly-carved chair beside the fire, designated the place 
 Kate was to occupy as her own, and to mark which, he had culled th^ 
 very gems of his collection. 
 
112 THE O'DONOGnVE. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to conceive, how completely even a few trifling 
 objects like these can change the " morale" of a chamber — how that, 
 which before seemed cumbrous, sad, and dispiriting, becomes at once 
 lightsome and pleasant-looking. But so it is : the things which speak 
 of human thought and feehng appeal to a very di£ferent sense from 
 those which merely minister to material comfort ; and we accept the 
 presence of a single book, a print, or drawing, as an evidence that mental 
 ahment has not been forgotten. 
 
 If the changes here spoken of gave a very different air and seeming 
 to the old tower, Kate*s own presence there completed the magic of the 
 transformation. Dressed in black silk, and wearing a profusion of lace 
 of the same colour — for her costume had been adapted to a very diffe- 
 rent sphere — she took her place in the family circle, diffusing around 
 her a look of refinement and elegance, and making of that sombre 
 chamber a spacious " salon." Her guitar, her embroidery, her old- 
 fashioned writing-desk, inlaid with silver, caught the eye as it wandered 
 about the room, and told of womanly graces and accompUshments, so 
 foreign to the rude emblems of the chase and the field, henceforth to be 
 banished to the old entrance hall. 
 
 The O'Donoghue himself felt the influence of the young girl's pre- 
 sence, and e\ddenced, in his altered dress and demeanour, the respect 
 he desired to show ; while Mark took from his scanty wardrobe the only 
 garment he possessed above the rank of a shooting jacket, and entered 
 the room with a half-bashful, half-sullen air, as though angry and 
 ashamed with himself for even so much compliance with the world's 
 usages. 
 
 Although Kate was quick-sighted enough to see that these changes 
 were caused on her account, her native tact prevented her from showing 
 that knowledge, and made her receive their attentions with that happy 
 blending of courtesy and familiarity, so fascinating from a young and 
 pretty woman. The dinner — and it was a " chef-d'ceuvre" on the part of 
 Mrs. Branagan — passed off most pleasantly. The fear her coming had 
 excited now gave way to the dehglit her presence conferred. They 
 felt as if they had done her an injustice in their judgment, and has- 
 tened to make every "amende" for their unfair opinion. Never, for years 
 long, had the O'Donoghue been so happy. The cold and cheerless 
 chamber was once more warmed into a home. The fire beside which he 
 had so often brooded in sadness, was now the pleasant hearth, sur 
 rounded by cheery faces. Memories of the past, soothing through all 
 their sorrow, flowed in upon his mind, as he sat and gazed at her in 
 tranquil ecstacy. Sir Archibald, too, felt a return to his former adf^ 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 143 
 
 in the tone of good breeding her presence diffdsed, and evinced, by the 
 attentive politeness of his manner, how happy he was to recur once 
 mQve. to the observances which he remembered with so much affection, 
 associated, as they were, with the brightest period of his Hfe. 
 
 As for Mark, although less an actor than the others in the scene, the 
 effect upon him was not less striking. All his assumed apathy gave way 
 as he listened to her descriptions of foreign society, and the habits of 
 those she had lived amongst. The ringing melody of her voice, the 
 brilHant sparkle of her dark eyes, the graceful elegance of gesture — the 
 French woman's prerogative — threw over him their charm, a fascination 
 never experienced befote ; and although a dark dread would now and 
 then steal across his mind. How was a creature, beautiful and gifted like 
 this, to lead the life of dreariness and gloom their days were passed in ? 
 — the tender feeling of affection she shewed his father, the fondness with 
 which she dwelt on every little incident of her childhood — every little detail 
 of the mountain scenery — showed a spirit which well might harmonise with 
 a home, even humble as theirs, and pleasures as uncostly and as simple. 
 "Oh ! if she grow not weary of us !" was the heart-uttered sentence each 
 moment as he listened ; and, in the very anxiety of the doubt, the 
 ecstacy of enjoyment was heightened. To purchase this boon, there was 
 nothing he would not dare. To think that as he trod the glens, or 
 followed the wild deer along some cragged and broken mountain gorge, 
 a home like this ever awaited him, was a picture of happiness too 
 bright and dazzling to look upon. 
 
 " Now, then, ' ma belle,' " said Sir Archibald, as he rose from his 
 seat, and, with an air of gallantry that might have done credit to 
 Versailles of old, threw the ribbon of her guitar over her neck—" now 
 for your promise — that little romance ye spoke of." 
 
 " Willingly, dear uncle," replied she, striking the chords as a kind of 
 prelude. " Shall I sing you one of our convent hymns ? — or will you 
 have the romance ?" 
 
 " It is no' fair to tempt one in a choice," said M'Nab, slyly; "but 
 sin' ye say so, I must hear baith before I decide." 
 
 " Your own favourite, the first," said she, smiling, and began the 
 little chanson of the " Garde Ecossaise," the song of the exiled 
 nobles in the service of France, so dear to every Scotchman's heart. 
 
 "While the melody described the gathering of the clans in the moun- 
 tains, to take leave of their departing kinsmen, the measured tramp of 
 the music, and the wild ringing of the pibroch, the old chieftain's face 
 ht up, and his eye glared with the fierce fire of native pride ; but when 
 the moment of leave-taking arrived, and the heart-rending cry of "Fare- 
 
144 
 
 well I" broke from his deserted, the eye became glazed and filmy, and 
 with a hand tremulous from emotion, he stopped the singer. 
 
 " Na, na, Kate ; I canna bear that, the noo. Ye ha'e smote the 
 rock too suddenly, lassie ;" and the tears rolled hea^ily down his seared 
 cheeks. 
 
 *' You must let me finish uncle, said she, disengaging her hand; 
 and at the instant, sweeping the chord with a bold and vigorous finger, 
 she broke into a splendid and chivalrous description of the Scot- 
 tish valour in the service of France, every line swelling with their proud 
 achievements, as foremost they marched to battle. To this succeeded 
 the crash and turmoil of the fray, the ringing cheers of the plaided 
 warriors mingling with the war-cries of the Gaul, till, in a burst of 
 triumph and victory, the song concluded. Then, the old man sprang 
 from his chair, and threw his arms around her in a transport, as he 
 cried — 
 
 "It's a mercifu' thing, lassie, ye did na' live fifty years ago: by 
 my saul, there's nae saying how many a brave fellow the like o' that 
 had laid low!" , 
 
 " If that be one of the hymns you spoke of, Kate," said the 
 O'Donoghue, smiling, "I fancy Mark would have no objection to be a 
 nun ; but where is he ? — he has left the room." 
 
 " I hope there was nothing in my song he disliked ?" asked she, 
 timidly ; but before there was time for an answer the door opened, and 
 Mark appeared with Herbert in his arms. 
 
 "There!" said he, laying him gently on the sofa; "if cousin Kate 
 will only sing that once more, I'll answer for it, it will save you a fort- 
 night in your recovery." 
 
 Kate knelt down beside the sick boy, and kissed him tenderly ; 
 while he, poor fellow, scarce daring to beheve in the reality of all be- 
 fore him, played with the long tangles of her silky hair, and gazed on 
 her in silence. 
 
 " We maun be cautious, Mark," whispered M'Nab, carefully ; but 
 Mark had no ears nor eyes save for her who now sat beside his brother, 
 and in a low soft voice breathed her affectionate greetings to him. 
 
 In this way passed the first evening of her coming — a night whose 
 fascination dwelt deep in every heart, and made each dreamer biest. 
 
THE o'dONOGUUB. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 "A HASTT PLEDG E." 
 
 While these things were happening within the ruined castle of the 
 O'Donoghue, a guest, equally unexpected as theirs, had arrived at 
 " the Lodge." Frederick Travers, delayed in Bristol by contrary winds, 
 had come over in the same packet with Kate ; but without being able 
 either to learn her name, or whither she was going. His unlooked for 
 appearance at " the Lodge," was a most welcome surprise both to Sir 
 Marmaduke and Sybella ; and as he did not desire to avow the real 
 object of his coming, it was regarded by them as the most signal proof of 
 affection. They well knew how much London hfe engrossed him — 
 how completely its peculiar habits and haunts possessed attractions for 
 him — and with what a depreciating estimate he looked down on every 
 part of the globe, save that consecrated to the fashionable follies and 
 amusements of his own set. 
 
 He was not, in reality, insensible to other and better influences j his 
 affection for his father and sister was unbounded ; he had a bold, manl^ 
 spirit, unalloyed with any thing mean or sordid ; a generous, candid 
 nature, and ; straightforward earnestness of purpose, that often carried 
 him farther by impulse, than he was followed by his convictions. Still 
 a conventional cant, a tone of disparaging, half-contemptuous in- 
 difference to every thing which characterized his associates, had already 
 infected him ; and he felt ashamed to confess to those sentiments and 
 opinions, to possess and to act upon which should have been his dearest 
 pride. 
 
 " Well, Fred," said Sybella, as they drew around the fire after dinner, 
 in that happy home circle so suggestive of enjoyment, " let us heat 
 what you thought of the scenery. Is not Glenflesk fine ?" 
 
 " Matlock on a larger scale," said he coolly. " Less timber and 
 more rocks." 
 
 " Matlock ! dear friend. You might as well compare Keim-an-eigli 
 with Holborn — you are only jesting." 
 
 ** Compare what ? Repeat that droll name, I beg of you." 
 
 ** Keim-an-eigh. It is a mountain pass quite close to us here.'* 
 
 •* Admirably done ! Why, Sybella dear, I shall not be surprise 
 
 L 
 
146 THE o'donoghtje. 
 
 see you take to the red petticoat and bare-feet soon. You have indoc- 
 trinated yourself wonderfully since your arrival." 
 
 " I Hke the people with all my heart, Fred,'* said she artlessly . 
 " and if I could imitate many of their traits of forbearance and long- 
 suffering patience by following their costume, I promise you I*d don 
 the scarlet.'* 
 
 "Ay, Fred," said Sir Marmaduke, with a sententious gravity, 
 " they don't know these Irish at all at our side of the water. They 
 mistake them totally. They only want teaching, a little example — a 
 httle encouragement — that's all : and they are as docile and tractable 
 as possible. I'll show you to-morrow what improvements a few months 
 have effected. I'll bring you over a part of the estate, where there was 
 not a hovel fit for a dog, and you shall see what comfortable dweUings 
 they have. We hear nothing in England but the old songs about 
 popery, and superstition, and all that. Why, my dear Fred, these 
 people don't care a straw for the priest — they'd be any thing I asked 
 them." 
 
 " DeviHsh high principled that, any way," said Fred, drily. 
 
 " I didn't exactly mean that ; at least in the sense you take it. 
 I was about to say, that such is their confidence, such their gratitude 
 to the landlord, that — that " 
 
 " That in short they'd become Turks, for an abatement in the rent. 
 Well, Sybella dear, is this one of the traits you are so anxious to 
 imitate ?" 
 
 ** Why will you misunderstand, Fred ?" said Sybella imploringly. 
 " Cannot you see that gratitude may lead an uninstructed people far 
 beyond the limits of reason — ^my father is so good to them." 
 
 " With all my heart — I have not the slightest objection in life ; 
 indeed I'm not sure, if all the estate be like what I passed through this 
 afternoon, if rm/ generosity wouldn't go farther, and, instead of reducing 
 the rent, make them an honest present of the fee simple." 
 
 " Foolish boy!" said Sir Marmaduke, half angrily, " There are forty 
 thousand acres of reclaimable land " 
 
 "Which might bear crops, Anno Domini 3095." 
 
 " There are mines of inexhaustible wealth. " 
 
 " And would cost such to work them, sir, no doubt. Come, come, 
 fether — Hemsworth has passed a life among these people. He knows 
 more than we do, or ever shall. 
 
 " I tell you, sir," said Sir Marmaduke, nettled by such a sarcasm on 
 his powers of observation, " I know them perfectly — I can read them 
 ike a book. They are a guildess, simple-minded, confiding people — ^you 
 
THE O'dONOGIIUE. H7 
 
 may see every thought they have in their countenances. They only 
 need the commonest offices of kindness to attach them ; and, as for po- 
 litical or religious leanings, I have questioned them pretty closely, and, 
 without a single exception, have heard nothing hut sentiments of loyalty 
 and attachment to the church." 
 
 " Well, I only hope you don't mean to prolong your stay here. I'm 
 sure you have done enough for any ordinary call of conscience, and, if you 
 have not, set about it in right earnest — convert the tens into hundreds — 
 make them all as comfortable as possible — and then, in heaven's name, 
 get back again to England. There is no earthly reason why you should 
 pass your time here ; and as for Sybella " 
 
 " Don't include me, Fred, in your reasons for departure. I never was 
 so happy in my life." 
 
 *' There, boy — there's an example for you; and if you need another, 
 here am I, ready to confess the same thing. I don't mean that there 
 are not little dampers and difficulties. There's that fool about the mill- 
 wheel, and that fellow that persists in dragging the river with a net ;" 
 and so he muttered on for some minutes beneath his teeth, to the evi- 
 dent enjoyment of Fred, whose quivering lip and laughing eye told how 
 he appreciated the confficting evidence memory was eliciting. 
 
 Thus, for some time, the conversation continued, until Miss Travers 
 retired for the night. Then, Sir Marmaduke drew his chair closer to 
 his son's, and, in an earnest manner, related the whole circumstance of 
 Sybella' s escape from the mountain torrent — dwelling with grateful elo- 
 quence on the young O'Donoghue's heroism in coming to her rescue. 
 " The youth has narrowly escaped with his life. The doctor, who left 
 this but a few hours ago, said * he never witnessed a more dangerous 
 case than the symptoms at one time presented.' He is well, however, 
 now — the risk is past — and I want your aid, Fred, to devise some suit- 
 able mode of evincing our gratitude.' 
 
 " These O'Donoghues are your tenants — are they not ?" asked the 
 young man. 
 
 " Yes, they are tenants ; but on that score we must not say much in 
 their favour. "Wylie tells me that they have been at feud with Hems- 
 worth for years past — they neither pay rent, nor will they surrender 
 possession. The whole thing is a difficult matter to understand ; first 
 of all, there is a mortgage " 
 
 ^ There, there, my dear father, don't puzzle my brain and your own 
 with a statement we'll never get to the end of. The point I want to 
 learn is, they are your tenants '* 
 
 "Yes, at least for part of the land they occupy. There is a dispute 
 
148 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 about another portion ; but I believe Hemsworth has got the Attorney- 
 General's opinion, that their case cannot stand." 
 
 " Tush — never mind the Attorney-General. Give up the question at 
 issue ; send him, or his father, or whoever it is, the receipt for the 
 rent due, and take care Hemsworth does not molest him in future." 
 
 " But you don't see, boy, what we are doing. We hope to obtain 
 the whole of the Ballyvourney property — that is part of our plan ; the 
 tenants there are in a state of absolute misery and starvation." 
 
 *' Then, in God's name, give them plenty to eat ; it doesn't signify 
 much, I suppose, whose tenantry they are, when they're hungry." 
 
 The old gentleman was scarcely prepared for such an extended basis 
 for his philanthropy, and, for a moment or two, seemed quite dumb- 
 founded by his son's proposition, while Fred continued — " If I under- 
 stand the matter, it lies thus : you owe a debt of gratitude which you 
 are desirous to acquit — you don't care to pay highly." 
 
 " On the contrary, I am quite willing," interposed Sir Marmaduke ; 
 " but let the price be one, which shall realize a benefit equivalent to its 
 amount. If I assure these people in the possession of their land, what 
 security have I, that they will not continue, as of old, the same useless, 
 wasteful, spendthrift set they ever were — presenting the worst possible 
 example to the other tenants, and marring the whole force of the lesson 
 I am endeavouring to inculcate ?" 
 
 " That, I take it, is more their affair than i/ours, after all," said 
 Fred ; " you are not to confer the boon, and allocate its advantages 
 afterwards — but come, what kind of people are they?" 
 
 "Oh! a species of half-gentry, half-farmer set, I believe — ^proud 
 as they are poor — deeming themselves, as O'Donoghues, at least our 
 equals ; but hving, as I believe, in every kind of privation." 
 
 " Very well ; sit down there, and let me have a check on your 
 banker for five hundred pounds, and leave the affair to me." 
 
 " But you mistake, Fred, they are as haughty as Lucifer." 
 
 " Just leave it to me, sir : I fancy I know something of the world 
 by this time. It may require more money, but the result I will 
 answer for." 
 
 Sir Marmaduke' s confidence in his son's tact and wordly skill was one 
 of the articles of his faith, and he sat down at the table and wrote the 
 order on the bank at once. " Here Fred," said he ; " I only beg of you 
 to remember, that the way to express the grateful sense I entertain of 
 this boy's conduct is not by wounding the susceptibilities of his feelings ; 
 and if they be above the class of farmers, which I really cannot ascer- 
 tain, your steps must demand all your caution." 
 
 ** I hope, sir," said Fred with some vanity in the tone, " that I 
 
THE o'donoghue. 149 
 
 have never made you blush for my awkwardness, and I don't intend to 
 do so now. I promise for the success of my negociation j but I must 
 not say a word more of how I mean to obtain it." 
 
 Sir Marmaduke was very far from feehng satisfied with himself for 
 having even so far encouraged a plan, that his own bUnd confidence in 
 his son's cleverness had for a moment entrapped him into ; he would 
 gladly have withdrawn his consent, but old experience taught him that 
 Fred was never completely convinced he was right, until he met oppo- 
 sition to his opinion. So he parted with him for the night, hoping that 
 sleep might suggest a wiser counsel and a clearer head ; and that 
 being left free to act, he might possibly feel a doubt as to the correct- 
 ness of his own judgment. 
 
 As for Fred, no sooner was he alone than he began to regret the 
 pledge his precipitancy had carried him into. What were the nature of 
 the advances he was to make — how to open the negociation, in a 
 quarter the habits and prejudices of which he was utterly ignorant 
 of, he had not the most vague conception; and, as he sought his 
 chamber, he had half persuaded himself to the conviction, that the safest, 
 and the most honest course, after all, would be to avow in the morn- 
 ing that he had overstated his diplomatic abilities, and fairly abandon 
 a task, to which he saw himself inadequate. These were his last sleep- 
 11 g thoughts; for his waking resolves, we must enter upon another 
 chapter. 
 
150 TBB o'dONOGHUB. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "▲ DIPLOMATIST DEFEAXID." 
 
 If Frederick Travers went to sleep at night with very considerable 
 doubts, as to the practicability of his plana regarding the O'Donoghues, 
 his waking thoughts were very far from re-assuring him, and he heartily 
 wished he had never engaged in the enterprize. Now, however, his 
 honour was in a manner pledged ; he had spoken so confidently of 
 success, there was nothing for it but to go forward, and endeavour, as 
 as well he might, to redeem his promise. 
 
 At the time we speak of, military men never for a moment divested 
 themselves of the emblems of their career; the uniform and the 
 sword, the plumed hat and the high boot, formed a costume not to be 
 worn at certain periods and laid aside at others, but was their daily 
 dress, varying merely in the degree of full or half dress, as the occa- 
 sion warranted. There was no affectation of the happy freedom of 
 " Mufti" — no pretended enjoyment of the incognito of a black coat and 
 round hat ; on the contrary, the king's livery was borne with a pride 
 which, erring on the opposite side, suggested a degree of assump- 
 tion and conscious importance in the wearer, which more or less sepa- 
 rated the soldier from the civilian in bearing, and gradually originated a 
 feeling of soreness on the part of the more humbly clad citizen towards 
 the more favoured order. 
 
 A certain haughty, overbearing tone of manner, was then popular in 
 the army, and particularly in those regiments which boasted of an un- 
 alloyed nobility among the officers. If they assumed an air of supe- 
 riority to the rest of the service, so much the more did they look down 
 upon the mere civilian, whom they considered as belonging to a very 
 subordinate class and order of mankind. To mark the sense of this 
 difference of condition in a hundred little ways, and by a hundred petty 
 observances, was part of a military education, and became a more un- 
 erring test of the soldier in society, than even the cockade and the 
 cross-belt. To suppose that such a Hue of conduct should not have in- 
 spired those against whom it was directed with a feeling of counter 
 hatred, would be to disbelieve in human nature. The civilian, indeed. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 151 
 
 reciprocated with dislike the soldier's insolence, and, in their estrange- 
 ment from each other, the breach grew gradually wider — the domi- 
 nant tyranny of the one, and the base-born vulgarity of the other, 
 being themes each loved to dilate upon without ceasing. 
 
 Now, this consciousness of superiority, so far from relieving Frederick 
 Travers of any portion of the difficulty of his task, increased it ten- 
 fold. He knew and felt he was stooping to a most unwarrantable piece 
 of condescension in seeking these people at all ; and although he 
 trusted firmly that his aristocratic friends were very unlikely to hear of 
 proceedings in a quarter so remote and unvisited, yet how he should 
 answer to his own heart for such a course, was another and a far more 
 puzzling matter. He resolved, then, in the true spirit of his order, to 
 give his conduct aU the parade of a most condescending act, to let them 
 see plainly, how immeasurably low he had voluntarily descended to 
 meet them ; and to this end he attired himself in his full field uniform, 
 and with as scrupulous a care as though the occasion were a review 
 before his Majesty. His costume of scarlet coat, with blue velvet 
 facings, separating at the breast, so as to show a vest of white kersey- 
 mere, trimmed with a gold border — his breeches of the same colour and 
 material, met at the knee by the high and polished boot, needed but 
 the addition of his cocked hat, fringed with an edging of ostrich feathers, 
 to set off a figure of singular elegance and symmetry. The young men 
 of the day were just beginning to dispense with hair powder, and Fred 
 wore his rich brown locks, long and floating, in the new mode — a 
 fashion which well became him, and served to soften down the some- 
 what haughty carriage of his head. There was an air of freedom, an 
 absence of restraint, in the military costume of the period, which cer- 
 tainly contributed to increase the advantages of a naturally good-looking 
 man, in the same way as the present stiff, Prussian mode of dress, will, 
 assuredly, conceal many defects in mould and form among less-favoured 
 individuals. The loosely-falling flaps of the waistcoat — the deep hang- 
 ing cuffs of the coat — the easy folds of the long skirt — gave a cha- 
 racter of courtliness to uniform which, to our eye, it at present is very 
 far from possessing. In fact, the graceful carriage and courteous de- 
 meanour of the drawing-room, suffered no impediment from the pillory 
 of a modern stock, or the rigid inflexibiUty of a coat strained almost to 
 bursting. 
 
 "Are you on duty, Fred?" said Sir Marmaduke, laughing, as his 
 son entered the breakfast-room, thus carefully attired. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I am preparing for my mission ; and it would ill become 
 an ambassador to dehver his credentials in undress." 
 
•/62 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 ** To what court are you then accredited ?'*.► said Sybella, laughing. 
 
 " His Majesty, The O'Donoghue," interposed his father ; ** King of 
 Glenflesk, Baron of Inchigeela, Lord Protector of — of half the black- 
 guards in the county, I verily beUeve," added he, in a more natural 
 key. 
 
 " Are you really going to Carrig-na-curra, Fred ?" asked Miss Travers, 
 hurriedly ; "are you going to visit our neighbours ?" 
 
 " I'll not venture to say that such is the place, much less pretend 
 to pronounce it after you, my dear sister, but I am about to wait on 
 these worthy people, and, if they will permit me, have a peep at the 
 interior of their stockade or wigwam, whichever it be." 
 
 " It must have been a very grand thing in its day : that old castle 
 has some fine features about it yet," replied she calmly. 
 
 " Like Windsor, I suppose," said Fred as he replied to her, and then 
 complacently glanced at the well-fitting boot which ornamented his leg. 
 •* They'll not be over-ceremonious, I hope, about according me an 
 audience." 
 
 "Not in the forenoon, I believe," said Sir Marmaduke drily; for 
 he was recalling the description old Roach had given him of his own re- 
 ception by Kerry O'Leary, and which circumstance, by-the-by, figured 
 somewhat ostentatiously in his charge to the old baronet. 
 
 "Oh, then, they receive early," resumed Fred; "the old French 
 style — the * petit levee du roi' — before ten o'clock. Another cup of tea, 
 Sybella, and then I must look after a horse. 
 
 " I have given orders already on that score. I flatter myself you'll 
 rather approve of my stud ; for, amongst the incongruities of Ireland, 
 I have fallen upon an honest horse-dealer." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the young man, with more interest than he had yet 
 shown in the conversation ; " I must cultivate that fellow, one might 
 exhibit him with great success in London." 
 
 " Unquestionably, Fred, he is a curiosity ; for while he is a perfect 
 simpleton, about the value of an animal ; an easy-tempered, good-natured, 
 soft fellow — ^with respect to knowledge of a horse, his points, his 
 performance, and his soundness, I never saw his equal." 
 
 " I'll give him a commission to get me two chargers," said Fred, 
 dehghted at the prospect of deriving so much benefit from his Irish 
 journey. "What makes you look so serious, Sybella?" 
 
 " Was I so, Fred? I scarcely know — perhaps I was regretting," added 
 she archly, " that there were no ladies at Carrig-na-curra to admire so 
 very smart a cavalier." 
 
 Frederick coloured slightly and endeavoured to laugh, but the con- 
 
THE o'donoghue. 153 
 
 sciousness that his " bravery" of costume was somewhat out of place, 
 worried him and he made no reply." 
 
 *' You'll not be long, Fred," said his father, I shall want you to take 
 a walk with me to the lake." 
 
 " No, Fred — don't stay long away j it is not above two miles from 
 this at farthest.'* 
 
 " Had I not better send a guide with you?" 
 
 " No, no ; if the place be larger than a mud hovel, I cannot mistake 
 it. So here comes our steed. Well, I own, he is the best thing I've yet 
 seen in these parts ;" and the youth opened the window, and stepped 
 out to approach the animal. He was, indeed, a very creditable speci- 
 men of Lanty's taste in horse-flesh — the model of a compact and 
 powerfully-built cob horse. 
 
 " A hundred guineas, eh ?" said Fred, in a tone of question. 
 
 " Sixty — not a pound more," said the old man in conscious pride. 
 *'The fellow said but fifty ; I added ten on my own account.'* 
 
 Frederick mounted the cob, and rode him across the grass, with that 
 quiet hand and steady seat which bespeaks the judgment of tne called 
 upon to be critical. '* A little, a very little over-done in the mouthing, 
 but his action perfect," said he, as he returned to the window, and 
 iield the animal in an attitude to exhibit his fine symmetry to advantage. 
 *' The prince has a passion for a horse of this class; I hope you have 
 not become attached to him ?" 
 
 " His Royal Highness shall have him at once, Fred, if he will honour 
 you by accepting him." And as he spoke, he laid a stress on the yow, 
 to evince the pleasure he anticipated in the present being made by 
 Frederick, and not himself. 
 
 "Now, then, with God and St. George!" cried Fred, laughingly, 
 as he waved an adieu with his plumed hat, and cantered easily towards 
 the high road. 
 
 It was a clear and frosty day in December, with a blue sky above, 
 and all below bright and glittering in a thin atmosphere. The lake, 
 clear as crystal, reflected every cliff and crag upon the mountain — while 
 each island on its surface was defined with a crisp sharpness of outline, 
 scarce less beautiful than in the waving foliage of summer. The many- 
 coloured heaths, too, shone in hues more bright and varied, than usual 
 in our humid chmate ; and the voices which broke the silence, heard 
 from long distances away, came mellowed and softened in their tones, 
 and harmonized well with the solitary grandeur of the scene. Nor was 
 Frederick Travers insensible to its influence ; the height of those bold 
 mountains — their wild and fanciful outlines — the sweeping glens that 
 
154 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 wound along their bases — the wayward stream that flowed through the 
 deep valleys, and, as if in sportiveness, serpentined their course, were 
 features of scenery he had not witnessed before ; while the perfect so- 
 Htude awed and appalled him. 
 
 He had not ridden long, when the tall towers of the old castle of 
 Carrig-na-curra caught his eye, standing proudly on the bold mass of rock 
 above the road. The unseemly adjunct of farm-house and stables 
 were lost to view at such a distance, or blended with the general mass 
 of building, so that the whole gave the impression of extent and pre- 
 tension to a degree he was by no means prepared for. These features, 
 however, gradually diminished as he drew nearer ; the highly-pitched 
 roof, pierced with narrow windows, patched and broken — the crumbling 
 battlements of the towers themselves — the ruinous dilapidation of the 
 outer buildings, disenchanted the spectator of his first more favourable 
 opinion; until at length, as he surveyed the incongruous and misshapen 
 pile, with its dreary mountain back-ground, he wondered how, at any 
 point of view, he should have deemed it other than the gloomy abode it 
 seemed at that moment. 
 
 The only figure Frederick Travers had seen, as he rode along, was that 
 of a man carrjdng a gun in his hand, in a dress somewhat like a game- 
 keeper's, who, at some short distance from the road, moved actively 
 across the fields, springing lightly from hillock to hillock with the step 
 of a practised mountain walker, and seemingly regardless of the weight 
 of a burden which he carried on one shoulder : so rapidly did he move, 
 that Frederick found it difficult to keep pace with him, as the road was 
 deeply cut up, and far from safe for horse travel. Curious to make out 
 what he carried, Travers spurred eagerly forward ; and, at last, but not 
 without an effort, came within hail of him at the iron-barred gate which 
 formed the outer entrance to the castle from the high road. The burden 
 was now easily seen, and at once suggested to Frederick's mind 
 the reason of the bearer's haste. It was a young buck, just killed ; the 
 blood still trickled from the wound in its skull. 
 
 " Leave that gate open, my good fellow," cried Frederick, in a voice 
 of command, as the other pushed the frail portal wide, and let it fall 
 back heavily to its place again — " Do you hear me? — Cleave it open." 
 
 **We always leap it when mounted," was the cool reply, as the 
 speaker turned his head round, and then, without deigning either 
 another word or look, continued his way up the steep ascent. 
 
 Travers felt the rude taunt sorely, and would have given much to be 
 near him who uttered it ; but, whether disdaining to follow a counsel 
 thus insolently conveyed, or, it might be, not over-confident of his horse, 
 
THE o'donoghue. 155 
 
 lie dismounted, and, flinging wide the gate, rode quickly up the cause- 
 way — not, however, in time to overtake the other ; for, although the 
 way was enclosed by walls on both sides, he had disappeared already, 
 but in what manner, and how, it seemed impossible to say. 
 
 " My father has omitted poaching, it would seem, in his catalogue of 
 Irish virtues," muttered the young man, as he rode through the arched 
 keep, and halted at the chief entrance to the house. The door lay 
 open, displaying the cheerful blaze of a pine-wood fire, that burned 
 briskly within the ample chimney, in the keen air of a frosty morning. 
 *' I see I shall have my ride for my pains," was Fred's reflection as he 
 passed into the wide hall, and beheld the old weapons and hunting 
 spoils arranged around the walls. " These people affect chieftainship, 
 and go hungry to bed, to dream of fourteen quarterings. Be it so. I 
 shall see the old rookery at all events ;" and, so saying, he gave a vi- 
 gorous pull at the old bell, which answered loudly in its own person, 
 and, also, by a deep howl from the aged fox-hound, then lying at the fire 
 in the drawing-room. These sounds soon died away, and a silence 
 deep and unbroken as before succeeded. A second time, and a third, 
 Travers repeated his summons, but without any difference of result, 
 save that the dog no longer gave tongue ; — it seemed as if he were be- 
 coming reconciled to the disturbance, as one that needed no farther at- 
 tention from him. 
 
 " I must explore for myself," thought Fred, and so, attaching his 
 horse to the massive ring by which a chain used once to be sus- 
 pended across the portal, he entered the house. Walking leisurely for- 
 ward, he gained the long corridor j for a second or two he was uncer- 
 tain how to proceed, when a gleam of light from the half-open door in 
 the tower led him onward. As he drew near he heard the deep tones 
 of a man's voice recounting, as it seemed, some story of the chase ; the 
 last words, at least, were — " I fired but one shot — the herd is wild 
 enough already." Travers pushed wide the door, and entered ; as he 
 did so, he involuntarily halted ; the evidences of habits and tastes he 
 was not prepared for, suddenly rebuked his unannounced approach, and 
 he would gladly have retreated, were it now practicable. 
 
 " Well, sir," said the same voice he heard before, and from a young 
 man, who leaned with one arm on the chimney-piece, and with the other 
 Hand held his gun, while he appeared as if he had been conversing with 
 a pale and sickly youth, propped and pillowed in a deep arm-chair. 
 They were the only occupants of the room. 
 
 "Well, sir, it would seem you have made a mistake j the inn is lower 
 down the glen — you'll see a sign over the door-way," 
 
156 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 The look which accompanied this insolent speech recalled at once to 
 Frederick's mind the same figure he had seen in the glen; and, stung by 
 impertinence from such a quarter, he replied — 
 
 " Have no fear, young fellow ; you may poach every acre for twenty 
 miles round — I have not tracked you on that score." 
 
 "Poach! — tracked me!" reiterated Mark O'Donoghue, for it is 
 needless to say it was he ; and then, as if the ludicrous were even 
 stronger in his mind than mere passion, he burst into a rude laugh ; 
 while the sick boy's pale face grew a deep crimson, as, with faltering 
 accents, he said — 
 
 " You must be a stranger here, sir, I fancy." 
 
 " I am so," said Travers mildly and yielding at once to the respect 
 ever due to suffering ; " my name is Travers. I have come over here to 
 enquire after a young gentleman who saved my sister's life." 
 
 "Then you've tracked him well," interposed Mark, with an emphasis 
 on the word. " Here he is." 
 
 " Will you not sit down," said Herbert, motioning vdtK his wasted 
 hand to a seat. 
 
 Frederick took his place beside the boy at once and said — " We owe 
 you, sir, the deepest debt of gratitude it has ever been our fortune to 
 incur ; and if anything could enhance the obligation, it has been the 
 heroism, the personal daring " 
 
 " Hold there," said Mark, .sternly. "It's not our custom here to 
 listen to compliments on our courage — we are O'Donoghues." 
 
 " This young gentleman's daring was no common one," answered 
 Travers, as if stung by the taunt. 
 
 " My brother will scarce feel flattered by your telling him so," was 
 Mark's haughty answer ; and for some seconds Frederick knew not how 
 to resume the conversation ; at last, turning to Herbert, he said — 
 
 "May I hope that, without offending you, we maybe permitted in 
 some shape to express the sentiment I speak of; it is a debt which 
 cannot be requited ; let us at least have some evidence that we ac- 
 knowledge it." 
 
 " It is the more like some of our own," broke in Mark with a fierce 
 laugh ; "we have parchments enough, but we never pay. Your father's 
 agent could tell you that." 
 
 Frederick gave no seeming attention to this speech, but went on — 
 " When I say there is nothing in our power we would deem enough, I 
 but express the feelings of my father and myself." 
 
 " There, there," cried Mark, preventing Herbert who was about to 
 reply, " you've said far more than was needed for a wet jacket and a 
 
THE o'donoghue. -.57 
 
 few weeks' low diet. Let us have a word about the poachii>g you 
 spoke of." 
 
 His fixed and steady stare — the rigid brow, by which these words were 
 accx)mpanied, at once proclaimed the intention of one who sought repa- 
 ration for an insult, and so instantly did they convey the sentiment, that 
 Traversj in a second, forgot all about his mission, and, starting to his feet, 
 replied in a whisper, audible but to Mark — 
 
 " True, it was a very hazardous guess ; but when, in England, we meet 
 with a fustian jacket and a broken beaver, in company with a gun and 
 a game-bag, we have little risk in pronouncing the owner a game-keeper 
 or a poacher." 
 
 Mark struck his gun against the ground with such violence as 
 shivered the stock from the barrel, while he grasped the corner of the 
 chimney-piece convulsively with the other hand. It seemed as if passion 
 had actually paralysed him : as he stood thus, the door opened, and Kate 
 O'Donoghue entered. She was dressed in the becoming half-toilette 
 of the morning, and wore on her head one of those caps of blue velvet, em- 
 broidered in silver, which are so popular among the peasantry of Rhenish. 
 Germany. The light airiness of her step as she came forward, uncon- 
 scious of a stranger's presence, displayed her figure in its most graceful 
 character. Suddenly her eyes fell upon Frederick Travers, she stopped 
 and courtesied low to him, while he, thunderstruck with amazement at re- 
 cognizing his fellow traveller so unexpectedly, could scarcely return her 
 salute with becoming courtesy. 
 
 "Mr. Travers," said Herbert, after waiting in vain for Mark to speak; 
 " Mr. Travers has been kind enough to come and enquire after me. 
 Miss O'Donoghue, sir ;" and the boy, with much bashfulness, essayed in 
 some sort the ceremony of introduction. 
 
 " My cousin, Mr. Mark O'Donoghue," said Kate, with a graceful 
 movement of her hand towards Mark, whose attitude led her to suppose 
 he was not known to Travers. 
 
 " I have had the honour of presenting .myself already," said Frederick, 
 bowing ; but Mark responded not to the inchnation, but stood still with 
 bent brow and clenched lip, seemingly unconscious of all around him, 
 while Kate seated herself, and motioned to Travers to resume his place. 
 She felt how necessary it was she should atone, by her manner, for the 
 strange rudeness of her cousin's ; and her mind being now relieved of 
 the fear which first struck her, that Frederick's visit might be intended for 
 herself, she launched freely and pleasantly into conversation, recurring 
 to the incidents of the late journey, and the fellow-travellers they had 
 met with. 
 
ISB THE o'dONOGHTJE. 
 
 If Kate was not sorry to learn that "the Lodge* was tenanted by persons 
 of such condition and class, as might make them agreeable neighbours, 
 Travers, on the other hand, was overjoyed at discovering one of such 
 attractions within an easy visiting distance, while Herbert sat by, 
 wondering how persons, so little known to each other, could have no 
 many things to say, and so many topics which seemed mutually inte- 
 resting. For so it is ; they who are ignorant of the world and its habits, 
 can scarcely credit the great extent of those generahties which form 
 food for daily intercourse — nor with what apparent interest people can 
 play the game of life, with but counterfeit coinage. He listened at first 
 with astonishment, and afterwards with delight, to the pleasant flip- 
 pancy of each, as in turn they discussed scenes, and pleasures, and 
 people, of whom he never so much as heard. The " gentillesse" of 
 French manner — would that we had a name for the thing in English — 
 imparted to Kate's conversation a graceful ease our more reserved 
 habits rarely permit ; and while ui her costume and her carriage there 
 was a certain coquetry discernible, not a particle of affectation pervaded 
 either her opinions or expressions. Travers, long accustomed to the 
 best society of London, had yet seen scarcely anything of the fascina- 
 tion of foreign agreeability, aud yielded himself so insensibly to its 
 charm, that an hour slipped away unconsciously, and he totally forgot 
 the great object of his visit, and lost all recollection of the luckless 
 animal he had attached to the door ring — luckless, indeed, for already 
 a heavy snow-drift was falling, and the day had assumed all the appear- 
 ance of severe winter. 
 
 " You cannot go now, sir," said Herbert, as Frederick rose to take his 
 leave ; — " there's a heavy snow-storm without ;" for the boy was so 
 interested in all he heard, he could not endure the thought of his 
 departure. 
 
 *' Oh ! it's nothing," said Travers, lightly. " There's an old adage — 
 * Snow should not scare a soldier.* " 
 
 " There's another proverb in the French service," said Kate, laugh- 
 ing, as she pointed to the blazing hearth — " * Le soldat ne tourne pas 
 son dos an feu.' " 
 
 " I accept the augury," cried Frederick, laughing heartily at the 
 witty misapplication of the phrase, and resumed his seat once more. 
 
 " Cousin Kate plays chess," said Herbert, in his anxiety to suggest a 
 plausible pretext for delaying Frederick's departure. 
 
 "And I am passionately fond of the game ; would you favour me so far V* 
 
 " "With pleasure," said she smihng ; " I only ask one condition, 
 ' point de grace' — no giving back — the O'Donoghues never take or give 
 
(2^/ 
 
THE o'dONOGHVE. l^ 
 
 quarter — ^isn't that so, Mark? Oh! he's gone," and now for the first 
 time it was remarked that he had left the apartment. 
 
 In a few moments after, they had drawn the Httle marquetrie tahle 
 close to the fire, and were deeply interested in the game. 
 
 At first, each party played with a seeming attention, which certainly 
 imposed on Herbert, who sat eagerly watching the progress of the 
 game. Frederick Travers was, however, far more occupied in observing 
 his antagonist than in the disposition of his rooks and pawns. While 
 she, soon perceiving his inattention, half suspected that he did not 
 deem her an enemy worth exerting his skill upon, and thus, partly in 
 pique, she bestowed more watchfulness than at first. 
 
 " So, Mademoiselle," cried Travers at length, recurring to his game, 
 "I perceive you have only permitted me to advance thus far, to cut oft 
 my retreat for ever. How am I to save myself now V 
 
 '• It's hard to say. Sir Captain. It's the old tactique of Celts and 
 Saxons on both sides; you would advance into the heart of the enemy's 
 country, and as, unhappily, the men in ivory are truer than the natives 
 were here, and won't take bribes to fight against their fellows, you must 
 e'en stand or fall by your own deservings." 
 
 " Come, then, the bold policy for ever. Check." 
 
 " And you lose your castle." 
 
 "And you your bishop !" 
 
 " We must avenge the church, sir. Take care of your queen." 
 
 " *Parbleu,' Mademoiselle, you are a fierce foe. What say you, if we 
 draw the battle?" 
 
 " No, no, cousin Kate ; continue, and you win it.** 
 
 <'Be it so. And now for my turn," said Travers, who was really 
 a first-rate player, and at length began to feel interested in the result. 
 
 The move he made exhibited so much of skill, that Kate foresaw that 
 the fortune of the day was about to change. She leaned her brow upon 
 her hand, and deliberated long on the move ; and at length, lifting hur 
 head, she said — 
 
 " I should like much to beat you — ^but in fair fight, remember — no 
 courtesy nor favour." 
 
 " I can spare neither," said Travers, smiling. 
 
 " Then, defeat is no dishonour. There's my move." 
 
 " And mine," cried Fred, as rapidly. 
 
 " What prevents my taking you ? I see nothing." 
 
 " Nor I either," said he, half chagrined, for his move was an oversight. 
 
 *' You are too proud to ask quarter— of course, you are — or I should 
 say, take it back." 
 
1(60 THE O'OONOGHUE. 
 
 " No, Kate, no," whispered Herbert, whose excitement was at tHe 
 highest. 
 
 " I must abide my fortune," said Frederick, bowing ; ** and the more 
 calmly, as I have won the game.** 
 
 " Won the game ! How ? — ^where V* 
 
 "Check!" 
 
 " How tauntingly he says it now," said Kate, while her eyes sparkled 
 brilliantly. " There is too much of the conqueror in all that." 
 
 Frederick's glance met hers at the instant, and her cheek coloured 
 deeply. 
 
 Who knows the source of such emotions, or of how much pleasure 
 and pain they are made up ! " And yet, I have not won," said he, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 " Then, be it a drawn battle," said Kate. " You can afford to be 
 generous, and I can't bear being beaten — that's the truth of it." 
 
 " If I could but win !" muttered Travers, as he rose from the table ; 
 and whether she overheard the words, and that they conveyed more 
 than a mere allusion to the game, she turned hastily away, and ap- 
 proached the window. 
 
 " Is that snow-ball your horse. Captain Travers ?" said she, with a 
 wicked smile. 
 
 "My father's favourite cob, by Jove P exclaimed Frederick ; and, as 
 if suddenly aroused to the memory of his lengthy visit, made his ' adieus' 
 with more confusion than was exactly suitable to a fashionable Guards- 
 man — and departed. 
 
 " I hke him," said Herbert, as he looked out of tlie window after 
 him. " Don't you, cousin Kate ?'* 
 
 But cousin Kate did not reply. 
 
THE O^DONOGHUB. 161 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 TBHPTATION IN \ WEAK HOUR, 
 
 When Mark O'Donoghue left the room, his passion had become 
 almost ungovernable — the entrance of his cousin Kate had but dammed 
 up the current of his anger — and, during the few moments he 
 still remained afterwards, his temper was fiercely tried by witnessing 
 the courtesy of her manner to the stranger, and the apparent intimacy 
 which subsisted between them. " I ought to have known it," was the 
 expression he muttered over and over to himself — " I ought to have 
 known it ! That fellow's gay jacket and plumed hat are dearer to her 
 woman's heart, than the rude devotion of such as I am. Curses be 
 on them, they carry persecution through every thing — house, home, 
 country, rank, wealth, station — ay, the very affection of our kindred 
 they grudge us ! Was slavery ever hke this ?" And with these bitter 
 words, the offspring of bitterer thoughts, he strode down the cause- 
 way, and reached the high road. The snow was falling fast — a chilling 
 north wind drove the thin flakes along — but he heeded it not. The 
 fire of anger that burned within his bosom defied all sense of winter's 
 cold ; and with a throbbing brow, and fevered hand, he went, turning 
 from time to time to look up at the old castle, whence he expected 
 each moment to see Travers take his departure. Now he hurried 
 eagerly onward, as if to reach some destined spot — ^now he would 
 stop, and retrace his steps, irresolutely, as though half determined to 
 return home. 
 
 " Degraded, insulted, outraged on the very hearth of my father's 
 house !" cried he, aloud, as he wrung his hands in agony, and gave 
 his passion vent. Again he pressed forward, and at last arrived at that 
 part of the glen, where the road seems escarped between the two 
 mountains, which rise several hundred feet, like walls, on either side. 
 Here he paused, and after examining the spot for some seconds, he 
 muttered to himself, " He has no choice here, but stand or turn V* 
 and so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat two pistols, 
 examined the priming of each, and then replaced them. The prospect 
 pf speedy revenge seemed to have calmed his vindictive spirit, for 
 BOW he continued to walk backwards and forwards, at a slow pac^ 
 
 M 
 
162 THE O DONOGUUE. 
 
 like a sentinel on his post, pausing occasionally to listen if a horse's 
 hoofs could be heard upon the road, and then resuming his walk onoe 
 more. A rustling sound in the brushwood above his head onoe 
 startled him, but the granite cliffs that overhung the road prevented 
 his seeing from what it proceeded, and his heart was now bent on a 
 very different object than the pursuit of the deer. At that moment, 
 the proudest of the herd might have grazed in safety, within pistol-shot 
 of him, and he had not deigned to notice it. Thus passed an hour — 
 a second — and a third succeeded — and, already, the dull shadows of 
 approacliing night were falling — ^yet, no one came. Tortured with 
 strange conjectures, Mark saw the day waning, and yet no sight nor 
 sound of him he looked for. Let not poets speak of the ardent 
 longing of a lover's heart, as in throbbing eagerness he waits for her, 
 whose smile is life, and hope, and heaven. Compared with the mad 
 impatience of him who thirsts for vengeance, his passion is but sluggish 
 apathy. It is the bad, that ever calls forth the sternest energies of 
 human nature. It is in crime, that men transcend the common attri- 
 butes of mankind. Here was one, now, who would have given his right 
 hand beneath the axe, for but one brief moment of vengeance, and 
 have deemed years of suffering cheaply bought, for the mere presence 
 of his enemy before him. 
 
 " He must have guessed my meaning when I left the room ;" was 
 the taunting expression he now uttered, as his unsated anger took the 
 shape of an insolent depreciation of his adversary. " An Irishman 
 would not need a broader hint !" 
 
 It grew darker — the mountains frowned heavily beneath the canopy 
 of clouds, and night was rapidly approaching, when, from the gloom 
 of his almost extinguished hope, Mark was suddenly aroused. He 
 heard the tramp of a horse's feet ; the dull reverberation on the deep 
 snow filled the air, and sometimes they seemed to come from the oppo- 
 site part of the glen, when the pace slackened, and, at last, the eounds 
 became almost inaudible. 
 
 " There is yet enough of daylight, if we move into the broad road," 
 was Mark's soliloquy, as he stooped his ear to listen — and at the 
 instant, he beheld a man leading his horse by the bridle, while 
 he himself seemed seeking along the road-side, where the snow- 
 drift had not yet fallen, as if for some lost object. A glance, even by 
 the imperfect light, and at some thirty paces off, showed Mark it was 
 not him he sought, and were it not that the attitude attracted his 
 curiosity, he had not wasted a second look on him ; but the horseman 
 by this time had halted, and was scraping with his whip-handle 
 the pebbles of the mountain rivulet. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 16S 
 
 " 111 never see it again — ^it's no use !" was the exclamation of the 
 seeker, as he gathered up his reins, and prepared to mount. 
 
 " Is that Lanty Lawler 1" cried Mark, as he recognised the voice ; 
 * I say, did you meet with a young officer riding down the glen, in the 
 direction of Carrig-na-curra ?" 
 
 " No, indeed, Mr. Mark — I never saw Hving thing since I left 
 Bantry." 
 
 The young man paused for a few seconds — and then, as if anxious 
 to turn all thought from his question, said, "What have you lost 
 thereabouts ?'* 
 
 " Oh, more than I am worth in the world !" was the answer, in a 
 deep, heart-drawn sigh — "but, blessed heaven! what's the pistols for? 
 Oh, Master Mark, dear — sure — sure ** 
 
 "Sure what?" cried the youth, with a hoarse laugh — "Sure, I'm 
 not turned highway robber ! Is that what you want to say ? Make 
 your mind easy, Lanty — I have not reached that point yet ; though, 
 if indifference to life might tempt a man, I'd not say it is so far off." 
 
 " 'Tis a duel, then,'"' cried Lanty quickly ; " but, I hope you 
 wouldn't fight without seconds. Oh, that's downright murder — what 
 did he do to you ? — was it one of the fellows you met in Cork ?" 
 
 " You are all wrong,'' said Mark, sullenly. "It is enough, however, 
 that neither of us seem to have found what he was seeking. You have 
 your secret ; I have raine. 
 
 " Oh, faix, mine is soon told — 'twas my pOcket-book, with as good 
 as seventy pounds in goold, I lost here, a three weeks ago, and never 
 set eyes on it since ; and there was papers in it — ay, faix, papers of 
 great value — and I darn't face Father Luke without them. I may 
 leave the country, when he hears what happened." 
 
 " Where are you going now ?" said Mark, gloomily. 
 
 " I'm going as far as Mary's, for the night. Maybe you'd step down 
 there, and take a bit of supper ? When the moon rises, the night will 
 take up fine." 
 
 The young man turned without speaking, and bent his steps in the 
 direction Lanty was travelling. 
 
 The horse-dealer was too well versed in human nature to press for a 
 confidence, which he foresaw would be, at last, willingly extended 
 to him ; he therefore walked along at Mark's side, without uttering 
 a word, and seeming to be absorbed in his own deep musings. His calcu- 
 lation was a correct one. They had not gone many paces forward, when 
 young O'Donoghue unburthened his whole heart to him — told him, with 
 all the eloquent energy of a wounded spirit, of the insult he had received 
 
164 TBE 0*DONOGHUS 
 
 in his own home, hefore his younger brother's face. He omitted 
 nothing in his description of the overbearing impertinence of Frederic 
 Travers's manner — with what cool assurance he had entered the house, 
 and with what flippant carelessness he treated his cousin Rate. 
 
 " I left home, with an oath, not to return thither unavenged," said he, 
 " nor will I, though this time luck seems against me. Had he but come, 
 I should have given him his choice of pistols, and his own d: starve 
 My hand is true from five paces to thirty ; but he has not escaped me yet." 
 
 Lanty never interrupted the narrative, except to ask from time to 
 time some question, the answer to which was certain to develope the 
 deeper indignation of the youth. A low muttering commentary, 
 intended to mean a heartfelt sympathy with his w1*ongs, was all he suf- 
 fered to escape his lips ; and, thus encouraged in his passionate vehemence, 
 Mark's wrath became like a phrenzy. 
 
 "Come in now," said Lanty, as he halted at the door of Mary's 
 cabin, " but don't say a word about this business. I have a thought in 
 my head that may do you good service, but keep a fair face before peo- 
 ple — do you mind me ?" 
 
 There was a tone of secrecy and mystery in these words Mark could 
 not penetrate ; but, however dark their meaning, they seemed to promise 
 some hope of that revenge his heart yearned after, and with this trust 
 he entered the house. 
 
 Mary received them with her wonted hospitality — Lanty was an 
 expected guest — and showed how gratified she felt to have young 
 O'Donoghue beneath her roof. 
 
 *' I was afeard you were forgetting me entirely, Mr. Mark," said she — 
 "you passed the door twice, and never as much as said, God save you, 
 Mary." 
 
 " I did not forget you, for all that, Mary," said he, feelingly. " I 
 have too few friends in the world to spare any of them ; but I've had 
 many things on my mind lately." 
 
 "Well, and to be sure you had, and why wouldn't you? 'Tis no 
 shame of you to be sad and down-hearted — an O'Donoghue of the ould 
 stock — the best blood in Kerry, wandering about by himself, instead of 
 being followed by a troop of servants, with a goold coat-of-arms worked 
 on their coats, like your grandfather's men — the heavens be his bed. 
 Thirty-eight mounted men, armed, ay and well armed, were in the saddle 
 after him, the day the English general came down here to see the troops 
 that was quartered at Bantry." 
 
 "No wonder we should go afoot now," said Mark, bitterly. 
 
 "Well, well— it's the will of God," ejaculated Mary, piously; 
 " and who knows what's in store for you yet ?" 
 
THE 0*DON06HX7S. 165 
 
 " That's the very thing I do be telling him,* said Lanty, who only 
 waited for the right moment to chime in with the conversation. 
 ** There's fine times coming." 
 
 Mary stared at the speaker with the eager look of one who wished to 
 derive a meaning deeper than the mere words seemed to convey, and 
 then, checking her curiosity at a gesture from Lanty, she set about 
 arranging the supper, which only awaited his arrival. 
 
 Mark ate but little of the fare before him, though Mary's cookery 
 was not without its temptations ; but of the wine — and it was strong 
 Burgundy — ^he drank freely. Goblet after goblet he drained with that 
 craving desire to allay a thirst, which is rather the symptom of a mind 
 fevered by passion than by malady. Still, as he drank, no sign of intoxi- 
 cation appeared ; on the contrary, his words evinced a tone of but 
 deeper resolution, and a more settled purpose than at first, when he told 
 how he had promised never to leave his father, although all his hopes 
 pointed to the glorious career a foreign service would open before him. 
 
 " It was a good vow you made, and may the saints enable you to 
 keep it," said Mary. 
 
 " And for the matter of glory, maybe there's some to be got nearer 
 home, and without travelling to look for it," interposed Lanty. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said Mark, eagerly. 
 
 " Fill your glass. Take the big one, for it's a toast I'm going to 
 give you — are you ready ? Here now, then — drink — 
 
 * A stout heart and mind. 
 And an easterly wind, 
 And the Devil behind 
 V The Saxon. " 
 
 Mark repeated the doggerel as well as he was able, and pledged the only 
 sentiment he could divine, that of the latter part, with all his enthusiasm. 
 
 " You may tell him what you plaze, now," whispered Mary in Lanty 's 
 ear; for her ready wit perceived that his blood was warmed by the 
 wine, and his heart open for any communication. 
 
 Lanty hesitated but a second, then drawing his chair close to Mark's, 
 he said — 
 
 "I'm going now to put my life in your hands, but I can't 
 help it. "When Ireland is about to strike for liberty, it is not an 
 O'Donoghue should be last in the ranks. Swear to me you'll never 
 mention again what I'll tell you — swear it on the book." Mary, at the 
 same moment, placed in his hand a breviary, with a gilt cross on the 
 binding, which Mark took reverently, and kissed twice. " That's enough 
 — ^your word would do me, but I must obey them that's over me ; and 
 
166 Tins 0*O0N00HVK. 
 
 80 saying, Lanty at once proceeded to lay before the astonished mind » 
 young O'Donoghue, the plan of France for an invasion of Ireland — ncA 
 vaguely nor imperfectly, not in the mere language of rumom 
 or chance allusion, but with such aids i to circumstance and time, as 
 gave him the appearance of one conversant with what he spoke on. 
 The restoration of Irish independence — the resumption of forfeited 
 estates — the return of the real nobiUty of the land to their long-lost 
 position of eminence and influence, were themes he descanted upon 
 with consummate skill, bringing home each fact to the actual eiFect such 
 changes would work in the youth's own condition, who, no longer de- 
 graded to the rank of a mere peasant, would once again assert his own 
 rightful station, and stand forth at the head of his vast property — the 
 heir of an honoured name and house. Lanty knew well, and more too, 
 implicitly believed in all the plausible pretension of French sympathy 
 for Irish suffering, which formed the cant of the day. He had often heard 
 the arguments in favour of the success of such an expedition — in fact, the 
 reasons for which its failure was deemed impossible. These he repeated 
 fluently, giving to his narrative the semblance of an incontestible state- 
 ment, and then he told him that from Brest to Dublin was " fifty hours' 
 sail, with a fair wind" — ^that same "easterly breeze," the toast alluded to, 
 that the French could throw thirty, nay, fifty thousand troops into 
 Ireland, yet never weaken their own army to any extent worth speaking 
 of— that England was distracted by party spirit, impoverished by 
 debt, and totally unable to repel invasion, and, in fact, that if Ireland 
 would be but " true to herself," her success was assured. 
 
 He told, too, how Irishmen were banded together in a sworn union to 
 assert the independence of their country, and that such as held back, 
 or were reluctant in the cause, would meet the fate of enemies. On the 
 extent and completeness of the organization, he dwelt with a proud 
 satisfaction , but when he spoke of large masses of men trained to move 
 and act together, Mark suddenly interrupted him, saying — 
 
 "Yes, I have seen them. It's not a week since some hundreds 
 marched through this glen at midnight." 
 
 " Ay, that was Holt's party," said Mary, composedly ; " and fine 
 men they are." 
 
 " They were unarmed," said Mark. 
 
 " If they were, it is because the general didn't want their weapons.* 
 
 "There's arms enough to be had when the time comes for using 
 them," broke in Mary. 
 
 "Wouldn't you show him — " and Lanty hesitated to conclude a 
 speech, the impradence of which he mis skmiy aware of. 
 
.^: 
 
 ////^ V^T ^/?,'/',^ 
 
 'HZ/ 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 157 
 
 " Ay will I,** said Mary. " I never mistrusted one of his name ;** 
 and with that, she rose from the fire-side, and took a candle in her hand. 
 " Come here a minute, Master Mark/' Unlocking a small door in the 
 back wall of the cabin, she entered a narrow passage which led to the 
 stable, but oiF which, a narrow door, scarcely distinguishable from the 
 wall, conducted into a spacious vault, excavated in the solid rock. Here 
 were a vast number of packing-cases and boxes, piled on each other, 
 from floor to roof, together with hogsheads and casks of every shape 
 and size. Some of the boxes had been opened, and the lids laid loosely 
 over them. Removing one of these, Mary pointed to the contents, as 
 she said — 
 
 " There they are — French muskets and carabines. There's pistols in 
 that case ; and all them, over there, is swords and cutlasses. 'Tis pike- 
 heads that's in the other corner j and the casks has saddles and holsters 
 and them kind of things." 
 
 Mark stooped down and took up one of the muskets. It was a Hght 
 and handy weapon, and bore on its stock the words — ** Armee de la 
 Sambre et Meuse" — for none of the weapons were new. 
 
 " These are all French," said he, after a brief pause. 
 
 " Every one of them," replied Mary, proudly ; " and there's more 
 coming from the same place." 
 
 " And why can we not fight our own battles, without aid from 
 France ?" said Mark, boldly. " If we really are worthy of indepen- 
 dence, are we not able to win it ?" 
 
 "Because there's traitors among us," said Mary — replying before 
 Lanty could interpose — " because there's traitors that would turn again 
 us if we were not sure of victory ; but when they see we have the 
 strong hand, as well as the good cause, they'll be sure to stand on the 
 safe side." 
 
 " I don't care for that," said Mark. " I want no such alUes as 
 these. I say, if we deserve our hberty, we ought to be strong enough 
 to take it." 
 
 " There's many think the same way as yourself," said Lanty, quietly. 
 ' ' I heard the very words you said from one of the delegates last week. 
 But I don't see any harm in getting help from a friend, when the odds 
 is against you." 
 
 " But I do ; and great harm too. What's the price of the assistance ? 
 —tell me that." 
 
 ** Oh, make your mind easy on that score. The French hate the 
 English, whether they love us or no.*' 
 
 •* And why wouldn't they love us," said Mary, half angry at svls^ 
 
i68 THE ODONOGHUE. 
 
 a supposition, " and we all Catholics ? Don't we both belong to the 
 ould ancient church? and didn't we swear to destroy the heretics 
 wherever we'd find them ? Ay, and we will, too !" 
 
 " I'm with you, whatever come of it," said Mark, after a few seconds 
 of thought. "I'm with you ; and if the rest have as little to hve for, 
 trust me, they'll not be pleasant adversaries." 
 
 Overjoyed at this bold avowal, which consummated the success they 
 desired, they led Mark back into the cabin, and pledged, in a bumper, 
 the " raal O'Donoghue." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke Travers and his daughter had passed a morning of 
 great uneasiness at the delay in Frederic's return. Noon came, and yet 
 no appearance of him. They wandered along the road, hoping to meet 
 him, and at last turned homeward with the intention of despatching a 
 servant towards Carrig-na-curra, fearing lest he should have missed his 
 way. This determination, however, they abandoned, on being told by 
 a countryman, that he had seen the horse young Travers rode still 
 standing at the gate of the ** castle." 
 
 A feeling of curiosity to hear his son's account of the O'Donoghues, 
 mingled with the old man's excitement at his absence ; and, as the day 
 declined, and still no sign of his return, he walked every now and then to 
 the door, and looked anxiously along the road by which he expected his 
 approach. Sybella, too, was not without her fears, and though vague 
 and undefined, she dreaded a possible collision between the hot-blood of 
 Mark and her brother. The evening of her first arrival was ever pre- 
 sent to her mind ; and she often thought of what might have then 
 occurred, had Frederic been present. 
 
 They had wearied themselves with every mode of accounting for his 
 delay, guessed at every possible cause of detention, and were at length 
 on tlie point of sending a messenger in search of him, when they heard 
 the tramp of a horse coming, not along the high road, but, as it seemed, 
 
over the fields in front of them. A few minutes more of anxious expec 
 tancy, and Frederic, with his horse splashed and panting, alighted 
 beside them. 
 
 " Well, you certainly have a very pretty eye for a country, father," 
 said he, gaily. " That same line you advised, has got three as rasping 
 fences as I should like to meet with." 
 
 " What do you mean, boy ?" said Sir Marmaduke, as much puzzled 
 at the speech as the reader himself may feel. 
 
 " Simply, sir, that though the cob is a capital horse, and has a great 
 jump in him, that I'd rather have day-light for that kind of thing ; and 
 I really believe the ragged fellow you sent for me, chose the stiffest 
 places. I saw the rascal grinning when I was coming up to the mid- 
 stream." 
 
 " Messenger ! — ragged fellow ! The boy is dreaming." 
 
 " My dear Frederic, we sent no messenger. We were, indeed, very 
 anxious at your delay, but we did not despatch any one to meet you." 
 
 Frederic stared at both the speakers, and then repeated, in astonish- 
 ment, the last words — " Sent no messenger !" but when they once more 
 assured him of the fact, he gave the following account of his return : — 
 
 *' It was very late when I left the castle. I delayed there the whole 
 day ; but scarcely had I reached the high-road, when a wild-looking 
 fellow, with a great pole in his hand, came up to me, and cried out, 
 
 " * Are you for the Lodge V * Yes,' said he, answering himself, *you 
 are her brother. I'm sent over to tell you, not to go back by the road, 
 for the bridge is down j but you're to come over the fields, and FlI 
 show you the way.' " 
 
 " Supposing the fellow was what he assumed to be — your messenger, 
 I followed him ; and, by George, it was no joking matter ; for he leaped 
 like a deer, and seemed to take uncommon pleasure in pitting himself 
 against the cob. I should have given up the contest, I confess, but 
 that the knave had me in his power. For, when it grew dark, I knew 
 noc which way to head, until, at length, he shouted out — 
 
 " ' There's the Lodge now, where you see the light.' And after 
 that, what became of himself I cannot tell you." 
 
 " It was Terry, poor Teny," cried Sybells. 
 
 ** Yes, it must have been Terry," echoed her father. 
 
 " And is this Terry retained to play Will-o'-the-Wisp?" asked Fred ; 
 *' or is it a piece of amateurship ?" 
 
 But both Sir Marmaduke and Sybella were too deeply engaged in 
 canvassing the motive for this strange act, to pay due attention to his 
 question. 
 
170 THE 0*DONOQHUE. 
 
 As Frederic was but little interested in his guide, nor mindful of 
 what became of him, they were not able to obtain any clue from him 
 as to what road he took ; nor what chance there was of overtaking him . 
 
 ** So then this was a piece of * poHtesse,' for which I am indebted to 
 your friend Terry's own devising," said Fred, half angrily. "The 
 fellow had better keep out of my way in future.*' 
 
 " You will not harm him, Fred, you never could, when I tell you of 
 his gallant conduct here." 
 
 " My sweet sister, I am really wearied of this eternal theme — I have 
 heard of nothing but heroism since my arrival. Once for all, I concede 
 the matter, and am willing to believe of the Irish, as of the family of 
 Bayard, that all the men are brave— and all the women virtuous. And 
 now, let us to dinner." 
 
 " You have told us nothing of your visit to the enchanted castle, 
 Fred,** said his sister, when the servants had withdrawn, and they were 
 once more alone ; "and I am all impatience to hear of your adventures 
 there.'* 
 
 "I confess, too," said Sir Marmaduke, "I am not devoid of 
 curiosity on the subject — let us hear it all." 
 
 " I have little to recount," said Frederic, with some hesitation in his 
 manner ; " I neither saw the O'Donoghue, as they call him, nor his 
 brother-in-law — the one was in bed, the other had gone to visit some 
 sick person on the mountain. But I made acquaintance with your 
 preux-chevaher, Sybella : a fine-looking young fellow, even now wasted 
 with sickness ; he was there with an elder brother, an insolent kind of 
 personage — half peasant, all bully." 
 
 " He was not wanting in proper respect to yow," said Sir Marmaduke. 
 " I trust, Mark, he was aware of who you were ?" 
 
 "Faith, sir, I fancy he cared very Uttle on the subject ; and had I 
 been a much more important individual, he would have treated me in 
 the same way — a way, to say the least of it, not over-burthened with 
 courtesy." 
 
 " Had you any words together, boy ?" said Sir Marmaduke, with aI^ 
 evident anxiety in his look and voice. 
 
 " A mere interchange of greeting," replied Fred, laughing, "in which 
 each party showed his teeth, but did not bite withal. I unhappily 
 mistook him for a game-keeper — and worse still, told him so, and he 
 felt proportionably angry at the imputation — preferring, probably, to 
 be thought a poacher. He is a rude coarse fellow," said he with a 
 changed voice, *< with pride to be a gentleman — ^but not breeding nor 
 manner to enact the character." 
 
THE 0*DONOGIfUK. 171 
 
 ** The visit was, after all, not an agreeable one," said Miss Travers, 
 " and I am only surprised how you came to prolong it. You spent the 
 whole day there." 
 
 Although there was not the slightest degree of suspicion insinuated 
 by this remark, Fred stole a quick glance at his sister, to see if she 
 really intended more than the mere words imphed. Then, satisfied that 
 she had not, he said in a careless way — 
 
 " Oh, the weather broke ; it came on a heavy snow-storm ; and as the 
 younger brother pressed me to remain, and I had no fancy to face the 
 hurricane, I sat down to a game of chess." 
 
 ** Chess ! Indeed, Fred, that sounds very humanizing. And how 
 did he play V* 
 
 "It was not with him I played," answered he, hesitatingly. 
 
 " What— with the elder r 
 
 " No, nor him either ; my antagonist was a cousin — I think they 
 called her cousin.*' 
 
 " Called her/' said Sybella, slyly. " So then. Master Fred, there 
 was a lady in the case. Well, we certainly have been a long while coming 
 to her." 
 
 " Yes, she has lately arrived — a day or two ago — from some convent 
 in the Low Countries, where she has lived since she was a child " 
 
 " A strange home for her," interposed Sir Marmaduke. " If I do 
 not misconceive them greatly, they must be very unsuitable associates 
 for a young lady educated in a French convent.'* 
 
 " So you would say, if you saw her," said Fred, seizing with avidity 
 at the opening, then offered, to coincide with an opinion he was half 
 afraid to broach. *' She is perfectly foreign in look, dress, and de- 
 meanour — with all the mannerism of Paris life, graceful and pleasing in 
 her address ; and they, at least one of them, a downright boor — the 
 other, giving him credit for good looks and good nature, yet immeasur- 
 ably her inferior in every respect." 
 
 " Is she pretty, Frederic ?" said Sybella, not Hfting her eyes from 
 her work as she spoke. 
 
 " I should say pretty," replied he, with hesitation, as if quahfying 
 his praise by a word which did not imply too much. " I prefer a 
 quieter style of beauty , for my own part ; less dazzle, less sparkling 
 effect ; something to see every day, and to like the better the more one 
 sees it" — and he placed his arm around his sister's waist, and gazed at 
 ier as if to give the interpretation to his speech. 
 
 " You have made me quite curious to see her, Fred," said Sybella. 
 " The very fact of finding one like her in such a place has its interest.** 
 
172 
 
 " Wliat if you were to visit her, my dear ?" said Sir Marmaduke ; 
 "the attention would only be a proper one; you have books and music 
 here, besides, which she might be glad to have in a region so remote 
 as this." 
 
 Frederic never spoke a word, but anxiously awaited his sister's 
 answer. 
 
 " I should like it greatly ; what says Fred to the notion ?* 
 
 " I see nothing against it," replied he, with a well-afifected indiffe- 
 rence. " She is a most lady-like person ; and, if it be your intention to 
 pass a few weeks longer in this solitude, would be of infinite value for 
 companionship." 
 
 " A few weeks longer ! — I shall remain till Christmas, boy," said his 
 father, with determination. " I have taken a fancy to Ireland ; and my 
 intention is to go up to Dublin for a few months in winter, and return 
 here in the spring." 
 
 This was at once approaching the very subject which Frederic had 
 journeyed to determme ; but, whether it was that the time seemed un- 
 favourable, or that his own ideas in the matter had undergone some 
 modification since his arrival, he contented himself with simply a 
 doubtful shake of the head, as if distrusting Sir Marmaduke's firmness, 
 and did not endeavour to oppose his determination by a single argument 
 of any kind. On the contrary, he listened with patience, and even 
 seeming interest to his father's detailed account of his project — how he 
 had already given orders to secure a house in Stephen' s-green for the 
 winter, intending to make acquaintances with the gentry of the capital, 
 and present himself and his daughter at the viceregal court. 
 
 " Sybella may as well make her debut in society here as in London," 
 said Sir Marmaduke. " Indeed I am not sure but the provincial boards 
 are the best for a first appearance. In any case, such is the line I have 
 laid down for myself ; and if it only secured me against a sea voyage to 
 England in such a season, I shall be amply repaid for my resolve." 
 
 Against the season of his return, too. Sir Marmaduke hoped to make 
 such additions to the Lodge as should render it more comfortable as a 
 residence ; various plans for which were heaped upon the library table, 
 and littered the chairs about the room. 
 
 Miss Travers had already given her hearty concurrence to all her fa- 
 ther's schemes, and seconded, most ably, every one of his views by such 
 arguments as she was possessed of ; so that Frederic, even if disposed 
 to record his opposition, saw that the present was not an opportune mo- 
 ment ; and prudently reserved for another time, what, if imsuccessful 
 now, could never be recurred to with advantage. 
 
THE o'donoghue. 173 
 
 The conversation on lliese topics lasted long. They discussed with 
 interest every detail of their plans ; for so it is — the pleasures of castle 
 building are inexhaustible, and the very happiest realities of Kfe are 
 poor and vague, compared with the resources provided by our hopes 
 and fancies. The slightest grounds of probability are enough to form a 
 foundation — but there is no limit to the superstructure we raise above. 
 
 In the indulgence of this view, they continued to chat till a late 
 hour, and parted for the night in high good humour with each other — 
 a visit to the O'Donoghue being the plan for the succeeding day's 
 accomplishment. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A MORNIXG VISIT. 
 
 On the afternoon of the following day, Sir Marmaduke, accompanied 
 by his son and daughter, bent their steps towards the castle of the 
 O'Donoghue. - The day was a fine and bright one, with a blue sky 
 above, and a hard frosty surface on the earth beneath, and made 
 walking as pleasant as open air and exercise can render it. The car- 
 riage was ordered to meet them on their return ; less, indeed, on account 
 of the distance, than that the shortness of the day made the precaution 
 reasonable. 
 
 Chatting agreeably, on they went. The time slipped rapidly away. 
 Now, adverting to the bold and majestic scenery around them — now, 
 speaking of the people, their habits, their prejudices, and their leanings, 
 or anon discussing the O'Donoghue family, which, of all the puzzling 
 themes the land presented, was certainly not the least emban-assing 
 to them. 
 
 " We must think of some means of evincing our gratitude to this boy, 
 Fred," said Sir Marmaduke, in a whisper. " You appear to have found 
 the matter more difficult than you anticipated." 
 
 '* Very true, sir. In the early part of my visit, it was rendered 
 impossible, by the interruption of the elder brother ; and, in the lat- 
 ter part, somehow, I believe, I — I actually begin to fear, I forgot it 
 
174 
 
 altogether. However, I have thought of one thing ; and it should l>e 
 done without a moment's loss of time. You must write to Garden, the 
 law agent, and stop any proceedings Hemsworth may have begun against 
 these people. It would be most disgraceful to think that, while pro- 
 fessing sentiments of good feehng and friendliness, we were using the 
 arm of the law to harass and distress them." 
 
 "I'll do it at once, Fred — by this night's post. In truth, I never 
 understood the point at issue between us ; nor can I clearly see Hems- 
 worth's reason for the summary course he has taken with them. There 
 must be more in it than I know of." 
 
 "The castle stands proudly, as seen from this point," said Sybella, 
 who felt somewhat wearied of a conversation maintained in a voice too 
 low for her to hear ; and the remark had the effect of recalling them to 
 other thoughts, in discussing which, they arrived at the old keep of 
 Carrig-na-curra. 
 
 Whether recent events had sharpened Kerry O'Leary to a more acut« 
 sense of his duties as butler, or that Kate O'Donoghue had exerted some 
 influence in bringing about so desirable an object, we know not ; but at 
 the very first summons of the hall-door bell, he made his appearance, hu 
 ordinary costume being augmented, if not improved, by a pair of very un* 
 weldy top-boots of his master's, which reached somewhere to the middle 
 of the thigh, and were there met by a green velvet waistcoat, from the 
 same wardrobe, equally too large and voluminous for its present owner. 
 
 Visitors at the O'Donoghue house were generally of a character which 
 Kerry felt necessary to close the door against. They unhappily came, 
 not with the ceremonial of a visiting card, but with some formidable 
 missive of the law, in the shape of a distress warrant — a latitat — or 
 that meeker and less-dreaded engine, a protested bill. It was, then, 
 with a considerable relief to his anxieties, that his eye caught the 
 flutter of a lady's dress, as he peeped from the small casement beside 
 the door, and his heart expanded in a little thanksgiving of its own, as 
 he imbarred the portul to admit her. 
 
 Having informed his visitors that the family were at home, he pre- 
 ceded them to the drawing-room, with a step, the noise of which happily 
 drowned the tittering it was impossible to subdue, at beholding him. 
 To prevent the awkwardness which Sir Marmaduke foresaw might 
 arise, from the blundering announcement Kerry would inevitably make 
 of their names, he having repeated over and over as he went along, byway 
 of refreshing his memory, " Sir Marmaduke, Sir Marmaduke Travers," 
 the old gentleman stepped forward as the door opened, and presented 
 himself by name, introducing his daughter at the same time. 
 
THE o'donoghub. ^75 
 
 The O'DonagTiue, seated in his chair, half rose, for it was one of his 
 gouty days, and he could not stir without great difficulty, and with an 
 air and voice which bespoke the gentleman, welcomed his guests. 
 
 Herbert's eyes gleamed with delight as he gazed on the party ; and 
 Sir Archibald, bowing with an ancient grace that would have suited a 
 courtier of a century previous, presented chairs to each, going through 
 the ceremonial of a new obeisance to every one of the group. Kate 
 O'Donoghue was not in the room, nor Mark — the latter, indeed, had 
 not returned to the castle since the day previous. 
 
 The ordinary greetings over, and Sir Marmaduke having expressed, 
 in well-chosen phrase, the gratitude he had so long laboured to acquit, 
 the conversation became easy and agreeable. Sir Marmaduke, seating 
 himself next O'Donoghue, had entered into a discussion of the state 
 of the country and the people — Frederic, beside Herbert's chair, was 
 conversing with the boy by lively sallies and pleasant stories, that flowed 
 the more rapidly as the listener was an eager one ; while Sir Archibald, 
 standing in an attitude of respectful attention, had engaged Miss 
 Travers in a conversation about the glen and its scenery, to which his 
 own correct taste and thorough appreciation of the picturesque, gave a 
 charm and piquancy that already interested her deeply. So naturally 
 easy and unaffected was the tone of their reception, that all astonish- 
 ment at finding their host so superior to their anticipation, was merged 
 in the pleasure that Travers felt in the interview. The good-tempered 
 heartiness of the O'Donoghue himself — his frank speech, his ready 
 humour, won each moment more and more on Sir Marmaduke. Fre- 
 deric, too, never grew wearied of the fresh and joyous spirit which 
 gleamed out at every look and word from Herbert, whose ardent temper- 
 ament and high-hearted nature caught up the enthusiasm of a spirit 
 like his own ; and, as for Sybella, the charm of Sir Archy's manner, 
 whose perfection was its adaptation to the society of ladies, delighted 
 her greatly, and she soon forgot any slight inclination to smile at the 
 precision of language, where deep sound sense and high feeling were con- 
 veyed, with only the fault of pedantry. While thus agreeably engaged on 
 all sides, the door opened, and Kate entered, but so noiselessly withal, 
 that she was in the midst of the party, before they knew of her approach. 
 Recognising Frederic Travers with a gracious smile, she received Sir 
 Marmaduke' s salutation with a deep courtesy, and then, as if similarity 
 of years required a less ceremonious introduction, took her seat beside 
 Miss Travers, with an air of mingled kindness and cordiality she so 
 well fcnew how to assume. As in an orchestra, amid the swell of many 
 instruments, where deep-toned thunders mingle with sounds of softer 
 
1^6 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 influence, some one strain will rise, from time to time, suggestive of 
 feelings apart from the rest, with higher and nohler sjnnpathies around 
 it, so did her voice, heard among the others, sound thus sweetly. 
 Her words came winged with a fine expression, which look and gesture 
 could alone give them — and in the changing colour of her cheek, her 
 brilliant brow, her lips, even in silence eloquent, there was a character 
 of loveliness as much above mere beauty, as life transcends the marble. 
 The more perfect I'egularity of Sybella's features — their classic outHne 
 — their chaste correctness in every line and lineament — seemed cold and 
 inanimate when contrasted with the more expressive loveliness of Kate 
 O'Donoghue. The fearless character of her mind, too, was blended 
 with so much of womanly delicacy and refinement — the wish to please, 
 so associated with a seeming forgetfulness of self, that every act and 
 every gesture teemed with a charm of interest, for which there is no 
 word, save " fascination ;" even that slightly foreign accent, of which we 
 have already spoken, served to individualize all she said, and lefl it 
 graven on the heart long after the words were spoken. 
 
 Frederic Travers watched with eager delight the effect these gifts weje 
 producing upon his sister. He saw the pleasure with which Sybella 
 listened ; he recognised, even already, the symptoms of that conquest by 
 which mind subdues mind, and was overjoyed as he looked. 
 
 To Sir Marmaduke*s gracefully-expressed hope, that this visit should 
 form the prelude to their nearer intimacy, the O'Donoghue, with a 
 touch of sadness in his voice, replied — that he himself was an inva- 
 lid, whose steps never wandered beyond the precincts of his home ; but 
 his brother-in-law, and his niece, and the boys — they would all, he 
 was certain, avail themselves of such a neighbourhood. 
 
 Sir Archibald bowed low, and somewhat stiffly perhaps, in accordance 
 with a pledge thus given without his concurrence ; but Herbert's bright 
 eyes grew brighter, and his cheek flushed with delight at the bare anti- 
 cipation of the thought. 
 
 " And you. Miss O'Donoghue," said Sir Marmaduke, turning towards 
 Kate. ** Our humble library at the lodge, is perfectly at your service, 
 the only condition we ask is, that you come and choose from it m 
 person." 
 
 " That promise is already most kindly made, father," interruptec 
 Sybella, whose pleased look showed how she had been captivated by ner 
 new friend. 
 
 AVliile their smiles and gracious words went round, the door was 
 suddenly opened by Kerry O'Leary, who, forgetful of the visiters, m 
 eager anxiety as the bearer of news, cried out — 
 
5^ 
 
 •v"^ 
 
 
 t^ 
 
 'fe'^/Z^ 
 
 ////r//y/yz/yy{y< 
 
THE o'donoghue. 177 
 
 «< There's a shindy, master dear ! Such a row ! May I never die in 
 sin, if ever I seen the equal of it !'* 
 
 " What does he mean ?— is the fellow mad?" cried the O'Donoghue, 
 angrily, while Sir Archy, bending on him a most ominous frown, 
 muttered — 
 
 "Have ye lost a' decency tegether. Ye daft loon, what ails 
 
 ye?" 
 
 " I ax your pardon, and the qualities pardon," said Kerry, with an 
 expression of abject misery for his unceremonious ' entrde/ " But, if 
 you seen it, sorra bit but you'd forgive me." 
 
 ** There has been good fun somewhere, I'm certain," cried out Fre- 
 derick Travers, whose curiosity to learn Kerry's intelligence could no 
 longer be repressed. 
 
 " What is it, then, Kerry?" said the O'Donoghue. " Let us hear it 
 all." 
 
 " 'Tis Master Mark, good luck to him," cried Kerry, overjoyed at 
 the permission to speak out freely. " He was over at Ballyvoumey with 
 the greyhounds, when he seen that dirty spalpeen, Sam Wylie, wid a 
 process-sarver along wid him, noticin' the tenants. The server was a 
 stranger, and he didn't touch him ; but he made the boys put Sam on 
 Nick Malone's mule, and give him a fair start, and they run him down 
 the mountain, with a fine view, and ran into him here at the horse-pond, 
 where the mule flung him head over heels ; and begorra, you wouldn't 
 know 'twas a Christian, if you seen him this minit dripping wet, and 
 the duck-weed all hanging round him — and he's running still — ^for he 
 thinks Master Mark will take the hfe of him before he stops." 
 
 A roar of laughter from Frederic, joined in by Herbert, and at last 
 by the O'Donoghue himself, for some moments prevented a word of 
 commentary on this outrageous proceeding, when Sir Marmaduke, 
 rising slowly, said — 
 
 " I am a stranger here, very ignorant of the country and its habits ; 
 but I have yet to learn that any man, in the just discharge of his duty, 
 should be thus treated. I call upon you, sir, to investigate this affair, 
 and if it be, as we have heard it, to make reparation ^ 
 
 " Ye hae muckle reason for what ye say, sir," interposed Sir Archy ; 
 " but the freaks and follies o' young men hae a hcense here, I doubt ye 
 are na used to." 
 
 " 111 lay my life on it, Mark was right," called out the O'Donoghue. 
 ** The boy never makes any mistake in these matters." 
 
 " If the fellow were insolent," said Frederic, " your son has served 
 aim properly." 
 
 N 
 
178 THE O SOlVOGiltrC. 
 
 Kate smiled at the speaker a look of gratitude, which amply repaid 
 him for coming thus promptly to the rescue. 
 
 " It may be so," said Sir Marmaduke, happy at such a means of 
 escaping from a further prosecution of a most unpleasant topic. 
 
 " The captain's guessed it well," cried Kerry. " The spalpeen tould 
 Master Mark that he'd he up here to-morrow wid a notice from the 
 master himself, and it would go hard but he'd see us out of the place 
 before Easter." 
 
 ** Is this possible !" said Sir Marmaduke, blushing deeply. " I 
 beg, my dear sir, that you will forgive any hasty expression I may have 
 used." 
 
 " I can forgive the lad myself," said Sir Archy, proudly. 
 
 " Not I, then, uncle," interposed Kate. " Not 1. Mark should have 
 horsewhipped the fellow within an iuch of his life." 
 
 Sybella Travers started at the energy of voice and manner which ac- 
 companied these words ; while the CKDonoghue, rising from his chair, 
 came slowly across the hearth, and imprinted a kiss upon Kate's 
 forehead." 
 
 ** You're one of the raal stock — there's no denying it," muttered 
 Kerry, as he gazed on her with an expression of almost worship. 
 " 'Tis blood that never gives in — devil a lie in it !" 
 
 Herbert, who alone had witnessed the unfriendly meeting between his 
 brother and young Travers, turned a pleasant smile at the latter, as he 
 half whispered — 
 
 "This was very kind of yow." 
 
 It would have been a difficult — nay, an almos*" impossible task, to 
 recall the tone and temper of the party, previous to this unhappy inter- 
 ruption. All Sir Marmaduke' s efforts to resume the conversation had 
 lost their former ease — the O'Donoghue himself was disconcerted; for 
 he was not quite certain what were Sir Marmaduke's words on the oc- 
 casion, and how far he should feel called upon to demand a retractation, 
 and Sir Archibald, fretful and annoyed at the impression Mark's conduct 
 would convey of the habits and temper of the house, felt his task a 
 severe one, to assume an air of serenity and quietude. 
 
 Frederic Travers alone seemed happy and delighted. The sudden ex- 
 pression of Kate O'Donoghue' s opinion, so utterly unlike anything he had 
 ever heard before from a young lady's lips, took him as much by surprise as 
 the spirit pleased him ; and he would willingly have engaged to horsewhip 
 a dozen process-servers, for another glance of her flashing eyes, as she 
 dehvered the words ; while Sybella could not help a sentiment bordering 
 m fear, for one who, young as herself, gifted with every womanly 
 
THE o'donoghue. 179 
 
 attitude of grace and loveliness, had yet evinced a degree of impetuosity 
 and passion she could not reconcile with such attractions. As for Kate, 
 the sentiment had evoked no stir within her hosom. It was a wish, as 
 naturally expressed as it was felt ; and all the surprise the others ex- 
 perienced at her words would have been nothing to her own, to have 
 known of their astonishment. 
 
 The visit soon came to a termination, and Sir Marmaduke, having 
 succeeded in a great degree, in restoring the favourable impression he 
 had at first obtained, took his leave of the O'Donoghue, and then, 
 addressing Sir Archy, said — 
 
 " You, sir, I rejoice to learn, are not an invalid. May I expect the 
 happiness of seeing you sometimes ?" 
 
 Sir Archy bowed deeply, and, with a motion of his hand towards Miss 
 Travers, replied — 
 
 " I have already made an engagement here, sir." 
 
 " Yes," said Sybella, to whom this speech seemed half addressed, 
 "Sir Archibald has been kind enough to offer me his guidance up 
 the glen, where there are several points of view finer than any I have 
 seen." 
 
 Emboldened by the success of these advances. Sir Marmaduke, with 
 a courtesy he was perfect master of, requested the party would not 
 delay their kind intentions, but favour him with their company on the 
 following day 
 
 It is doubtful whether Sir Archy might not have declined a more 
 formal invitation ; but there seemed something so frank in the abrupt- 
 ness of the present, that he acceded at once ; and Kate having also 
 pledged herself to accompany him, their greetings were interchanged, 
 and they parted. ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 SOMK OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTBE, 
 
 It may seem strange and almost paradoxical — but so it was — Kate 
 O'Donoghue' s presence appeared to have wrought a most magical 
 change in the whole household of the O'Donoghue. The efforts they 
 
180 THE 0*DONOGHTJE. 
 
 themselves made to ward off the semblance of their fallen estate, 
 tn^uced a happier frame of mind than that which resulted from daily 
 orooding over their misfortunes ; the very struggle elicited a courage 
 they had left long in disuse ; and the cheerfulness which at first 
 was but assumed, grew gradually more and more natural. To the 
 O'Donoghue, who, for many a day, desired no more than to fend off the 
 evil in his own brief time ; who, with the selfishness of an old age 
 passed in continual conflict with poverty, only sought a life interest in 
 their bettered fortunes, she was a boon above all price. Her .:-^ht step, 
 her lighter laugh, her mirthful tone of conversation, with its many 
 anecdotes and stories of places and people he had not heard of before, 
 wfre resources against gloom that never failed. 
 
 Sir Archy, too, felt a return to the old associations of his youth, in the 
 presence of a young, beautiful, and accomplished girl, whose graceful- 
 ness and elegance threw a halo around her as she went, and made of 
 that old and crumbling tower, dark with neglect, and sad with time, a 
 salon, teeming with its many appliances against depression, where she 
 herself, armed with so many fascinations, dispensed cheerfulness and 
 bliss on all about her. Nor was he selfish in all this. He marked with 
 dehght the impression made upon his favourite Herbert, by his cousin's 
 attractive manners. How insensibly, as it were, the boy was won from 
 ruder pursuits, and coarser pleasures, to sit beside her as she sung, or 
 near her as she read ; with what interest he pursued his lessons in 
 French, beneath her tuition, and the ardour with which he followed 
 • every plan of study suggested by her. Sir Archibald saw all these 
 things, and calculated on their result with accuracy. He foresaw 
 how Kate's attractive gifts would throw into the shade the ruder 
 tastes the boy's condition in life might expose him to adopt, and thus 
 aid him in the great object of hi? whole existence — to save him, at 
 least, from the wreck of his house. 
 
 Mark alone seemed untouched by her presence ; save that the wild 
 excesses of high spirit, to which from time to time he ever gave way, 
 were now gone, and in their place, a deep gloom, a moroseness of 
 character succeeded, rendering him usually silent before her, or sunk 
 m his own saddening reflections. Kate would sometimes adventure to 
 disperse the dark clouds from his mind, but ever without success ; he 
 either felt annoyed at being the subject of remark, or left the room ; so 
 that at last, she abandoned the effort, hoping that time and its changes 
 would effect what the present denied. Perhaps, too, she had reasons 
 for this hope. More than once, with womanly quickness, had she marked 
 how he had stood with his eye fixed upon her, unconscious of being 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 181 
 
 seen ; how, when about to leave the room, he would loiter about, as if in 
 search of something, but, in reality, to listen to the song she was 
 singing. Still, she showed no sign of having seen these things ; but 
 always, in her air towards him, affected a careless ease of manner, as 
 like his own as possible. For days, sometimes for an entire week, he 
 would absent himself from home ; and, as he was never submissive to 
 much questioning, his appearance called forth no other remark than 
 some passing observation of what had occurred in his absence, but 
 which drew from him no interchange of confidence. 
 
 These symptoms of Mark's altered character made a deeper impres- 
 sion on his father than events of greater moment could have done. He 
 watched every movement and expression of his favourite son, to catch 
 some clue to the change ; but all in vain. The young man never, by 
 any accident, alluded to himself: nor did he often now advert to the 
 circumstance of the family difficulties ; on the contrary, a lethargic 
 carelessness seemed to brood over him, and he went about like one who 
 had lost all zest for life, and all care for its enjoyments. 
 
 The O'Donoghue was too well versed in the character of his son to 
 hope for any elucidation of the mystery by a mere inquiry ; so that he 
 was left to speculate on the many causes which might have operated the 
 change, and divine, as well as he was able, the secret grief that affected 
 him. In this pursuit, hke all who have long suffered the pressure of a 
 particular calamity, he ever felt disposed to ascribe Mark's suffering to 
 the same cause which produced his own, namely, the fallen fortunes of 
 the house, and the ruin that hung over them. Yet, somehow, of late, 
 matters had taken a turn more favourable. His attorney at Cork 
 had informed him, that from some informality in the proceedings, the 
 ejectment was stopped, at least for the present term. The notices to 
 the tenants not to pay were withdrawn, and the rents came in as before ; 
 and the only very pressing evil were the bills, the renewal of which, 
 demanded a considerable sum of ready money. That this one misfor- 
 tune should occasion a gloom, the accumulated griefs of former days 
 had not done, he could not understand ; but, by long musing on the 
 matter, and deep reflection, he at last came to the conviction, that such 
 was the case, and that Mark's sorrow was the greater, from seeing how 
 near they were to a more favourable issue to their affairs, and yet how 
 fatally debarred from such a consummation by this one disastrous 
 circumstance. 
 
 The drowning hand grasps not the straw with more avidity than does 
 the harassed and wearied mind, agitated by doubts, and worn out with 
 conjectures, seize upon some one apparent solution to a difficulty that 
 
182 THE o'donoghttk. 
 
 has long oppressed it, nnd, for the very moment, convert every passing 
 circumstance into an argument for its truthfulness. The O'Donoghue 
 now saw, or believed he saw, why Mark would never accompany the 
 others in their visits to the ** Lodge" — ^nor be present when any of the 
 Travers family came to the castle ; he immediately accounted for his 
 son's rejection of the proffered civilities, by that wounded pride which 
 made him feel his present position so painfully, and, as the future head 
 of the house, grieve over a state so unbecoming to its former fortunes. 
 
 " The pot)r fellow," said he, " is too high-spirited to be a guest 
 to those he cannot be a host. Noble boy ! the old blood flows strongly 
 in your veins, at least." 
 
 How to combat this evil, now became his sole thought. He mused 
 over it by day — he dreamed of it by night. Hour by hour he endured 
 the harassing tortures of a poverty, whose struggles were all abortive, 
 and whose repulses came without ceasing. Each plan he thought of, 
 was met by obstacles innumerable ; and when, worn out with unpro- 
 fitable schemes, he had resolved on abandoning the subject for ever, 
 the sight of Mark's wasted cheek and sunken eye rallied him again 
 to an effort, which, each time, he vowed should be the last. 
 
 The old, and often successful remedies to rally him from his low 
 spirits, his father possessed no longer — the indulgence of some caprice, 
 some momentary fancy for a horse or a hound — a boat or a fishing- 
 rod. He felt, besides, that his grief, whatever it was, lay too deep 
 for such surface measures as these, and he pondered long and anxiously 
 »ver the matter. Nor had he one to share his sorrow, or assist him 
 Irith advice. Sir Archibald he ever regarded as being prejudiced 
 Against Mark, and invariably more disposed to exaggerate, than 
 extenuate his faults. To have opened his heart to him, would be to 
 expose himself to some very plausible, but, as he would deem them, 
 very impracticable remarks, on frugality and order — the necessity of 
 submitting to altered fortunes — and, if need be, of undertaking some 
 humble but honest occupation as a livelihood. These, and such like, 
 had more than once been obtruded upon him ; but to seek and court 
 them, to invite their presence, was not to be thought of. 
 
 Kerry O'Leary was, then, the only one who remained ; and they who 
 know the intimacy to which old servants, long conversant with the 
 fortunes of the family, and deemed faithful, because, from utter 
 inutility, they are attached to the house that shelters them, are 
 admitted in Irish households, will not be surprised at the choice of the 
 confidant. He, I say, was the O'Donoghue' s last resource ; and from 
 him he itill hoped to gain some clue, at least, to the secret of thn 
 
THE o'donoghui;. 183 
 
 mystery. Scarcely had the O'Donoghue retired to his room at night, 
 when Kerry was summoned to his presence, and after a few preUmina- 
 ries, was asked if he knew where, how, or with whom his young 
 master latterly spent his time. 
 
 " Faix, and 'tis that same does be puzzHng myself," said Kerry, to 
 whom the matter had already been one of considerable curiosity. 
 " Sometimes I think one thing, and then I think another — but it 
 beats me entirely." 
 
 " What were your thoughts, t^en, Kerry ?" 
 
 " 'Twas Tuesday last I suspected Joe Lenahan*s daughter — the fair 
 haired girl, above at the three meadows ; then, I took into my head, 
 it might be a badger he was after — ^for he was for ever going along by 
 the bank of the river ; but, twice in the week, I was sure I had him — 
 and faix, I think, maybe I have." 
 
 " How is that, Kerry ? Tell me at once, man I" 
 
 " It's a fine brown beast Lanty I^awler has — a strapping four-year- 
 old, as likely a weight-carrier as ever I seen — that's what he's after — 
 sorra lie in it. I obsarved him, on Friday, taking him over the big 
 fences beyant the whin-field — and I measured his tracks — and, may I 
 never die in sin, if he didn't stride nineteen feet over the yallow 
 ditah." 
 
 " Do you know what he's asking for him, Kerry ?" cried the old 
 man, eagerly. 
 
 " His weight in goold, I heerd say ; for the captain, up at * the 
 Lodge,* will give him his own price for any beast will make a charger — 
 and three hundred guineas Lanty expects for the same horse. Ayeh ! 
 he's a play-actor, is Lanty — and knows how to rub the gentlemen down 
 with a damp wisp." 
 
 " And you think that's it, Kerry ?" 
 
 " I'll take the vestment it's not far off it. I never heerd Master 
 Mark give a cheer out of him going over a fence, that he hadn't a 
 conceit out of the beast under him. * "Whoop 1' says he, throwing up 
 his whip hand, * this way.' * Your heart's in him,' says I, * and 'tis a 
 murther he isn't your own.'' 
 
 " You may leave me, Kerry, ^ said the old man, sighing heavily, " 'tis 
 getting near twelve o'clock." 
 
 " Good night, sir, and a safe rest to you.*^ 
 
 " Wait a moment — stay a few minutes. Are they in the drawing- 
 room still ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I heerd Miss Kate singing as I came up the stairs." 
 
 " Well, Kerry, I want you to wait till she is leaving the room, and 
 
194 THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 just whisper to her — mind now, for your life, that nobody sees nor hears 
 you — just say that I wish to see her up here for a few seconds to-night. 
 Do you understand me ?" 
 
 " Never fear, sir, I'll do it, and sorra one the wiser.* 
 
 Kerry left the apartment as he spoke, nor was his master long doomed 
 to suspense, for immediately after a gentle tap at the door announced 
 Kate's presence there. 
 
 " Sit down there, my darling Kate," cried the O'Donoghue, placing 
 a chair beside his own, " and let me have five minutes' talk with you.'* 
 
 The young girl obeyed with a smile, and returned the pressure of her 
 uncle's hand with warmth. 
 
 " Kate, my child," said he — speaking with evident difficulty and 
 embarrassment, and fixing his eyes, not on her, but towards the fire, as 
 he spoke — "Kate you have come* to a sad and cheerless home, with 
 few comforts, with no pleasure for one so young and so lovely as you are." 
 
 " My dear uncle, how can you speak thus to me ? Can you separate 
 me in your heart from your other children ? Mark and Herbert make 
 no complaint — do you think that I could do so 1" 
 
 " They are very different from you, my sweet child. The moss rose 
 will not bear ^the storms of vdnter, that the wild thorn can brave 
 without danger. To you this dreary house must be a prison. I know 
 it— I feel it." 
 
 " Nay, nay, uncle. If you think thus, it must be my fault — some 
 piece of wilfulness of mine could alone have made you suppose me 
 discontented ; but I am not so — far from it. I love dear old Sir Archy 
 and my cousins dearly ; yes, and my uncle Miles too, though he seems 
 anxious to get rid of me." 
 
 The old man pressed her fingers to his lips, and turned away his 
 head. 
 
 " Come, Kate," said he, after a brief pause, " it was vdth no in- 
 tention of that kind I spoke. We could none of us live without you 
 now. My thoughts had a very different object." 
 
 " And that was " 
 
 " Simply this" — and here he made a great effort, and spoke rapidly, as 
 if fearing to dwell on the words. " Law-suits and knavish attorneys 
 have wasted three-fourths of my estate : the remainder I scarcely know 
 if I be its master or not ; on that portion, however, the old house 
 stands, and the few acres that survive the wreck. At this moment 
 heavy proceedings are pending in the courts, if successful in which^ I 
 shall be left in possession of the home of my father, and not turned 
 adrift upon the world, a beggar. There — don't look so pale, child — 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 185 
 
 the story is an old one now, and has few terrors for us as long aa it 
 remains merely anticipated evil. This is a sad tale for your ears. I 
 know it," said he, wiping away a tear that would come in spite of 
 him. 
 
 Both were now silent. The old man paused, uncertain how he should 
 proceed further. Kate spoke not ; for as yet she could neither see the 
 drift of the communication, or, if it were in any way addressed to her, 
 what part she was expected to take in the matter. 
 
 " Are you aware, my dear," resumed he, after a considerable delay 
 "that your father was married to your mother when she was but 
 sixteen V* 
 
 " I have often heard she was scarcely more than a child," said Kate, 
 timidly — for she had no recollection of having seen either of her 
 parents. 
 
 " A child in years, love, she was ; but a woman in grace, good sense, 
 and accomplishments — ^in fact, so fortunate was my poor brother in his 
 choice, he ever regarded the youthfulness of his wife as one of the rea- 
 sons of that amiability of temper she possessed. Often have we talked 
 of this together, and nothing could convince him to the contrary, as if, 
 had the soil been unfruitful, the tares and the thistles had not been as 
 abundant a crop as the good fruit really was. He acted on his convic- 
 tion, however, Kate ; for he determined, if ever he had a daughter, she 
 should be of age at sixteen — the period of life her mother was married 
 at. I endeavoured to dissuade him. I did my best to expose the 
 dangers and difficulties of such a plan. Perhaps, dearest, I should have 
 been less obstinate in argument, had I been prophetic enough to know 
 what my niece would be ; but it was all in vain. The idea had become 
 a dominant one with him, and I was obliged to yield ; and now, Kate, 
 after the long lapse of years — for the conversation I allude to took place 
 a great while ago — ^it is my lot to say, that my brother was right and 
 I was wrong — that he foresaw, with a truer spirit, the events of the 
 future than was permitted to me. You were of age two months 
 since." 
 
 The young girl listened with eager curiosity to every word that fell 
 from her uncle's lips, and seemed disappointed when he ceased to speak. 
 To have gone thus far and no farther, did not satisfy her mind, and she 
 waited with impatience for him to continue. 
 
 " I see my child," said he gently, "you are not aware of the pro- 
 ceedings of coming of age ; you have not heard, perhaps, that as your 
 guardian, I hold in my hands the fortune your father bequeathed to 
 you ; it was his portion as a younger son, for, poor fellow, he had the 
 
166 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 family failing, and never could live within his income. Your ten thou- 
 sand — he always called it yours — he never encroached upon — and that 
 sum, at least, is secured to you." 
 
 Although Kate knew that her uncle was her guardian, and had heard 
 that some property would revert to her, what its amount was she had 
 not the most remote idea of, nor that her power over it should commence 
 80 soon. 
 
 " I see uncle — I understand all you say," said she, hurriedly ; " I am 
 of age, and the owner of ten thousand pounds." 
 
 The tone of decision she employed, half terrified the O'Donoghue 
 for the prudence of his communication, and he almost hesitated to 
 answer her directly — " Yes, my child, it is a rent-charge — a " 
 
 " I care not for the name, sir ; does it represent the value V* 
 
 " Unquestionably it does." 
 
 " Take it, then, dearest uncle," said she, flinging herself upon his 
 neck, "take it and use it, so that it may bring some comfort to your- 
 self, some ease of mind at least, and make your home a happier one. 
 "What need to think of the boys — Mark and Herbert are not of the 
 mould that need fear failure, whatever path they follow ; and, as for 
 me, when you grow weary of me, the Sacr^ Coeur will gladly take me 
 Ijack ; indeed, they feel their work of conversion of me but very imper- 
 fectly executed," added she, smiling, "and the dear nuns would be 
 well pleased to finish their task." 
 
 " Kate, my child, my own darling," cried the old man, clasping her 
 to his heart, " this may not, this caimot be." 
 
 " It must, and it shall be, uncle," said she, resolutely. " If my 
 dear father's will be not a nullity, I have power over my fortune." 
 
 " But not to effect your ruin, Kate." 
 
 " No, sir, nor shall I. Will my dear uncle love me less for the 
 consciousness in my own heart, that I am doing right ? "Will he have 
 a smile the less for me, that I can return it with an affection warmer 
 from very happiness ? I cannot beheve this ; nor can I think that you 
 would render your brother's daughter unworthy of her father. You 
 would not refuse him" Her lip trembled, and her eyes grew full, as she 
 uttered the last few words in a voice, every word of which went to the 
 old man's heart. 
 
 " There is but one way, Kate." 
 
 " What need of more, uncle ; do we want a choice of roads, if we 
 see a straight path before us ?" 
 
 " Yes, dearest— but it vdll be said I should not have suffered you to 
 do this — that in accepting a loan." 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 187 
 
 *• A loan !'* uttered she, reproachfully. 
 
 " As that, or nothing, can I ever touch a farthing of it," rephed the 
 O'Donoghufi. " No, no ! Distress and hardship have been a weary 
 load this many a year ; hut all sense of honour is not yet obhterated in 
 this poor heart." 
 
 " Be it as you please, my dear, dear uncle," said the affectionate 
 girl ; " only let it not cost you another painful thought, to rob me of so 
 many happy ones. There now, we must never speak of this any more ;" 
 and, so saying, she kissed him twice, and rose from her chair. " We 
 are going to the * Lodge' to-morrow, to spend the day ; Herbert is so 
 well that he comes with us." 
 
 " And Mark — what of him, dearest ?" 
 
 "Mark will be none of us, sir. We are either too gay, or too 
 frivolous, or too silly, or too something or other, for his solemn humour, 
 and he only frowns and stares at us ; but all that will pass away soon ; 
 1 shall find out the key to his temper yet, and then, make him pay for 
 all his arrears of sulkiness." 
 
 " It is our changed condition, my love, that has made him thus," 
 said the father, anxious to excuse the young man's morose habits. 
 
 " The poorer courage his, then," replied the high-spirited girl, " I 
 have no patience for a man who acts but the looking-glass to fortune — 
 frowns when she frowns, and smiles when she smiles. No! Give 
 me the temper that can enjoy the sunshine, and brave the storm — 
 take all the good the world affords, and show a bold heart to resist 
 the evil." 
 
 " My own brother, my poor dear Mark, spoke there," cried the old 
 man, in an ecstacy, as, springing up, he flung his arms about her ; " and 
 that's your philosophy, sweet Kate ?" 
 
 *' Even so ; the stout heart to the stae brae, as Sir Archy would call 
 it, and as he mutters every evening he has to climb the steep stair to- 
 wards his bed-room. And now, good night, dear uncle — good night." 
 
 With an affectionate greeting, the old man took his leave of her for 
 the night, and sat down, in a frame of mingled happiness and shame, to 
 think over what had passed. 
 
 The O'Donoghue was very far from feehng satisfied with himself for 
 what he had done. Had Kate been at all difficult of persuasion — had she 
 yielded to his arguments, or been comdnced by any explanation of his 
 views, he would soon have reconciled himself to the act, as one in which 
 both parties concurred. Far from this — he saw that her only motive 
 was affection ; that she would listen to nothing save the promptings of 
 her own warm heart ; she would not let him even exculpate himself from 
 
188 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 the charge of his own conscience ; and, although acquitted by her, he felt 
 the guilt still upon him. 
 
 There was a time when he would not have stooped to such a course ; 
 but then he was rich — rich in the world's wealth, and the honour such 
 affluence suggests ; for, alas ! humbling as the avowal may seem, the 
 noble traits so often admired in prosperity, are but the promptings of a 
 spirit revelling in its own enjoyment — open-handed and generous, 
 because these qualities are luxuries ; free to give, because the giving in- 
 volves gratitude ; and gratitude is the incense of weakness to power — of 
 poverty to wealth. How often are the warm affections, nurtured by 
 happy circumstances, mistaken for the evidence of right principles ! 
 How frequently are the pleasurable impulses of the heart confounded 
 with the well-directed judgments of the mind ? This man was less 
 changed than he knew of — the world of his circumstances was, indeed, 
 different, but he was little altered ; the same selfishness that once made 
 him munificent, now made him mean ; but, whether conferring or ac- 
 cepting favours, the spirit was one. 
 
 Besides, how ingenious is the mind in suggesting plausible reasons 
 for its indulgences ! — how naturally easy did it seem to borrow and repay ! 
 The very words satisfied his scruples on that score ; but if he were indeed 
 so contented with himself, why did he fear lest any one should ever 
 learn the circumstance ? Why cower with shame before himself, to 
 think of his brother-in-law, or even Mark hearing of it ? Were these 
 the signs of conscious rectitude, or were they the evidence of a spirit 
 seeking rest in casuistry and self-deception. In this conflict of alternate 
 approval and condemnation, he passed the greater part of the night — 
 sometimes, a struggling sense of honour, urging him to regret a course 
 so fraught with humiliations of every kind ; and again, a thrill of delight 
 would run through his heart to think of all the pleasure he could confer 
 upon his favourite boy — the indulgences he could once more shower 
 upon him. He fancied the happiness of emancipation from pressing 
 difficulties, and how instinctively Mark's buoyant temper would take the 
 tone of their altered fortunes ; and he, once again, become the gay and 
 reckless youth he loved to see him. 
 
 " He must have that brown horse Kerry speaks of," muttered he to 
 himself. " Sir Marmaduke shall not outbid us there, and we'll see 
 which of the two best becomes his saddle. I'll back my own boy against 
 his scarlet-coated fop, for a thousand. They've got some couples of 
 dogs too, Kerry was telling me, up the mountains — We must enquire 
 about them ; with eight or ten couple, Mark could have good sport in 
 the glen. Then there's those bills of Callaghan*s — ^but he'll not press 
 
THE ODONOGHUE. 
 
 hard when he sees weVe money. Cassidy must get his dS800, and so 
 he shall ; and that scoundrel, Swahy, will be sending in his bill of costs ; 
 but a couple of hundred pounds ought to stop his mouth. Archy, too — 
 by Jove, I forget how much I owe him now ; but he doesn't, I'll 
 warrant him. Well, well — if it won't stop the leak, it will, at least, give 
 us time to work the pumps — ay, time, time !" He asked for no more ; 
 he only sought to reach the haven himself, and cared nothing what 
 liappened the craft, nor the crew, afterwards. 
 
 His next thought was how to effect all the legal arrangements in these 
 complicated matters, without the knowledge of Mark or Sir Archy ; and 
 on this difficult point he spent till nigh morning deliberating. The 
 only mode he could think of was, by writing to Swaby himself, and 
 making him aware of the whole proceeding. That of course would be 
 attended by its own penalties, as Swaby would take care that his own 
 costs were among the first things to be liquidated ; but yet it seemed the 
 sole course open to him, and with the resolve to do this on the morrow, 
 he turned on his pillow, and fell asleep. 
 
 The morning broke, with happiness to the uncle and the niece ; but 
 it was a happiness of a very different order. To him, the relief of mind, 
 for the long harrassing cares of debt and difficulty, was a boon of inesti- 
 mable price — life and liberty at once to the imprisoned spirit of his 
 proud heart. To her, the higher and nobler sense of gratification, which 
 flows from having acted well, sent a thrill of ecstasy through her bosom, 
 such as only gentle and generous youth can ever feel. And thus, while 
 the O'Donoghue mused over the enjoyments and pleasures his new 
 accession of wealth might place at his disposal, she revelled in the delight 
 of having ministered to the happiness of one she had always regarded 
 as a father, and even felt grateful to him for the emotions of her own 
 heart. 
 
 The O'Donoghue's first thought on awaking was to employ this 
 large sum to liquidate some of his most pressing debts, and to make 
 such arrangements as might enable them to Hve economically but com- 
 fortably, paying off those creditors whose exorbitant interest was con- 
 suming ail the remnant of his income, and entering into contracts with 
 others for the gradual repayment of the loans. The more he reflected 
 on these good intentions, the less pleasure did they yield him. He had, 
 for years past, taught himself to regard a creditor as an implacable 
 enemy. The very idea of succumbing smacked of defeat. He had defied 
 the law so long, it looked hke cowardice to surrender now ; besides the 
 very complication of his affairs offered an excuse, which he was not slow 
 to catch at. How cauld he pay Cassidy in full, and only give Hickson 
 
190 THE O DONOGBUE. 
 
 a part ? Would not the mere rumour of his paying off his debts bnng 
 down a host of demands that had almost slumbered themselves out of 
 existence. He had often heard that his grandfather " muddled away his 
 fortune paying small debts." It could not be supposed he would reject 
 the traditions of his own house — nor did he. 
 
 He judged wisely, if not well, that new habits of expenditure would do 
 more to silence the complaints of duns than the most accurately calcu- 
 lated system of liquidation. That entertainments and equipages, a stable 
 full of horses, and a house crammed with guests, are a receipt in full for 
 solvency, which, however some may distrust, none are bold enough to 
 question openly. 
 
 If the plan had fewer excellencies, it, at least, suited him better ; and 
 he certainly opened the campaign with vigour. No sooner had he de- 
 cided on his line of acting, than he despatched Kerry O'Leary to Cork 
 with a letter for Swaby, his attorney, requiring his immediate presence 
 at Carrig-na-curra, and adding, " that if he brought a couple of hundred 
 pounds over with him at the same time, he might include them with the 
 costs, and get a check for the whole together." 
 
 As the old man sealed his epistle, he chuckled over the thoughts of 
 Swaby' s astonishment, and fancied the many guesses the crafty attorney 
 would frame to account for such unexpected prosperity. The little 
 renaaining sorrow he felt for his share in the transaction gave way to 
 the vulgar pleasure of this surprize ; for so is it, the conflict with 
 poverty can debase the mind, and make the very straits and stratagems 
 of want seem straits of cleverness and abiUty. 
 
 It was a day of pleasure almost to all. Sir Archy, dressed in a suit 
 which had not seen daylight for many a previous year, gave his arm to 
 Kate, and, accompanied by Herbert, set out to pass the day at " The 
 Lodge." Mark alone had no participation in the general joy ; he stood, 
 with folded arms, at the window of the old tower, and gazed on the group 
 that moved along the road. Although he never thought of accompanying 
 them, there was a sense of desertion in his position of which he could 
 not divest himself. "With the idea of the pleasure their visit would afford 
 them came the reflection that he was debarred from his share of such 
 enjoyment, and the galHng feeling of inferiority sent the blood, with a 
 throbbing current, through his temples, and covered his face with a 
 deep flush. He retorted his own isolation against those he had so 
 strenuously avoided, and accused them of the very fault of which he 
 was himself guilty. " My uncle is more distant to me than ever," mut' 
 tered he, " and even Herbert, too ; Herbert that used to look up to and 
 lely on me, even he shuns me." He did not utter his cousin's name, 
 
THE o'dONOGHTJE. 191 
 
 bnt a single tear, that rolled heavily down his cheek, and seemed to 
 make it tremble as it passed, showed that another and a deeper spring 
 of sorrow was opened in his heart. With a sudden gesture of impatience 
 he roused himself from his musing, and hastily descending the stair, he 
 crossed the old court-yard, and, without any fixed resolve as to his 
 course, walked down the road ; nor was it until after proceeding some 
 distance, that he perceived he was rapidly gaining on the little party on 
 their way to the Lodge ; then he quitted the high road, and soon lost 
 himself in one of the mountain glens. 
 
 As for the others, it was indeed a day of unaccustomed pleasure, and 
 such as rarely presented itself in that solitary valley. All that kindness 
 and hospitality could suggest was done by the family at the Lodge, to 
 make their .visit agreeable ; and while Sir Marmaduke vied with his 
 son and daughter in courteous attentions to his guests, they, on their 
 part, displayed the happy consciousness of these civilities by efforts to 
 please not less successful. 
 
 Sir Archy — albeit the faculty had long lain in disuse — was possessed 
 of conversational powers of a high order, and could blend his observation 
 of passing events with the wisdom derived from reflection, and the ex- 
 perience of long intercourse with the world ; while, as if to relieve the 
 sombre colouring of his thoughts, Kate's lively saUies and sparkling 
 repartees lit up the picture, and gave it both brilliancy and action. The 
 conversation ranged freely over the topics which form the staple of 
 pohte intercourse in the world of the cultivated and the fashionable ; 
 and, although Sir Archy had long been removed from such companion- 
 ship, it was easy to perceive how naturally he could revert to a class of 
 subjects, with which he had once been familiar. 
 
 It was thus alternating remarks of the past, with allusions to the 
 present — mingling grave and gay, with that happy blending which 
 springs from the social intercourse of different ages — they sat, after 
 dinner, watching, through the unshuttered window, the bright moon- 
 light that streamed across the glen and glittered on the lake, the con- 
 versation, from some reference to the scenery, turned to the condition of 
 Ireland, and the then state of her people. Sir Marmaduke, notwith- 
 standing his late experiences, fully maintaining the accuracy of his own 
 knowledge in matters, which have not ceased to puzzle even wiser heads, 
 gained confidence from the cautious reserve of Sir Archy, who rarely 
 ventured an opinion, and never hazarded a direct assertion. 
 
 "They would have me believe, in England," said Sir Marmaduke, 
 ** that Ireland was on the very brink of a rebellion ; that the organiza- 
 tion of revolt was perfect, and only waiting French co-operation to 
 
192 THE O^DONOGHUE. 
 
 burst forth ; but bow absurd such statements are to us who live amongst 
 them." 
 
 Sir Archy smiled significantly, and shook his head. 
 
 " You, surely, have no fears on this head, sir ? It is not possible to 
 conceive a state of more profound peace, than we observe around us. 
 Men do not take up arms against a rightful authority, without the 
 working of strong passions and headlong impulses. What is there to 
 indicate them here ?" 
 
 " You'll allow, Sir Marmaduke, they are no overlikely to mak' ye a 
 confidant, if they intend a rising," was the dry observation of M'Nab. 
 
 " True ; but could they conceal their intentions from me — that is the 
 question ? Think you that I should not have discovered them long 
 since, and made them known to the government 1" 
 
 " I trust you'd have done no such thing, sir," interposed Fred. " I 
 heard Maitland say, there never was a chance of keeping this country 
 down, if we had not a brush with them every thirty or forty years ; 
 and, if I don't mistake, the time for a lesson has just come round." 
 
 " Is it so certain on which side is to be the teacher ?" said Kate, with 
 a voice whose articulate distinctness actually electrified the party ; and, 
 as it drew their eyes towards her, heightened the flush that mantled on 
 her cheek. 
 
 " It never occurred to me to doubt the matter," said Fred, with an 
 air of ill-dissembled mortification. 
 
 " No more than you anticipated it, perhaps," retorted she, quickly ; 
 "and yet events are happening every day which take the world by sur- 
 prise. See there ! — look. That mountain-peak was dark but a moment 
 back ; and now, see the blazing fire that has burst forth upon it !" 
 
 The whole party started to their feet, and drew near the window, from 
 which, at a distance of about two miles, the red glare of a fire was seen. 
 It burned brightly for some minutes, and then decaying, became extin- 
 guished, leaving the dark mountain black and gloomy as before. 
 
 " What can it mean ?" said Sir Marmaduke, in amazement. "Can 
 it be some signal of the s«mugglers ? I understand they still venture on 
 this coast." 
 
 " That mountain yonder is not seen from the bay," said Sir Archy, 
 thoughtfully. " It can scarcely be that." 
 
 " I think we must ask Miss O'Donoghue for the explanation," said 
 Fred Travers. '* She is the only one here not surprized at its appearance."* 
 
 "Miss O'Donoghue is one of those who, you assert, are to be 
 taught, and, therefore, unable to teach others," said she, in a low 
 whisper, only audible to Frederick, who stood beside her, and he almost 
 R6Tted at the strange meaning the words seemed to convey. 
 
THE O'DONOGB^B' 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 The visit alluded to in the last chapter formed the first step to an 
 acquaintance which speedily ripened into intimacy. Seldom a day 
 passed without some interchange of civiUties ; and as they progressed 
 in knowledge of each other, they advanced in esteem, so that, ere long, 
 they learned to regard themselves as members of a single family. The 
 conventional usages of society are stronger barriers against friendship 
 than the world deems them. The life of cities suppHes a coinage of 
 social intercourse which but very imperfectly represents the value of 
 true feeling; while in remoter and less cultivated regions, men are 
 satisfied to disencumber themselves of this false currency, and deal 
 frankly and openly with each other. 
 
 How little now did Sir Marmaduke remember of all Sir Arch/s 
 peculiarities of manner and expression ! how seldom did Sybella think 
 Kate's opinions wild and eccentric ! and how difficult would it have 
 been to convince the fastidious Guardsman, that the society of St. 
 James's possessed any superiority in tone or elegance over the evenings 
 at '' the Lodge.'* 
 
 The real elements of mutual liking were present here : the dis- 
 crepancy of character and taste — ^the great differences of age, and habit 
 of thought — yet moulded into one common frame of esteem from the very 
 appreciation of qualities in others, in which each felt himself deficient. 
 If Kate admired the simple but high-minded English girl, whose 
 thoughts were rarely faulty, save when attributing to others higher and 
 purer motives than the world abounds in, Sybella looked up with 
 enthusiastic delight to the ghtteriag talents of her Irish friend — the 
 warm and generous glow of her imagination — the brilliant flashes of her 
 wit — the ready eloquence of her tongue, and, perhaps, not least of all, 
 the intrepid fearlessness of her nature, inspired her with sentiments of 
 almost awe, which seemed to deepen, and not diminish her affection for 
 Kate O'Donoghue. 
 
 It might appear an ungenerous theme to dwell on ; but how often are 
 our friendships suggested by self-love ? — ^how frequently are we led to 
 
194 TED e^PONOGBUJt* 
 
 think highly and speak praisingly of qualities the opposite to our own, 
 from the self-satisfaction our apparent impartiality yields us. Justice 
 must, indeed, he a great virtue, when its very shadow can ennoble 
 human nature. Not such, however, were the motives here. Kate's 
 admiration for the unerring rectitude of Syhella*s character was as free 
 from taint as was Sybella's heartfelt enthusiasm for the Irish girl. As 
 for Frederick Travers, the same dissimilarity in character which made 
 him at first compare Kate with his sister disadvantageously, now induced 
 him to be struck and fascinated by her qualities. The standard by 
 which he had measured her, she had long since passed, in his estima- 
 tion ; and any idea of a comparison between them would now have 
 appeared ridiculous. It was true many of her opinions savoured of a 
 nationaUty too strong for his admiration. She was intensely Irish — or 
 at least what he deemed such. The traditions which, as a child, she 
 had listened to with eager delight, had given a bias Ix) her mind 
 that grew more confirmed with years. The immediate circumstances 
 of her own family added to this feeling, and her pride was tinctured 
 with sorrow at the fallen condition of her house. All her affection for 
 her cousins could not blind her to their great defects. In Mark she 
 saw one whose spirit seenisd cruoted cmd stunned, and not awakened 
 by the pressure of misfortune. Herbert, with all his kindliness of 
 nature and open-heartedncss, appeared more disposed to enjoy the sun- 
 shine of life, than to prepare himcelf to buffet with its storms. 
 
 How often she wished she had been a boy ; how many a day-dream 
 floated before her of such a career as she might have struck out ! 
 Ireland a nation — her " own sons her rulers" — ^had been the theme of 
 many an oft-heard tale, and there was a poetry in the sentiment of a 
 people recalled to a long-lost, long-sought-for nationality, that excited 
 and exalted her imagination. 
 
 Her convent education had stored her mind with narratives of native 
 suffering and Saxon tyranny, and she longed for the day of retribution 
 on the " proud invaders." Great was her disappointment at finding her 
 cousins so dead to every feeling of this kind ; and she preferred the 
 chivalrous ardour of the English soldier to the sluggish apathy of 
 Mark, or the happy indolence of Herbert O'Donoghue. 
 
 Had Frederick Travers been' an Irishman, would he have borne his 
 country's wrongs so meekly? was a reflection that more than once occurred 
 to her mind, and never more powerfully than on parting with him, the 
 very evening we have mentioned. He had accompanied them, on their re- 
 turn to Carrig-na-curra, which, as the night was fine and the moon 
 neariy at her Ml, they did on foot. Kate, who rarely accepted an arm 
 
THE o'donoghxje. 195 
 
 wheu walking, had, by some accident, taken his on this occasion, Sir 
 Archy leaning on that of Herbert. 
 
 The young soldier listened with a high-beating heart, as she related 
 an incident, of which the spot they were traversing had been the scene. 
 It was a faithless massacre of a chieftain and his followers, seduced, 
 under pretences of j&iendship and a pledge of amity. 
 
 " They told him," said she, "that his young wife, who had been 
 carried away by force, and imprisoned for two entire years, should on 
 this spot be restored to him ; that he had but to come, with twelve of 
 his retainers, unarmed, save wifch their swords, and that here, where we 
 now stand, she should once more become his own. The hour was sunset, 
 and he waited, with anxious impatience, beneath that tall cliff yonder, 
 where you can see the deep cleft. Strange enough, they have added a 
 legend to the true story, as if their wrongs could derive any force from 
 fiction ! and they tell ycu still, that the great rock was i. never split until 
 that night. Thsir name for it, in Irish, is " the rent,'* or " the ruptured 
 pledge." Do I weary you with these old tales ?" 
 
 *' No, no ; go on, I entreat you. I cannot say how the scene 
 increases its fascinations, from connection vdth your story.*' 
 
 ** He stood yonder, where the black shadow now crosses the road, 
 and having dismounted, he gave his horse to one of his attendants, and 
 walked, with an aniiious heart, up and down, waiting for their approach. 
 
 *' There was less sympathy among his followers for their chieftain's 
 sorrow than might be expected ; for she was not a native bom, but the 
 daughter of an English earl- He, perhaps, loved her the more— her very 
 friendlessness was another tie between them." 
 
 " Says the legend so, or is this a mere suspicion on your part V* 
 whispered Travers softly. 
 
 " I scarcely know," continued liaie, with an accent less assured than 
 before. " X believe I tell you the tale as I have heard it ; but why may 
 she not have been his own in every sentiment and thought — ^why not 
 have imbibed the right, from him she learned to love ?" The last words 
 were scarcely uttered, when, with a sudden exclamation, less of fear 
 than astonishment, Kate grasped Travers' arm, and exclaimed — ** Did 
 you see that I" 
 
 " I thought come dark object moved by the road side." 
 
 " I saw a man pass, as if from behind us, and gaia the thicket yon- 
 der : he was alone, however." 
 
 "And I am armed," said Travers, coolly. 
 
 "And if you were not," replied she, proudly, "an O'Donoghue has 
 nothing to fear in the valley of Glenflesk, Let us join my uncle, how- 
 
196 THE o'dokoghue. 
 
 ever, for' I see he has left us some distance behind him ;'* and while 
 they hastened forward, she resumed her story with the same uncon- 
 cern as before the interruption. 
 
 TraTcrs hstened eagerly — ^less, it is true, in sympathy with the story, 
 than in delight at the impassioned eloquence of her who related it. 
 " Such," said she, as they turned to bid him farewell at the old keep on 
 the road side, " such are the traditions of our land ; they vary in 
 time and place, and persons; but they have only one moral through all — 
 what a terrible thing is slavery !'* 
 
 Travers endeavoured to turn the appHcation of her speech, by some 
 common-place compliment about her own powers of inflicting bondage ; 
 but she stopped him suddenly, with " Nay, nay ; these are>not jesting 
 themes, although you may deem them unsuited for one as ignorant and 
 inexperienced as I am ; nor will I speak of them again, if they serve 
 but as matter for laughter." 
 
 Amid his protestations of innocence against this charge, which, in 
 his ardour, he pushed farther than calmer judgment . might warrant, 
 they shook hands cordially, and parted. 
 
 " He's a fine-hearted fellow, too," thought Kate, as she slowly moved 
 along in silence. '* Saxon though he be, there's a chord in his bosom 
 that responds to the touch of truth and honour. 
 
 "Noble girl," said Frederick, half aloud, "it would be hard to 
 rebuke treason, when spoken from such lips;" then added, with a 
 smile — " It's no fair temptation to expose even a Guardsman to." 
 
 And thus, each speculated on the character of the other, and fancied 
 how, by their own influence, it might be fashioned and moulded to a 
 better form ; nor was their interest lessened in each other's fortune from 
 the fact, that it seemed to involve so much of mutual interposition. 
 
 "You should not walk this road so late," said Mark O'Donoghue, 
 almost rudely, as he opened the door to admit them. " The smugglers 
 are on the coast now, and frequently come up the glen at nightfall." 
 
 "Why not have come to be our escort, then?" said Kate, smiling. 
 
 " "What ? With the gay soldier for your guard," said he, bitterly. 
 
 " How knew you that, my worthy cousin ?" said Kate, rapidly, and 
 then, with a significant shake of the head, added, in a whisper — " I 
 see thexe are marauders about." 
 
 Mark blushed till his face became scarlet, and turning abruptly away, 
 sought his own room in silence. 
 
THE o'donoghus. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 *A DAY OP DIFFICULT NEGOCIATIONS." 
 
 The time was now approaching when the Travers's were to remove to 
 the capital, and, at Sybella's urgent entreaty, Sir Marmaduke was 
 induced to request that Kate O'Donoghue might accompany them 
 in their visit, and thus enjoy the pleasures of a winter in Dublin, 
 then, second to no city of Europe, in all that constituted social 
 excellence. 
 
 The note of invitation couched in terms the most flattering and 
 cordial, arrived when the O'Donoghues were seated at breakfast, 
 .and, as was usual on all occasions of correspondence, was opened by 
 Kate herself; scarcely had she thrown her eyes over its contents, when, 
 with a heightened colour, and a slight tremor in her voice, she passed 
 the letter across the table to her uncle, and said — " This is for your 
 consideration, sir." 
 
 "Then, you must read it for me, Kate," repHed he; "for my ears 
 have outlived my eyes." 
 
 " Shall I do it," interposed Sir Archy, who, having remarked some 
 hesitation in Kate's manner, came thus good-naturedly to the 
 rescue. 
 
 " With all my heart, Archy," said the O'Donoghue ; " or rather, 
 if you would do me a favour, just tell me what it is about — poUte 
 correspondence affects me pretty much as the ceremonies of bowing 
 and salutation, when I have a fit of -the gout. I become devilish 
 impatient, and would give the world it was all over, and that I were 
 back in my easy chair again." 
 
 "The politeness in the present case, lies less in the style than 
 in the substance," said Sir Archy. " This is a vara civil, though, 
 I must say, to me a vara unwelcome proposal, to take our darHng 
 Kate away from us, for a season, and show her some of the life and 
 gaieties of the capital." ( 
 
 " Well, that is handsomely done, at least," said the O'Donoghue, 
 whose first thought sprung from gratified pride, at the palpable 
 
19S TBS O^DONOGHUE. 
 
 fridence of social consideration; then suddenly chan^g his tone, 
 he said in a low voice ; ** but what says Kate herself?" 
 
 Mark turned his eyes full upon her, as his father said these 
 words, and as a deadly pallor came over his face, he sat steadfastly 
 awaiting her reply, like one expecting the decree of a judge. 
 
 " Kate feels too happy here, sir, to risk anything by a change," 
 replied she, avoiding, even for a second, to look towards where Mark 
 was sitting 
 
 " But you must not lose such an opportunity, dearest Kate ;" 
 whispered Herbert eagerly into her ear, " These are the scenes, and 
 the places- you are used to, and best fitted to enjoy and to adorn, 
 and^besides—- — ' 
 
 A stern frown from Mark, who, if he had not overheard tlie speech, 
 seemed to have guessed its import, suddenly arrested' the youth, who 
 now looked overwhelmed with confusion. 
 
 " We are a divided cabinet ; that I see plainly enough, Kate ;" 
 ©aid O'Donoghue ; " though, if our hearts were to speak out, I'd 
 warrant they would be of one mind. Still, this would be a selfish 
 verdict, my dear girl, and a poor requital for all the happiness you 
 havebrought'back to these old walls ;" and the words were spoken with 
 a degree of feeling that made all indisposed to break the silence that 
 followed. 
 
 " I should like to see the capital, I own," said Kate, " if my 
 absence v/ere to be a short one." 
 
 " And I wad hae nae objection the capital should see yersel," said 
 Sir Archy ; ** albeit, I may lose a sweetlieart by my generosity." 
 
 " Have no fears of my fidelity," said Kate, laughing, as she ex- 
 tended her hand towards him, while, with, antique gallantry, he pressed 
 it to his lips. " The youth of this land are not, so far as my little 
 experience goes, likely to supplant so true an admirer ; they who have 
 so little devotion to their country, may well be suspected of having less 
 for its daughters.' 
 
 Mark's brow grew dark with the flush that covered his face and 
 forehead in an instant ; he bent his head almost to the table to avoid 
 observation, and, as if in the distraction of the moment, he took up the 
 note and seemed to pore over its contents ; then suddenly crushing it in 
 his hand, he arose from the table and left the room* 
 
 " My sweet Kate," said Sir Archy, as he led her within the deep 
 recess of a window, " tak care ye dinna light up a flame of treason, 
 where ye only hoped to warm a glow of patriotism ; such eyes and. lips 
 
THE o'DONOGHTTE. 19$ 
 
 m yours are but too ready teachers ; be cautious, lassie. This countiyi 
 however others may think, is on the eve of some mighty struggle ; the 
 people have abandoned many of their old grudges and seem disposed to 
 unite." 
 
 " And the gentry— where are they, who should stand at their head 
 and share their fortune ?" cried Kate eagerly ; for the warning, so far 
 from conveying the intended moral only stimulated her ardour and 
 excited her curiosity. 
 
 "The gentry," replied Sir Archy, in a firm, decided tone, "are 
 better satisfied to live under a govermnent they dislike, than to be at 
 the mercy of a rabble they despise. I ha'e lived langer than you in this . 
 dreary world, lassie, and trust me, the poetry of patriotism has little 
 relation to the revengeful fury of rebellion. You wish freedom for 
 those who cannot enjoy the portion of it they possess. It is time to 
 ©utlive the evil memories of the past, we want here — time, to blunt the 
 acuteness of former and long-past sufferings — time, to make traditions 
 so far forgotten as to be inapplicable to the present — ^time, to read the 
 homely lesson, that one half the energy a people can expend in revolt, 
 will raise them in the rank of civilized and cultivated beings." 
 
 " Time, to make Irishmen forget that the land of their birth was ever 
 other than an English province," added Kate, impetuously. " No, no, 
 it was not thus your own brave countrymen understood their ^devoirs.''" 
 " They rallied round the standard of a prince thsy loved, lassie," 
 said M*Nab, in a tone whose fervour contrasted with his former accent. 
 *' And will you tell me that the principle of freedom is not more 
 sacred than the person of the sovereign?" said Kate, tauntingly. 
 
 ** There can be nae mistake about the one, but folks may have vara 
 unsettled notions of the other," said he, drily; "but we mauna 
 quarreL Kate dear ; our time is e'en too short already. Sit ye down 
 and sing me a sang.'' 
 
 " It shall be a rebel one, then, I promise you,*' rephed she, wiih an 
 air of defiance which it was impossible to pronounce more reql or 
 assumed. " But here comes a visitor to interrupt us, and so your 
 loyalty is saved for this time." 
 
 The observation was made in reference to a traveller, who, seated in 
 a very antique looking dennet, was seen slowly labouring his wearied 
 horse up the steep ascent to the castle, 
 
 *^Ifs Swaby, father," cried Herbert, who immediately recognized 
 the equipage of the Cork attorney, and felt a certain uneasiness come 
 him. at the unexpected appearance. 
 " What brings him down to these parts ?" said the O'Donoghue, 
 
)D0 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 affecting an air of surprise — " on his way to Killamey, perhaps. "Well, 
 well, they may let him in.** 
 
 The announcement did not, to all appearance, afford much pleasure 
 to the others, for scarcely had the door bell ceased its jingle, when each 
 quitted the drawing-room, leaving O'Donoghue alone to receive his man 
 of law. 
 
 Although the O'Donoghue waited with some impatience for the 
 entrance of his legal adviser, that worthy man did not make his appear- 
 ance at once, his progress to the drawing-room being arrested by Sir 
 Archy, who, with a significant gesture, motioned him to follow him to 
 his chamber. 
 
 " I will no* detain you many minutes, Mr. Swaby,'* said he, as he 
 made signs for him to be seated. " I hae a sma* matter of business 
 in which you can serve me. I need scarcely observe, I reckon on youi- 
 secrecy.** 
 
 Mr. Swaby closed one eye, and placed the tip of his finger on his 
 nose — a pantomime intended to represent the most perfect fideUty. 
 
 "I happen,*' resumed Sir Archy, apparently satisfied with this 
 pledge ; " I happen at this moment to need a certain sum of money, and 
 would wish to receive it on these securities. They are title deeds of a 
 property, which, for reasons I have no leisure at this moment to explain, 
 is at present held by a distant relative in trust for my heir. You may 
 perceive that the value is considerable'* — and he pointed to a formidable 
 array of figures which covered one of the margins. " The sum I re- 
 quire is only a thousand pounds — five hundred at once — immediately — 
 the remainder in a year hence. Can this be arranged ? 
 
 " Money was never so scarce,** said Swaby, as he wiped his spectacles 
 and unfolded one of the cumbrous parchments. " Devil take me, if I 
 know where it*s all gone to. It was only last week I was trying to 
 raise five thousand for old Hoare on the Ballyrickan property, and I 
 could not get any one to advance me sixpence. The country is unsettled 
 you see. There's a notion abroad that we'll have a rising soon, and 
 who knows what's to become of landed property after.** 
 
 ** This estate is in Perth," said M'Nab, tapping the deeds with his 
 finger. 
 
 "So I perceive,'* replied Swaby; "and they have no objection to a 
 * shindy* there too, sometimes. The Pretender got some of your coun- 
 trymen into a pretty scrape with his tricks. There are fools to be had 
 for asking, every where." 
 
 " "We vdll no' discuss this question just noo,** said Sir Archy, ssAp- 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 201 
 
 ■ *shly ; " and, to return to the main point, please to inform me, is this 
 joan impracticable V 
 
 " I didn't say it was, all out," said Swaby. " In about a week or 
 two " 
 
 " I must know before three days," interrupted M'Nab. 
 
 " His honour's waiting for Mr. Swaby," said Kerry, who now ap- 
 peared in the room, without either of the others having noticed his 
 entrance. 
 
 Sir Archy rose with an angry brow, but spoke not a syllable, while he 
 motioned Kerry to leave the room. 
 
 "You must join my brother-in-law, sir," said he at last; "and if 
 our conversation is not already become the gossip of the house, I entreat 
 of you to keep it a secret." 
 
 " That, of course," said Swaby j " but I'm thinking I've hit on a 
 way to meet your wishes, so we'll talk of the matter again this evening;" 
 and thus saying, he withdrew, leaving Sir Archy in a frame of mind 
 very far, indeed, from tranquil or composed 
 
 Swaby* s surprise at his interview with Sir Archy, whom he never 
 had the slightest suspicion of possessing any property whatever, was 
 even surpassed by his astonishment on hearing the favourable turn of 
 O'Donoghue's affairs ; and, while he bestowed the requisite attention to 
 follow the old man's statement, his shrewd mind was also engaged in 
 speculating what probable results might accrue from this unexpected 
 piece of fortune, and how they could best be turned to his own benefit. 
 O'Donoghue was too deeply interested in his own schemes, to question 
 Swaby respecting his business with M*Nab, of which Kerry O'Leary 
 had already given him a hint. The attorney was, therefore, free to 
 deliberate in his own mind how far he might most advantageously turn 
 the prosperity of the one, to the aid of the other, for the sole benefit of 
 himself. It is not necessary, nor would it conduce to the object of this 
 story, to ask the reader's attention to this interview. It will be enough 
 to say, that Swaby heard with pleasure O'Donoghue's disclosure, re- 
 cognizing, with practised acuteness, how far he could turn such unlooked- 
 for prosperity to his own purposes, and subsidize one brother-in-law, at 
 the expense of both. 
 
 While thus each within the limit of this narrow household was fol- 
 lowing out the thread of his destiny, eagerly bent on their several 
 objects, Kate O'Donoghue sat alone, at the window of her chamber, 
 buried in deep thought. The prospect of her approaching visit to the 
 capital presented itself in so many aspects, that, while offering plea- 
 sures and enjoyments none relished more highly than herself, she yet 
 
Wn THB 0^]9ONO(3WUE. 
 
 saw difficulties which might render tlw step unadvisable, irnot perilbus. 
 Of all considerations, money was the one wliich least had occupied any 
 share in her calculations ; yet now she bethought herself, that expense 
 must necessarily be incurred, wliich her uncle's finances could but ill 
 afford. No sooner had this thought occurred to her, than she was 
 amazed it had not struck her before, and she felt actually startled, lest, 
 in her eagerness for the promised pleasure, she had only listened to the 
 suggestion of selfishness. In a moment more she determined to decline 
 the invitation. She was not one to' take half measures when she be- 
 lieved a point of principle to be engaged ; and the only difficulty now 
 lay, how and in what manner to reflise an offer proffered with so much 
 kindness. The note itself must open the way, thought she, and at the 
 instant she remembered how Mark had taken it from the breakfast- 
 table. 
 
 She heard his heavy step as he paced backwa:rds and forwards in his 
 chamber overhead, and without losing another moment, hastily ascended 
 the stairs to his door ; her hand was already outstretched to knock, 
 when suddenly she hesitated ; a strange confusion came over her faculties 
 — how would Mark regard her request ? — would he attribute it to over- 
 eagerness on the subject of the invitation. Such were the questions 
 which occurred to her; and as quick came the answer — **And let 
 him think so. I shall certainly not seek to undeceive him. He alone, 
 of all here, has vouchsafed me neither any show of his affection nor his 
 confidence." The flush mounted to her cheek, and her eyes darkened 
 with the momentary excitement ; and at the same instant the door was 
 suddenly thrown open, and Mark stood before her. 
 
 Such was his astonishment, however, that for some seconds he could 
 not speak ; when at last he uttered in a low, deep voice — 
 
 "I thought I heard a hand upon the lock, and I am so su«pieious of 
 
 that fellow, Kerry, who frequently plays the eaves-dropper here " 
 
 *' Not when you are alone, Mark 1" said Kate, smiling. 
 ** Ay— even then. I have a foohsh habit of thinking aloud, of which 
 I strive in vain to break myself; and he seems to know it, too.*' 
 
 " There is another absent trick you have acquired also,'* said she, 
 laughing. " Do you remember having carried off the note that came 
 while we were at breakfast ?" 
 
 " Did I ?" said he, reddening. " Did I take it off the table T Te^ 
 yes ; I remember something of it now. You must forgive me, cousin, 
 if these careless habits take the sh^e of rudeness^" He seemed over- 
 whelmed with confusion, as he added, "I know not why I put it into 
 toy pocket ; here it is."* 
 
THE 0*DONOGHTJE. 203 
 
 And so saying, he drew from the breast of^ his coat a crashed and 
 crumpled paper, and gave it into Kate's hand. She wished to say 
 something in reply — something which would seem kind and good 
 natured ; but, somehow, she faltered and hesitated. She twice got as 
 far as, "I know, Mark — I am certain, Mark;** then unable to say 
 what, perhaps, her very indecision rendered more difficult, sh« merely 
 uttered a brief "thank you," and withdrew. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" said she, as she re-entered her own chamber, "his 
 is the hardest lot of all/' 
 
 She had often wished to persuade herself that Bfark's morose, sullen 
 humour was the discontent of one who felt the ignominy of an inglo- 
 rious life — that habits of recklessness had covered, but not obliterated 
 the traces of that bold and generous spirit for which his family had 
 been long distinguished ; and now, -for the first time, she believed she 
 had fallen on the evidences of such a temper. Sbe pondered long on 
 this theme, and fancied how, under circumstances favourable to their 
 development, Mark's good qualities and courageous temper, had won 
 for him .both fame and honour. " And here," exclaimed she, half 
 aloud, " here, he may live and die a peasant 1" With a deep sigh, she 
 threw herself into a chair, and as if to turn her thoughts into some 
 channel less suggestive of gloom, she opened the letter Mark had given 
 her. Scarcely, .however, had she cast her eyes over it, when she uttered 
 a faint cry, too faint, indeed, to express any mere sense of fear, but 
 in an accent in which terror and amazement were equally blended. 
 
 The epistle was a brief one — not more than a few lines — and she 
 had read it at a glance, before ever there was time to consider how 
 far her doing so was a breach of confidence ; indeed, the intense inte- 
 rest of the contents left little room for any self-examinings. It ran 
 thus : — 
 
 ** Dear Brother — No precipitation — ^no haste — nothing can be 
 done without France. T. has now good hopes from that quarter, and 
 if not 30,000, 20,000, or at least 15,000 will be given, and arms for 
 double the number. Youghal is talked of as a suitable spot ; and H. 
 has sent charts, &c. over. Above all, be patient ; trust no rumours, 
 and rely on us for the earliest and the safest intelligence, L. will hand 
 you this. You must contrive to learn the cipher, as any correspond 
 dence discovered would ruin all. 
 
 " Your^s ever, and in the cause,. 
 
 "H. R» 
 
 Here, then, was the youth she had been commiserating for his ca- 
 
204 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 reer of lowly and unambitious hopes — here, the mere peasant ! the 
 accomplice of some deep and desperate plot, in which the arms of 
 France, should be employed against the government of England. Was 
 this the secret of his pre-occupation and his gloom ? Was it to con- 
 centrate his faculties on such a scheme, that he lived this lonely and 
 secluded life ? " Oh, Mark, Mark, how have I misjudged you 1" she 
 exclaimed, and as she uttered the words, came the thought, quick as a 
 lightning flash, to her mind — what terrible hazards such a tempera- 
 ment as his must incur in an enterprise hke this — without experience 
 of men or any knowledge of the world whatever — without habitual pru- 
 dence, or caution of any kind. The very fact of his mistaking the 
 letter — a palpable evidence of hia unfitness for trust. Reckless by 
 nature — ^more desperate still from the fallen fortunes of his house. What 
 would become of him ? Others would wait the time and calculate their 
 chances. He would listen to nothing but the call of danger. She knew 
 him well, from boyhood upwards, and had seen him often more fasci- 
 nated by peril, than others were by pleasure. 
 
 As she reasoned thus, her thoughts insensibly turned to all the 
 dangers of such an enterprise as she believed him engaged in. The 
 fascinating visions of a speculative patriotism, soon gave way before 
 the terrors she now conjured up. She knew he was the only tie that 
 bound his father to existence, and that any misfortune to Mark, would 
 be the old man*s death-blow. Nor were these the most poignant of 
 her reflections, for she now remembered how often she had alluded 
 tauntingly to those who lived a life of mean or inglorious ambition ; 
 how frequently she had scofi'ed at the miserable part of such as, 
 endowed with high names and ancient lineage, evinced no desire to 
 emerge from an ignoble position, and assume a station of eminence 
 and power ; could she, then, have contributed to this youth's rash 
 step, had her idle words and random speeches driven him to embrace 
 a cause, where his passions, and not his judgment were inter^sfcgd ■? 
 What misery was in this fear ? 
 
 Each moment increased the agony of this reflection, *^!fe bsrr doubts 
 as to how she ought to act, thickened around her. S V /kchy, alone, 
 was capable of advising her, his calm and unbiassed xcason, would 
 be now invaluable, but dare she — even to him, make use of a confidence 
 thus accidentally obtained? Would Mark — could he ever forgive 
 her? and how many others might such a disclosure compromise! 
 In this dilemma, she knew no course open to her, but one — to address 
 herself at once to Mark, to explain how his secret had become known, 
 ^ leam from him as much as lay in her power of the dangers and 
 
THE o'donoghue. 205 
 
 difficulties of the meditated revolt, and if unable to dissuade Mm 
 from participation, at least to mingle with his resolves all she could 
 of prudence, or good counsel. The determination was scarcely 
 formed, when she was once more at the door of his chamber ; she 
 knocked twice, without any reply following, then gently opened the 
 door. The room was vacant, he was gone. I will write to him, said 
 she hurriedly, and with this new resolve, hastened to her chamber, 
 and began a letter. 
 
 The task she proposed to herself, was not so easy of accom- 
 plishment ; a dozen times, she endeavoured while explaining the 
 accident that divulged his secret, to impress him with the hazard 
 of an undertaking, so palpably depicted, and to the safe keeping of 
 which, his own carelessness, might prove fatal ; but each effort dis- 
 satisfied her. In one place, she seemed not to have sufficiently 
 apologized for her unauthorized cognizance of his note ; in another, 
 the stress she laid upon this very point, struck her as too selfish, 
 and too personal in a case, where another's interests were the real 
 consideration at issue; and even when presenting before him the 
 vicissitudes of fortune to which his venturous career would expose 
 him, she felt how every word contradicted the tenor of her own 
 assertions for many a day and week previous. In utter despair how 
 to act, she ended by enclosing the letter with merely these few 
 words : — 
 
 " I have read the enclosed, but your secret is safe with me. 
 
 " K. O'D." 
 
 This done, she sealed the packet and had just written the address, 
 when, with a tap at the door Sir Archy entered, and approached the 
 table. 
 
 "With a tact and delicacy he well understood. Sir Archy explained the 
 object of his visit — to press upon Kate's acceptance a sum of money 
 sufficient for her outlay in the capital. The tone of half authority he 
 assumed disarmed her at once, and made her doubt how far she could 
 feel justified in opposing the wishes of her friends concerning her. 
 
 *' Then you really desire I should go to Dublin," said she. 
 
 "I do, Kate, for many reasons — reasons which I shall have httlg 
 difficulty in explaining to you hereafter." 
 
 " I half regret I ever thought of it," said Kate, speaking her 
 thoughts unconsciously aloud. 
 
 "Not the less reason perhaps for going,*' said Sir Archy, drily; whileat 
 
US TBfi 0'i>0NOGHU£. 
 
 the same moment his ey« caught thp letter bearing Mark O'Donoghue't 
 name. 
 
 Kate saw on what his glance was fixed, and grew red with shame and 
 canfusion. 
 
 " Be it so then, uncle," said she, resolutely. "I do not aeek to know 
 the reasons you speak of, for if you were to ask my own against the 
 project, I should not be able to frame them ; it was mere caprice.'* 
 
 " I hope so, dearest Kate," said he, with a tone of deep affection'— 
 ** I hope so with all my heart ;" and thus saying, he pressed her hand 
 fervently between his own and left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A. XiAax wTENiva jur home. 
 
 "With the experience of past events to guide us, it would appear now 
 that a most unaccountable apathy existed in the Enghsh 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 pro- 
 ceeded more from ignorance of the danger, or that amount of informa- 
 tion 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 impe- 
 diment or molestation j statistical information the most minute was for- 
 warded to Paris every week ; the state of popular opinion, the condition 
 of parties, the amount of troops disposable by Government — even t^ 
 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 facihty with which their detidls were com- 
 municated, and hinted, that such regularity in correspondence might 
 be owing to the poHte 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. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 3^1^ 
 
 Tone's letters show the wearisome toil of his negociation ; the assu- 
 rances of aid obtained after months of painful, harrassing solicitation, 
 deferred or made dependent on some almost impossible conditions ; gua- 
 rantees 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 co- 
 operation. 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 undiscipHned and almost unarmed 
 masses, still they looked plausible on paper, and vouched for the will- 
 ingness 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 hberty are not the most effective appeals to a people ; and 
 although the French agents were profuse of promises, and the theme of 
 EngUsh 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 neces- 
 sity of employing this lure, and giving the adherents of the cause their 
 share of power and influence, was another great source of weakness. 
 
208 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 Diversity of opinion arose on every subject ; personal altercations of 
 the bitterest kind; reproaches and insinuations, passod continually 
 between them, and it needed all the skill and management of the chiefs 
 to reconcile, even temporarily, these discordant ingredients, and main- 
 tain 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 V* " 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 vacil- 
 lation, 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 hfe, 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 
 obhge 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 amount- 
 ing 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 camethe evening before her own departure from Carrig- 
 na-curra, and they were seated around the tea-table, thoughtful and 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 209 
 
 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 wanderei/ 
 away to the gloomier fortunes of Mark, darker as they now seemed, i| 
 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 com- 
 panions, 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 suc- 
 cessful, 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 arid 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 
 
210 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 young minds, and which either give an unwarrantable bias to the judg- 
 ment through Ufe, or which, when their fallacy is detected, lead to a reac- 
 tion as violent, and notions as false. " Win character and reputation first, 
 Herbert : gain the position from which your opinions will come with influ- 
 ence, 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 telUng 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 ; " be 
 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 efibrt 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 as- 
 cending the causeway, and the next moment the bell sent forth a loud 
 summons. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 211 
 
 "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 discomfi- 
 ture of the rest : nor did he entirely succeed, for Frederick was no com- 
 mon 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 acci- 
 dentally 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. 
 
 "Beit 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 thase 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 
 
V2 THE O'OONOOHUE. 
 
 Iiartinet in punctuality, and the phaeton will not be a second behind 
 <ime; 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 what- 
 ever.'* 
 
 " To what extent does this information go V* said Sir Archy, cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 " That I can't tellyou ; 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, i 
 
 "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 deci- 
 sions 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 het 
 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 sh 
 .: ploy. 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 213 
 
 ** 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 hy 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 plea- 
 sure 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. 
 
214 THE 0*DONOGHUXr 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 ** X SDPPEa PABTf." 
 
 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 httle 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 hun- 
 dred 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 soUtude, 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. 
 
THE o'donoghue. 215 
 
 " "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 re- 
 sounded through the whole building, and then a heavy noise Hke the 
 fiall 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, call- 
 ing 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 blood- 
 shot, 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 appa- 
 rent 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 
 
216 THE o'donogbue. 
 
 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 
 Aad 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 dis- 
 parage 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 deli- 
 vered, 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 orna- 
 mented 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 ia^these parts," 
 taid M'Nab, who thus endeavoured to draw from the stranger some hint 
 titber as to the object or the road of his journey. 
 
Uii>'/y^^£^ ^i 
 
 '^. 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 217 
 
 " 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 aiFord 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 tra- 
 velled 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 plea- 
 sure 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 fugi- 
 tives. 
 
 " 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— 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. 
 
218 THE O DONOGHUB. 
 
 *' Done, for a hundred — I say done," said Mark, slapping him fami- 
 liarly on the shoulder. 
 
 " I'll not win your money on such unfair ternus," said Talbot, laugh- 
 ing, "and if I can refrain from taking too much of this excellent 
 Bourdeaux, I'll do the trick to-morrow without a wager." 
 
 Mark, hke 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 cal- 
 culating success or failure on grounds of mere probability. 
 
 " Your definition has the advantage of being sufficient for the occa- 
 sion," 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 
 Glengarifi^, 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, 
 filUng and re-filling a large glass unceasingly, while the O'Donoghue 
 merely paid that degree of attention which politeness demanded. 
 
 It was thus that, while Sir Archy believed he was pushing Talbot 
 closely on the objects of his coming, Talbot was, in reality, obtaining 
 from him much information about the country generally, the habits of 
 the people, and their modes of life, which he effected in the easy, un- 
 constrained manner of one perfectly calm and unconcerned. "The 
 life of a fisherman," said he, in reply to a remark of Sir Archy' s — " the 
 life of a fisherman is, however, a poor one ; for though his gains are 
 great, at certain seasons, there are days — ay, whole months, he cannot 
 
THE o'donoghub. 219 
 
 venture out to sea. Now it strikes me, that iu that very Bay of Bantiy 
 the swell must be terrific, when the wind blows from the west, or the 
 nor'-west." 
 
 " You are right — quite right," answered M'Nab, who at once 
 entered freely into a discussion of the condition of the Bay, under the 
 various changing circumstances of wind and tide. **Many of our 
 poor fellows have been lost within my own memory, and, indeed, save 
 when we have an easterly wind " 
 
 "An easterly wind?" re-echoed Mark, lifting his head suddenly from 
 between his hands, and staring in half-drunken astonishment around 
 him. " Is that the toast — did you say that ?" 
 
 *' With all my heart," said Sir Archy, smiling. " There are few 
 sentiments deserve a bumper better, by any who live in these parts. 
 Won't you join us, Mr. Talbot ?" 
 
 " Of course I will," said Talbot, laughing, but with all his efforts to 
 seem at ease, a quick observer might have remarked the look of warn- 
 ing he threw towards the young O'Donoghue. 
 
 " Here, then," cried Mark, rising, while the wine trickled over his 
 hand from a brimming goblet — " I'll give it — are you ready ?" 
 
 " All ready, Mark," said the O'Donoghue, laughing heartily at the 
 serious gravity of Mark's countenance. 
 
 " Confound it," cried the youth, passionately ; " I forget the 
 jingle." 
 
 " Never mind — ^never mind," interposed Talbot, slily ; "we'll pledge 
 it with as good a mind." 
 
 " That's — that's it," shouted Mark, as the last word clinked upon 
 his memory. " I have it now," and his eyes sparkled, and his brows 
 were met, as he called out — 
 
 ** A stout heart and mind, 
 And an easterly wind, 
 And the devil behind 
 The Saxon." 
 
 " Sir Archy laid down his glass untasted, while Talbot, bursting 
 forth into a well-acted laugh, cried out, "You must excuse me from 
 repeating your amiable sentiment, which, for aught I can guess, may 
 be a sarcasm on my own country." 
 
 " I'd like to hear the same toast explained," said Sir Archy, cautiously, 
 while his looks wandered alternately from Mark to Talbot. 
 
 *' So you shall, then," replied Mark, sternly, " and this very moment 
 too." 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 " Come, that's fair," chimed in Talbot, while he fixed his eyes on the 
 youth, with such a steady gaze as seemed actually to have pierced the 
 dull vapour of his clouded intellect, and flashed light ^upon his addled 
 brain. " Let us hear your explanation." 
 
 Mark, for a second or two, looked hke one suddenly awakened from a 
 deep sleep, and trying to collect his wandering faculties, while, as if 
 instinctively seeking the clue to his bewilderment from .Talbot, he never 
 turned his eyes from him. As he sat thus, he looked the very ideal 
 of half-drunken stupidity. 
 
 " I'm afraid we have no right to ask the explanation," whispered 
 Talbot into M'Nab's ear. ** We ought to be satisfied, if he give us the 
 rhyme, even though he forgot the reason." 
 
 ** I'm thinking you're right, sir," replied M'Nab ; "but I suspect we 
 hae na the poet before us, ony mair than the interpreter." 
 
 Mark's faculties, in slow pursuit of Talbot's meaning, had just at this 
 instant overtaken their object, and he burst forth into a boisterous fit of 
 laughter, which, whatever sentiment it might have excited in the others, 
 relieved Talbot, at least, from all his former embarrassment : he saw 
 that Mark had, though late, recognised his warning, and was at once 
 relieved from any uneasiness on the score of his imprudence. 
 
 Sir Archy was, however, very far from feeling satisfied. "What he 
 had heard, brief and broken as it was, but served to excite his suspi- 
 cions, and make him regard this guest as at least a very doubtful cha- 
 racter. Too shrewd a diplomatist to push his inquiries any further, 
 he adroitly turned the conversation upon matters of comparative in- 
 difference, reserving to himself the part of acutely watching Talbof s 
 manner, and narrowly scrutinizing the extent of his acquaintance with 
 Mark O'Donoghue. In whatever school Talbot had been taught, his 
 skill was more than a match for Sir Archy's. Not only did he at once 
 detect the meaning of the old man's policy ; but he contrived to make 
 it subservient to his own views, by the opportunity it afforded him of 
 estimating the influence he was capable of exerting over his nephew ; 
 and how far, if need were, Mark should become dependent on his will, 
 rather than on that of any member of his own family. The frankness 
 of his manner, the seeming openness of his nature, rendered his task 
 a matter of apparent amusement ; and none at the table looked in 
 every respect more at ease than Harry Talbot. 
 
 While Sir Archy was thus endeavouring, with such skill as he pos- 
 sessed, to worm out the secret reason — and such, he well knew, there 
 must be — of Talbot's visit to that unfrequented region, Kerry O'Leary 
 was speculating, with all his imaginative ability, how best to account 
 
THE o'donoghui. 221 
 
 for that event. The occasion was one of more than ordinary diffi- 
 culty. Talbot looked neither like a bailiff nor a sheriff's officer ; 
 neither had he outward signs of a lawyer or an attorney. Kerry was 
 conversant with the traits of each of these. If he were a suitor fot 
 Miss Kate, his last guess, he was a day too late. 
 
 "But sure he couldn't be that: he'd never come with a throop of 
 noisy vagabonds, in the dead of the night, av he was after the young 
 lady. Well, well, he bates me out — sorra lie in it," said he, drawing 
 a heavy sigh, and crossing his hands before him in sad resignation. 
 
 *' On my conscience, then, it was a charity to cut your hair for you, 
 anyhow!" said Mrs. Branagan, who had been calmly meditating on 
 the pistol-shot, which, in grazing Kerry's hair, had somewhat damaged 
 his locks. 
 
 " See, then — ^^by the holy mass ! av he went half an inch lower, it's 
 my life he'd be after taking ; and if he was fifty O'Donoghues, I'd 
 have my vingince. Bad cess to me, but they think the likes of me 
 isn't fit to live at all." 
 
 " They do," responded Mrs. Branagan, with a mild puff of smoko 
 from the corner of her mouth — " they do ; and if they never did 
 worse than extarminate such varmin, their sowls would have an easiet 
 time of it." 
 
 Kerry's brow lowered, and his lips muttered ; but no distinct reply 
 WAS audible. 
 
 " Sorra bit of good I see in ye at all," said she, with inexorable 
 severity. *' I mind the time ye used to tell a body what was doing 
 above stairs ; and, though half what ye said was lies, it was better 
 than nothing : but now yer as stupid and lazy as the ould beast there 
 fornint the fire — not a word out of yer head from morning to night. 
 Ay eh, is it your hearings failin' ye ?" 
 
 " I wish to the Blessed Mother it was," muttered he fervently to 
 himself. 
 
 "There's a man now eatin' and drinkin' in the parlour, and the 
 sorra more ye know about him, than if he was the Queen of Sheba." 
 
 " Don't I, thin — maybe not," said Kerry, tauntingly, and with a look 
 of such well-affected secrecy, that Mrs. Branagan was completely 
 deceived by it. 
 
 " What is he, then ? spake it out free this minit,'* said she. " Bad 
 cess to you, do you want to trate me like an informer." 
 
 *' No, indeed, Mrs, Branagan ; its not that same I'd even to you — 
 sure I knew your people — father and mother's side — two generations 
 back. Miles Buoy — yallow Miles, as they called him — ^was the finest 
 
S2S THE o'donoghxte. 
 
 judge of a horse in Kerry — I wonder now he didn't make a power oi 
 money." 
 
 ** And sp he did, and spint it after. 'Twas blackguards, with ould 
 gaiters, and one spur on them, that ate up every shilling he saved." 
 
 " Well, well ! think of that, now," said Kerry, with the sententious- 
 ness of one revolving some strange and curious social anomaly ; ** and 
 that's the way it wint." 
 
 " Wasn't it a likely way enough," said Mrs. Branagan, with flashing 
 eyes, " feedin' a set of spalpeens that thought of nothing but chating 
 the world. The sight of a pair of top boots gives me the heartburn 
 to this day." 
 
 "Mine warms to them, too," said Kerry, timidly, who ventured on 
 his humble pun with deep humility. 
 
 A contemptuous scowl was Mrs. Branagan' s reply, and Kerry resumed. 
 
 " Them's the changes of world — rich yesterday — poor to-day ! Don't 
 I know what poverty is well myself. Augh ! sure enough they wor the 
 fine times, when I rode out on a beast worth eighty guineas in goold, 
 wid clothes on my back a lord might envy ; and now, look at me !" 
 
 Mrs. Branagan, to whom the rhetorical figure seemed a direct appeal, 
 did look ; and assuredly the inspection conveyed nothing flattering, for 
 she turned away abruptly, and smoked her pipe with an air of profound 
 disdain. 
 
 *' Faix ye may say so," continued Kerry, converting her glance into 
 words. " Tis a poor object I am this blessed day. The coat on my 
 back is more Hke a transparency, and my small clothes, saving your 
 favour, is as hard to get into as a fishing-net ; and if I was training 
 for the coorse, I couldn't be on shorter allowance." 
 
 "What's that yer saying about yer vittals?" said the cook, turning 
 fiercely towards him. " There's not your equal for an appetite from 
 this to Cork. It's little time a Kerry cow would keep you in beef: and 
 it's an ill skin it goes into. Yer a disgrace to a good family." 
 
 " Well, I am, and there's no denying it !" ejaculated Kerry, with a 
 sigh that sounded far more like despair than resignation. 
 
 •* Is it to hang yourself you have that piece of a rope there ?" said 
 she, pointing to the end of a stout cord that depended from Kerry's 
 pocket. 
 
 " Maybe it might come to that same yet," said he, and then putting 
 his hand into his pocket, he drew forth a great coil of rope, to the end 
 of which a leaden weight was fastened. " There, now," resumed he, 
 "Yer a cute woman — can ye tell me what's the meanin of that ?" 
 
 Mrs. Branagan gave one look at the object in question, and then 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 223 
 
 turned away, as thougli tlie enquiry was one beneath her dignity to 
 investigate. 
 
 "Some would call it a clothes-line, and more would say it was for 
 fishing ; but sure there's no sign of hooks on it at all ; and what's the 
 piece of lead for ? — that's what bothers me out entirely." These obser- 
 vations were so many devices to induce Mrs. Branagan to offer her own 
 speculations ; but they failed utterly— that sage personage not deigning 
 to pay the least attention either to Kerry or the subject of his 
 remarks. 
 
 ''"Well, I'll just leave it where I found it," said he, in a half 
 soliloquy, but which had the effect of at least arousing the curiosity of 
 his companion. 
 
 " And where was that ?*' asked she. 
 
 '* Outside there, before the hall door," said he, carelessly, "where I got 
 this little paper book too," and he produced a small pocket almanack, 
 with blank pages interleaved, some of which had short pencil memo- 
 randa. *' I'll leave them both there, for, somehow, I don't like the 
 look of either of them." 
 
 *' Read us a bit of it first, anyhow," said Mrs. Branagan, in a more 
 conciliating tone than she had yet employed. 
 
 *"Tis what I can't do, then," said Kerry; "for it's writ in some 
 outlandish tongue that's past me altogether." 
 
 " And you found them at the door, ye say 1" 
 
 "Out there fornint the tower. 'Twas the chaps that run away from 
 Master Mark that dropped them. Ye'r a dhroll bit of a rope as ever I 
 seen," added he, as he poised the lead in his hand, " av a body knew 
 only what to make of ye :" then turning to the book, he pored for 
 several minutes over a page, in which there were some lines written with 
 a pencil. "Be my conscience I have it," said he, at length ; "and 
 faix it wasn't bad of me to make it out. What do you think, now, 
 the rope is for ?" 
 
 " Sure I tould you afore I didn't know." 
 
 " Well, then, hear it, and no He in it — ^'tis for measurin' the say." 
 
 "Measurin' the say! What bother you're talking; isn't the say 
 thousands and thousands of miles long." 
 
 " And who says it isn't ? — but for measurin' the depth of it, that's 
 what it is. Listen to this — 'Bantry Bay, eleven fathoms at low water 
 inside of Whiddy Island ; but the shore current at half ebb makes 
 landing difficult with any wind from the westward ;* and here's another 
 piece, half rubbed out, about flat-bottomed boats being best for the 
 •urf." 
 
224 THE o'donoghtje. 
 
 ** Tis the smugglers again,'* chimed in Mrs. Branagan, as tliough 
 summing up her opinion on the evidence. 
 
 " Troth, then, I don't think so ; they never found it hard to land, 
 no matter how it blew. I'm thinking of a way to find it out at last.** 
 
 "And what's that?" 
 
 " I'll just go up to the parlour, wid an innocent face on me, and I'll 
 lay the rope and the little book down on the table before the strange 
 man there ; and I'll just say, * There's the things your honour dropped 
 at the door outside j* and maybe ould Archy won't have the saycret out 
 of him." 
 
 " Do that, Kerry avich," said Mrs. Branagan, who at length vouch- 
 safed a hearty approval of his skill in devices. " Do that, and I'll 
 broil a bit o' meat for ye agin ye come down." 
 
 "Wid an onion on it, av it's plazing to ye, ma'am," said Kerry, in- 
 sinuatingly. 
 
 " Sure I know how ye like it ; and if ye have the whole of the say- 
 cret, maybe you'd get a dhrop to wash it down besides. 
 
 " And wish you health and happy days, Mrs. Branagan,'* added 
 Kerry, with a courteous gallantry he always reserved for the kitchen ; 
 so saying, he arose from his chair, and proceeded to arrange his dress 
 in a manner becoming the dignity of his new mission, rehearsing at 
 the same time the mode of his entry. 
 
 '*'Tis the rope and the little book, your honour, I'll say, that ye 
 dropped outside there, and sure it would be a pity to lose it, afther all 
 your trouble measuring the places. That will be enough for ould 
 Archy ; let him get a sniff of the game once, and begorra he'll ran 
 him home by himself afterwards.'' 
 
 With this sensible reflection, Kerry ascended the stairs in high good 
 humour at his own sagacity, and the excellent reward which awaited 
 it on his return. As he neared the door, the voices were loud and 
 boisterous ; at least Mark's was such ; and it seemed as if Talbot was 
 endeavouring to moderate the violent tone in which he spoke, and suc- 
 cessfully, too ; for a loud burst of laughter followed, in which Talbot 
 appeared to join heartily. 
 
 "Maybe I'll spoil your fun," said Kerry, maliciously, to himself, and 
 he opened the door, and entered. 
 
THK D'UUNOOHUX. ^Si& 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASUEES 
 
 Dublin, at the time we speak of, possessed social attractions of a higli 
 order. Rank, beauty, intellect, and wealth, contributed their several 
 influences ; and while the tone of society had all the charms of a 
 politeness now bygone, there was an admixture of native kindhnes* and 
 cordiality, as distinctive as it was fascinating. 
 
 Almost every Irishman of rank travelled in those days. It was 
 regarded as the last finishing-touch of education, and few nations 
 possess quicker powers of imitation, or a greater aptitude in adapting 
 foreign habitudes to home usages, than the Irish ; for, while vanity 
 with the Frenchman — coldness with the Englishman — and stolid indif 
 ference with the German, are insuperable barriers against this acquire- 
 ment ; the natural gaiety of Irish character, the buoyancy, but still 
 more than all, perhaps, the inherent desire to please, suggest a 
 quality, which, when cultivated and improved, becomes that great 
 element of social success — the most precious of all drawing-room gifts — 
 men call tact. 
 
 It would be a most unfair criterion of the tastes and pleasures of 
 that day, were we to pronounce, from our experience of what Dublin 
 now is. Provincialism had not then settled down upon the city, with all 
 its petty attendant evils. The character of a metropolis was upheld by a 
 splendid Court, a resident Parliament, a great and titled aristocracy. 
 The foreground figures of the time were men whose names stood highj 
 and whose station was recognized at every Court of Europe. There was 
 wealth more than proportioned to the cheapness of the country ; and 
 while ability and talent were the most striking features of every circle, 
 the taste for gorgeous display exhibited within doors and without, threw a 
 glare of splendour over the scene, that served to illustrate, but not 
 eclipse the prouder glories of mind. The comparative narrowness of 
 the circle, and the total absence of English reserve, produced a more 
 intimate admixture of all the ranks which constitute good society here 
 than in London, anjf the advantages were evident ; for while the aris- 
 tocrat gained immeasurably, from ready intercourse with men whose 
 pursuits were purely intellectual, so the latter acquired a greater expaii« 
 
S96 TBB G^DONOCBI!^. 
 
 Biveness, and a wider liberality in his views, from being divested of all 
 the trammels of mere professional habit, and threw off his pedantry, as 
 t garment unsuited to "his position in society. But what more than all 
 llse was the characteristic of the time, was the fact, that social emi- 
 nence — the " succ6s de salon" — was an object to every one. From the 
 proud peer, who aspired to rank and influence in the councils of the 
 state, to the rising barrister, ambitious of parhamentary distinction — 
 from the mere fashionable idler of the squares, to the deep plotter of 
 political intrigue — this was alike indispensable. The mere admission 
 into certain circles was nothing — the fact of mixing with the hundred 
 others who are announced, and bow, and smile, and slip away, did not 
 then serve to identify a man as belonging to a distinct class in society ; 
 nor would the easy platitudes of the present day, in which the fool or 
 the fop can always have the ascendant, suffice for the absence of conver- 
 sational ability, ready wit, and sharp intelligence, which were assembled 
 around every dinner-table of the capital. 
 
 It is not our duty, still less our inclination, to inquire why have all 
 these goodly attractions left us, nor wherefore is it, that, like the art of 
 staining glass, social agreeability should be lost for ever. So it would seem, 
 however ; we have fallen upon tiresome times, and he who is old enough 
 to remember pleasanter ones, has the sad solace of knowing that he has 
 seen the last of them 
 
 Crowded as the capital was, with Tank, wealth, and influence, the 
 arrival of Sir Marmaduke Travers was not without its "eclat." His vast 
 fortune was generally known ; besides that, there was a singularity in 
 the fact of an Englishman, bound to Ireland by the very slender tie of 
 a small estate, without connexions or friends in the country, coming to 
 reside in Dublin, which gratified native pride as much as it excited 
 pubHc curiosity; and the rapidity with which the most splendid 
 mansion in Stephen's-green was prepared for his reception, vied in 
 interest with the speculation, as to what possible cause had induced 
 him to come and live there. The rumours of his intended magnificence, 
 and the splendour of his equipage, furnished gossip for the town, and 
 paragraphs for the papers. 
 
 It was, indeed, a wondrous change for those two young girls — from 
 the stillness and solitude of Glenflesk, to the gaiety of the capital — 
 from a life of reflection and retirement, to the dazzling scenes and fasci- 
 nating pleasures of a new world. Upon Sybella the first effect was to 
 increase her natural timidity — to render her more cautious, as she found 
 herself snrrounded by influences so novel and so strange ; and in this 
 wise there was mingled with her enjoyment, a sense of hesitation and 
 
THE o'DOt^OGHUE. Tiff 
 
 fear, that tinged all her thoughts, and e^«?n impressed themselres upon 
 her manner. Not so with Kate : the instinct that made her feel at 
 home in the world, was biit the consciousness of her own powers of 
 pleasing. She loved society as the scene, where, however glossed over 
 by conventionalities, human passions and feelings were at work, and 
 where the power of influencing or directing others gave a stimulus to 
 existence, far higher and nobler than all the pleasures of retirement. 
 It was life, in fact. Each day had its own separate interests, drama- 
 tizing, as it were, the real, and making of the ordinary events of the 
 world a romance, of which she felt herself a character. As much an 
 actor as spectator, she threw herself into the pleasures of society with a 
 zest which need only have the accompaniments of youth, beauty, and 
 talents, to make it contagious. Thus differing in character, as in appear- 
 ance, these two young girls at once became the acknowledged beauties 
 of the capital, and each was followed by a troop of admirers, whose 
 enthusiasm exhibited itself in a hundred different ways. Their favourite 
 colours at a ball became the fashionable emblems of the next day on 
 the promenade, and even the ladies caught up the contagion, and 
 enlisted themselves into parties, whose rivalry amused none so much as 
 those, in whom it had its origin. 
 
 While the galling enmity of Celt to Saxon was then stirring in secret 
 the hearts of thousands in the country, and fashioning itself into the 
 elements of open insurrection, the city was divided by a more peaceful 
 animosity, and the English and the Irish party were arrayed against 
 each other in the cause of beauty. 
 
 It would be impossible to conceive a rivalry from which every ungenerous 
 or unworthy feeling was more perfectly excluded. So far from any 
 jealousy obtruding, every little triumph of one was a source of unalloyed 
 heartfelt pleasure to the other ; and while Sybella sympathized with all 
 the delight of Kate's followers in an Irish success, so Kate, with cha- 
 racteristic feeling, enjoyed nothing so much as the chagrin of her own 
 party, when Sybella was unquestionably in the ascendant. Happily 
 for us, we are not called upon to explain a phenomenon so novel and so 
 pleasing — enough if we record it. Certain it is, the absence of all envy 
 enhanced the fascinations of each, and exalted the objects in the eyes of 
 their admirers. On this point alone opinion was undivided — none 
 claimed any superiority for their idol, by ascribing to her a greater share 
 of this good gift ; nor could even malice impute a difference in their 
 mutual affection. 
 
 One alone among the circle of their acquaintances stood neutral — 
 unable to divest himself enough of natural partiality, to be a fair and 
 
228 THE O'D0N0GHT7E. 
 
 just judge. Sir Marmaduke Travers candidly avowed that he felt him- 
 self out of court. The leaders of fashion, the great arbiters of " bou 
 ton," were happily divided, and if England could boast of a majority 
 among the Castle party, Ireland turned the scale with those who, having 
 enjoyed opportunities of studying foreign manner, pronounced Kate's 
 the very perfection of French agreeability, united to native lovehness 
 and attraction. 
 
 So much for " the sensation," to use the phrase appropriated by the 
 newspapers, their entrance into the fashionable life of Dubhn excited. 
 Let us now return to the parties themselves. In a large and splendidly 
 furnished apartment of Sir Marmaduke's Dublin residence, sat the 
 Baronet, his daughter, and Kate, at breakfast, alternately reading 
 from the morning papers, and discussing the news as they ate. 
 
 "Well, but, my dear Kate" — Sir Marmaduke had emancipated him- 
 self from the more formal *'Miss" a week before — "turn to another 
 column, and let us hear if they have any political news." 
 
 " There's not a word, sir, unless an allusion to the rebel colour of my 
 dress at the Chancellor's ball be such. You see, Sybella, Falkner 
 fights not under my banner." 
 
 " I think you stole the Chancellor himself from me," repHed Sybella, 
 laughing, " and I must say most unhandsomely too : he had just given 
 me his arm, to lead me to a chair, when you said something in a half 
 whisper — I could not catch it if I would — he dropped my arm, burst 
 out a laughing, and hurried over to Lord Clonmel — I suppose to 
 repeat it.'* 
 
 ** It was not worth relating, then," said Kate, with a toss of her 
 head. " I merely remarked how odd it was Lady Ridgeway couldn't 
 dance in time, with such beautiful clocks on her stocking." 
 
 "O, Kate dearest!" said Sybella, who, while she could not refrain 
 from a burst of laughter, became deep scarlet at her friend's hardi- 
 hood, 
 
 ""Why Meddlicot told that as his own at supper," said Sir Mar- 
 maduke. 
 
 " So he did, sir ; but I cautioned him that a license for wholesale 
 does not permit the retail even of jokes. Isn't the worthy sheriff a 
 druggist? But what have we here — all manner of changes on the 
 staff — Lord Sellbridge to join his regiment at Hounslow, vice, Captain 
 your brother, Sybella — Captain Frederick Travers" — and she red- 
 dened slightly at the words. " I did not know he was appointed aid-de- 
 camp to the Viceroy." 
 
 •*Nor did I, my dear,'* said Sir Marmaduke. " I knew he was most 
 
THs <i^ooiro6Htni. 229 ' 
 
 anxious to make the exchange with Lord Sellbridge ; but this is the 
 first I have heard of the success of his negociation." 
 
 " You see, Kate," said Sybella, while a sly glance shot beneath her 
 long-lashed lids, "that even Fred has become a partizan of Ireland." 
 
 " Perhaps the prospect of the revolt he hinted at," rephed Kate^ with 
 an air of scornful pride, " has made the Guardsman prefer this country 
 for the moment." 
 
 *' I incline to a very different reason," said Sybella, but in a voice so 
 subdued as to be only audible to Kate herself, who again blushed deeply, 
 and seemed greatly confused. 
 
 " Ha ! here it is," said Sir Marmaduke, reading aloud a long para- 
 graph from a morning paper, which, descanting on the abortiveness of 
 any effort to destroy the peace of the realm, by enemies without or 
 within its frontiers, concluded with a glowing panegyric on the blessings 
 of the British constitution. " * The government, while confiding impli- 
 citly on the loyalty and bravery of his Majesty's people, have yet 
 neglected no measures of precaution against the insane and rash attempts 
 of our ' natural enemies,' whose temerity is certain of again receiving 
 the same severe lesson which every attempt upon our shores has 
 taught them.' Yes — ^yes — very prompt and active measures, nothing 
 could be better," muttered he to himself. 
 
 " May I ask what they consist in — these precautionary movements ?" 
 said Kate. 
 
 ** A full organization of the militia and yeomanry," rephed Sir Marma- 
 duke, proudly, for he commanded a regiment of ' Northamptonshire 
 fencibles.' Strengthening the different garrisons in large towns- 
 mounting guns of heavy calibre on the forts — " 
 
 A hearty burst of laughter broke from Kate, which she made no effort 
 to control whatever. 
 
 " I cannot help laughing, because that same word recalls a conversation 
 I once heard between two French ofiicers in Bruges ; one of them who 
 seemed to know Ireland well, averred that these forts were so placed as 
 only to be capable of battering down each other. I know he instanced 
 two on the southern coast, which in three discharges must inevitably 
 make a drawn battle of it.* 
 
 *' My dear young lady," said Sir Marmaduke, with an unsual gravity, 
 " it is not exactly to our enermies we must look for any warm encomium 
 on our means of defence, nor has experience yet shown, that British 
 courage can be justly a subject for a Frenchman's laughter." 
 
 " And as to the militia and yeomanry," continued Kate, for she 
 seemed bent on tormenting, and totally indifferent to the consequencet 
 
230 THB ODONOGHUE. 
 
 legarding herself, *' Colonel Delcamp called them * arsenals ambulantes,* 
 admirably contrived to provide an invading army with arms and ammu- 
 nition." 
 
 ** I heartily wish your friend, Colonel Delcamp, would favour us with 
 a visit of inspection," said the Baronet, scarcely able to control his 
 anger. 
 
 r- " I should not think the occurrence unhkely," was the cool reply, 
 ** and if so, I may be permitted to assure you, that you will be much 
 pleased with his manners and agreeability." Sybella's imploring look 
 was all in vain ; Kate, as she herself said, belonged to a race who neither 
 gave nor took quarter, and such a controversy was the very conflict she 
 gloried in. How it was to be carried on any further, is not easy to 
 foresee, had not the difficulty been solved by the entrance of Frederick 
 Travers, come to communicate the news of his appointment. Wliile Sir 
 Marmaduke and Sybella expressed their joy at his success, Kate, half 
 chagrined at the interruption to a game, where she already deemed her- 
 self the winner, walked towards the wdndow and looked out. 
 
 " Have I nothing like congratulation to expect from MissO'Donoghue," 
 said Frederick, as he placed himself at her side. 
 
 " I scarcely knew if it were a subject where congratulation would be 
 suitable. To exchange the glories of London life, the fascinations of a great 
 Court, and the society of the first people in the land, for the lesser splen- 
 dours of a second-rate capital ; perhaps you might have smiled at the 
 simplicity of wishing you joy for all this," and here her voice assumed a 
 deeper, fuller accent. " I own that I do not feel Ireland in a position to 
 bear even a smile of scorn without oflfence to one of her children." 
 
 ** I was not aware till now, that you could suspect me of such a feeling." 
 
 "You are an Englishman, sir, that's enough," said Kate hurriedly; " in 
 your eyes, we are the people you have conquered, and it would be too 
 much to expect you should entertain great respect for the prejudices you 
 have laboured to subdue. But after all, there is a distinction worth 
 making, and you have not made it." 
 
 "And that is, if I dare ask — " 
 
 " That is, there is a wide difference between conquering the territory, 
 and gaining the affections of a people. You have succeeded in one ; 
 you'll never, at least by your present courses, accomplish the other." 
 
 "Speak more plainly to me," said Travers, who felt a double interest 
 in a conversation which every moment contained an allusion that bore 
 upon his own fortune. 
 
 " There, there, sir," said Kate, proudly, " your very request is an 
 angwer to yourself. We, here, who have known each other for some 
 
THE o'donoghue. 231 
 
 time, have had opportunities of interchanging opinions and sentiments, 
 cannot understand a simple matter in the same way, nor regard it in 
 the same Hght, how do you suppose, that milUons separated by 
 distance, habits and pursuits, can attain to what we, with our advan- 
 tages, have failed in. Can you not see that we are not the same 
 people. 
 
 *' But need our dissimilitudes sever — may they not be made rather 
 ties to bind us more closely together," said he, tenderly. 
 
 " Equality for the future, even if we obtained it, cannot eradicate 
 the memory of the past. The penal laws . 
 
 " Come — come. There is no longer any thing there. See the 
 University for instance — by-the-bye," and here Travers caught eagerly 
 at the opportunity of escape, " what of Herbert, is not this near the time 
 for his examination ?" 
 
 " The very day, the 28th of February," said she, reading from a 
 small memorandum book. It is six weeks yesterday since we have 
 seen him — poor boy !" 
 
 *' How pale and sickly he looked too. I wish with all my heart, 
 he had not set his mind so eagerly on College success," 
 
 " It is only for women, to Hve without ambition of one sort or 
 other ;" repHed Kate, sadly, " and a very poor kind of existence it is, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " What if we- were to make a party, and meet him as he comes out T 
 We might persuade him to join us at dinner, too.'* 
 
 " Well thought of, Fred," said Sir Marmaduke. " Herbert seems to 
 have forgotten us latterly, and knowing his anxiety to succeed, I really 
 scrupled at the thought of idling him." 
 
 " It is very kind of you all," said Kate, with one of her sweetest 
 smiles, " to remember the poor student, and there is nothing I should 
 like better than the plan you propose." 
 
 " We must find out the hour they leave the Hall," said 
 Frederick. 
 
 "I heard him say it was at four o'clock," said Sybella, timidly, 
 venturing for the first time to interpose a word in the conversation. 
 
 You have the best memory in the world, Sybella," whispered 
 Kate in her friend's ear, and simple as the words were, they called the 
 blush to her cheek in an instant. 
 
 The morniug passed away in the thousand little avocations which 
 affluence and ease have invented, to banish " ennui," and render life 
 always interesting. A few minutes before four o'clock, the splendid 
 equipage of Sir Marmaduke Travers, in all the massive perfection of 
 
J08I THE O'dONOGHUE. 
 
 is London appointments, drew up at the outer gate of the University ; 
 die party preferring to enter the courts on foot. 
 
 As Frederick Travers, with his two lady companions, appeared 
 within the walls, the murmur of their names ran through the crowd 
 of gownsmen, already assembled in the court ; for although by College 
 time, it still wanted fifteen minutes of the hour, a considerable 
 number of students were gathered together, anxious to hear the 
 result of the day. The simple but massive style of the buildings ; 
 the sudden change from the tumult and noise of a crowded city, to 
 the silence and quietude of these spacious quadrangles, the number 
 of youths dressed in their University costume, and either gazing 
 wistfully, at the door of the Examination Hall, or conversing eagerly 
 together, were all matters of curious interest to the Travers' party, 
 who saw themselves in a world so different from that they daily 
 moved in. Nor were the loungers the students only ; mixed up with 
 them, here and there, might be seen, some of the leading barristers of 
 the day, and one or two of the most distinguished members of the 
 House of Commons — men, who themselves had tasted the sweets 
 of College success, and were fain, even by a passing moment, to 
 refresh the memory of youthful triumphs, and bring back, by the 
 sight of familiar objects, the recollection of days, to which all the 
 glories of after-life, are but poor in comparison. Many of these 
 were recognized by the students, and saluted by them, with marks 
 of profound respect; and one, a small mean-looking man with jet 
 black eyes, and ohve complexion, was received with a cheer, which 
 was with difficulty arrested by a waving motion with his hand, and a 
 gesture towards the door of the Hall, from which with a hollow 
 cavernous sound, a heavy bolt was now drawn, and the wide portal 
 opened. A general movement in the crowd showed how intense 
 expectation then was, but it was destined to a further trial, for it 
 was only the head porter dressed in his crimson robe, and carrying 
 his cap at arms length before him, who, followed by the Provost, issued 
 forth ; the students removed their caps, and stood in respectful silence 
 as he passed. Again the door was closed, and all was still. 
 
 "There is something in all this, that stimulates curiosity strongly," said 
 Kate ; " when I came in here, I could have waited patiently for an 
 hour or two, but now, the sight of all these anxious faces, these 
 prying looks, that seem eager to pierce the very door itself, those 
 short sentences, broken by quick glances at the clock, have worked 
 me up, to an excitement high and fevered as their own. 
 
 ** It wants but a miniate now," said Fred. 
 
THE o'donoghue. 235 
 
 " I tlimk the hand has not moved, for the last ten," said Syhella, 
 smiling faintly. 
 
 "I hope he has gained the prize," muttered Kate, below hei 
 breath ; and at the moment, the bell tolled, and the wide doors, as if 
 hurst open by the sound, were flung wide, and the human tide 
 poured forth, and mingled with that beneath ; but what a different 
 aspect did it present. The faces were mostly flushed and heated, the 
 «yes flashing, the dress disordered, the cravats awry, the hair tangled — all 
 the signs of mental excitement, long and arduously sustained, were there, 
 and save a few whose careless look and unmoved expression showed 
 that their part had no high ambition at stake, all were impressed with 
 the same character of mingled eagerness and exhaustion. 
 
 Many among these were quickly singled out and surrounded by 
 troops of eager and anxious friends, and the passing stranger might 
 easily read in the tone and accent of the speaker his fortune, whether 
 good or evil. 
 
 "Where is Herbert? — where can he be? — I don't see him," said 
 each of the Travers' party, as, mingling with the crowd, they cast their 
 anxious looks on every side ; but amid the bustle of the scene, the hur- 
 rying forms, and the babble of tongues, they felt bewildered and con- 
 fused. 
 
 " Let us try at his chambers," said Frederick ; " he will, in all like- 
 lihood, be there soon j" and at once they turned their steps towards the 
 corner of the old square near the library, where Herbert lived his solitary 
 life; for although nominally linked with a companion — a chum, in 
 College parlance — he rarely made his appearance within the walls, and 
 then only for a few days at a time. 
 
 When they reached the door, they found it open, and without 
 further waiting, or any notice of their approach, they entered, but so 
 noiselessly and quietly withal, that the deep accents of grief — the heavy 
 sound of broken sobs — struck at once upon their ears. They stopped 
 and gazed in silence at each other, reading, as it were, their own heart- 
 felt fears in the face of each. 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Kate, as her proud lip trembled with agitation. 
 ' This is a sad beginning." 
 
 " Let us go back," whispered Sybella, faintly, and her cheek was pale 
 as death as she spoke. 
 
 "No, no," cried Frederick, hurriedly; ^'we must cheer him up. 
 what signifies the whole affair — a piece of mere boyish ambition, that 
 he'll only laugh at one of these days." 
 
 "Not so,'* said Kate. ''The augury of success or failure in the 
 
es4 
 
 outset of life is no such trifle as you deem it. If he be faint-hearted, 
 the game is up with him for ever — ^if he be made of sterner stuff, as 
 one of his name and house ought to be, he'll revenge his present fall, 
 by a great hereafter. Let me see him,*' and at once disengaging her 
 arm, she walked forward, and entered the chamber; while Frederick 
 and his sister retired to the court to await her return. 
 
 When Kate O'Donoghue entered the room, Herbert was seated before 
 a table, on which his head was leaning, with his hands pressed against 
 his face. At his feet lay his cap, and the books he carried with him 
 from the Hall. Unconscious of her presence, lost to every thing, save 
 his overwhelming affliction, the sobs came witli a convulsive shudder 
 that shook his frame, and made the very table rattle, while at intervals 
 there broke from him a faint moan of heart-rending sorrow. 
 
 "My dear brother," said Kate, placing her arm around his neck. 
 The boy started and looked up, and prepared as she was to see the 
 traces of suffering there, she started at the ravages long days and nights 
 of study and deep grief had left behind them : his eyes were sunk, and 
 surrounded by dark circles, that made them seem quite buried beneath 
 his brows ; his forehead traversed by a net-work of blue veins, had that 
 transparent thinness mental labour impresses, and his lips were thin 
 and colourless ; while on each cheek a burning spot of red looked like 
 the mark of hectic. He made no answer ; but the tears ran fast from 
 his eyes, and his mouth quivered as he tried to say something. 
 
 She sat down beside him on the same chair, and bending her head, 
 till the silken curls touched his very cheek, she spoke to him — not in 
 words of encouragement or good cheer, for such her own instinct told 
 her were inapplicable, but in the soft accents of affection, neither under- 
 valuing the source of his grief, nor yet suffering him to be carried away 
 by his own sense of his calamity. "Remember, my dear brother," 
 said she, " you are not less dear to our hearts for all this — remember 
 that for the casualties of the world, and its chances, we can only do 
 our utmost — that success is not for us to determine, but to strive for. 
 Had you won to-day, some other must now have grieved like you, and 
 who can tell if he could count as many fond and loving hearts to feel 
 for and console him." 
 
 ** Oh, if you knew how I strived and longed — how I prayed for suc- 
 cess," said he, in a voice almost stifled by convulsive throbs. 
 
 " And it will come yet, Herbert. The tree is only the more fruitful 
 when the knife has cut down to its very heart. Yours is not the nature 
 to be deterred by one repulse, nor yours the name to be stamped with 
 failure^ because the contest is difficult. Ambitions are only noble when 
 
THE o'donoghue. 235 
 
 their path is steep. "Who knows how indolent you might have become, 
 had you found the prize too easily won. Come, come, Herbert, enough 
 for the past ; look forward now, and with good courage and hope. The 
 next struggle will end differently ; but, above all, wear a fair face 
 before the world. I remember some French prisoners being 
 brought into Courtray, who amused us so much by their gay and 
 smiling air, and look of ease and satisfaction — their secret was, that 
 defeat was never disgrace, save when it lowered the spirit, and made the 
 heart droop. Theirs never failed, and I promise you we thought all the 
 better of them." 
 
 " But my uncle — who is to tell him *' 
 
 " Let me tell him. I see you have begun a letter already " 
 
 *' That was written last night," said the boy, as the tears gushed 
 forth afresh — "last night, when hope was almost certainty." 
 
 " Then I'll finish it," said Kate, taking up the half-written letter. 
 
 " Say to him — I would wish him to know all — say that I had beaten 
 my opponents down to one, and that he, too, almost gave up the con- 
 test, when, somehow — I cannot now say exactly how or wherefore — I 
 got into a dispute with the examiner about the meaning of a word in 
 Terence ; he seemed to enjoy the eagerness with which I defended my 
 opinion for a time, and actually encouraged my persistance, until at 
 length, my temper excited, and my brain on fire, I said something — I 
 know not what — but it was evidently an oiFence, for he closed the book, 
 and merely replied — * Enough, sir, I give your opponent the premium ; 
 his temper more than compensates for any deficiency in his scholarship ;' 
 and I was beaten.*' The last words evoked all his sorrow once more, 
 and the youth burst into tears. 
 
 "That, then, I call unfair," said Kate, passionately, ''unless the 
 gentleman were the arbiter of temperament, as well as talent. Come, 
 Herbert, even this should reconcile you to your fortune : you have not 
 failed unworthily." 
 
 " But my uncle, Kate — my uncle will deem it far otherwise. To 
 guard against this very error of my temper was almost the last pledge 
 I made him, and here, in my first trial, see how I have kept my promise." 
 
 ** Leave the explanation to me, only promise one thing — and mind, 
 Herbert, this is a pledge there must be no forgetting — do all in your 
 power — spare nothing to win the next time. I care not whether you 
 ever carry away another priz§ within these walls ; but one you must 
 have. Is this agreed ? — give me your hand upon it. There, that's 
 like your own self, and now don't waste another thought on what's 
 bygone. The Travers invited you to dine with them to-day." 
 
236 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 " Oh, no— no." 
 
 •* No — I have not any intention to press you, only come soon to see 
 us — to see »ie." She kissed his forehead tenderly as she spoke the 
 last word, and glided rapidly from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 FIBST IMPBESSIONS. 
 
 Kate O'Donoghue was more deeply affected by Herbert's failure tlia:^ 
 she had let appear to the youth, or even confessed to herself. It was 
 not that the character of his ambition enlisted her sympathies, or 
 engaged her interest. Far from it i she thought too meanly of such 
 triumphs, and knew not how far they shed an influence on a future 
 career. The habits of her education, all her early prejudices, disposed 
 her to regard the life of a soldier as the only one becoming a gentleman. 
 The passion for military glory, which the great victories of the Republic 
 and the Consulate had spread throughout Europe, penetrated into every 
 remote village of the continent, and even the prison-like walls of the 
 convent did not keep out the spirit-stirring sounds of drum and trum- 
 pet, the tramp of marching host^, and the proud clangor of war. It was 
 a time when the soldier was every thing. There was but one path in 
 life by which to win honour, rank, fame, and fortune. Even the hum- 
 blest might strive, for the race was open to all ; or, in the phrase of the 
 period, every conscript left a spare corner in his knapsack for his future 
 "baton de marechal." 
 
 All she had ever seen of foreign society, partook of this character. 
 For, strangely enough, on the ruin of an aristocracy, anew and splendid 
 chivalry was founded — a chivalry, whose fascinations covered many a 
 wrong, and made many a bad cause glorious by the heroism it evoked ' 
 The peaceful path in life was, then, in her estimate, the inglorious one. 
 Still, her proud nature could not brook defeat in any thing. It was not 
 without its influence upon the hearts and minds of her house, that the 
 eagle figured as their crest. The soaring bird, with outstretched wing, 
 careering high above his compeers, told of a race who once, at least, 
 
THE o'donogrite. 23'/ 
 
 thouglit no ambition above their daring ; and slie was worthy of the 
 haughtiest of her ancestors. 
 
 Too proud to enter into any detail of Herbert's failure, she dismissed 
 the subject as briefly as she could, and made her appearance in the 
 drawing-room without any perceptible change of manner ; nor did she 
 appear to take any notice of the announcement made by Sir Marmaduke 
 to his son, that Hemsworth, who had just arrived from Scotland, would 
 join the family circle at dinner. Kate had never seen him, but his 
 name was long associated in her mind with anecdotes of oppression and 
 cruelty to her uncle — of petty insults and annoyances which the letters 
 from Carrig-na-curra used constantly to tell of, and of which her rela- 
 tives abroad had often descanted in her hearing. The picture she had 
 drawn of him in her own mind was not a flattering one — composed of 
 features and ingredients which represented all that was base, low-minded, 
 and treacherous — a vulgar sycophant, and a. merciless tyrant. "What 
 was her astonishment, almost her chagrin, to discover, that Hemsworth 
 entered the room a gentleman-like person, of about five-and-forty, tall, 
 and well-formed, with regular features, rather melancholy in their expres- 
 sion than otherwise, and with a voice singularly low, soft, and pleasing, 
 his manner a mixture of well-bred ease, and that excessive deference so 
 often seen in those who have passed a long portion of life about persons 
 of rank superior to their own, but without the slightest trace, that she 
 could discover, of any thing subservient. With all her disposition to be 
 critical, she could find little fault with either his manner or his conver- 
 sation, nor could she detect any appearance of aifectation. On the 
 contrary, he seemed affable, like one who felt himself among friends, 
 and need set no limits to his natural frankness. On the several topics 
 he talked, he spoke with good sense and fairness ; and even when the 
 often agitated question of the state of Ireland was alluded to, he sur- 
 prised Kate by the absence of any violent or exaggerated tone, speaking- 
 of the people in terms of kindliness and even affection — lauding th?* 
 native virtues of their character, and dwelling with pleasure on the traits 
 which advantageously distinguish them from the peasantry of othd 
 lands. 
 
 She listened at first with suspicion and distrust, then, by degrees, 
 with interested attention, and, at last, with actual delight, to the nar- 
 rative he gave of the social condition of Ireland ; in which he laboured 
 to show that a mistaken estimate of the people by England — a miscon- 
 ception of the national character, a contempt of it, perhaps — had per- 
 petuated usages, which, by their injustice, had excited the hatred and 
 animosity of the country, and led to that condition of insulting depre- 
 
238 THE 0*DONOGHU£. * 
 
 oation on cme side, and proud defiance on the other, which the two peo- 
 ple exhibited towards each other. 
 
 So well and ably did he sustain his part — so powerfully support each 
 position by reference to some fact with which his ample memory supplied 
 him — ^that Sir Marmaduke was eventually obliged to confess himself 
 vanquished, though unconvmced — who ever was, when worsted ? — and 
 Frederick, chagrined at the favour Kate bestowed on the speaker, 
 merely remarked as he concluded — 
 
 ** Very conclusive and satisfactory, I have no doubt, it is ; but, in my 
 mind, all you have said goes to prove, that we English are a very infe- 
 rior nation, and very unworthily placed in rule and governance over a 
 people so much our superiors.'* 
 
 Kate's eyes flashed with an unwonted fire, and for an instant she felt 
 almost unable to control the temptation to answer this taunt ; but a 
 quiet smile of half acquiescence on Hemsworth's face so adequately ex- 
 pressed what she wished but dared not say, that she merely returned 
 the smile, and was silent. 
 
 Had Hemsworth's whole object been on that evening to disabuse Kate 
 O'Donoghue of her dislike to him — to obliterate all memory of the 
 wrongs with which she had heard him charged towards her family — he 
 could not have chosen a more successful path. There was the very 
 degree of firmness and decision she admired in the manner he gave his 
 opinions, and yet all the courtesy of one who would not be supposed 
 capable of advancing them as incontrovertible or irrefutable. They 
 were merely his sentiments — his mode of seeing and estimating parti- 
 cular events, of which another might judge differently. For all he ad- 
 vanced he was ready to show his reasons— they might be shallow, they 
 might be inconclusive — ^but they were his, and, fortunately for his chance 
 of winning her favour, they were her opinions also. 
 
 " So you think we shall have no outbreak, Hemsworth," said Sir 
 Marmaduke, as they sat at tea. 
 
 " I scarcely go so far," said he, gravely. " There are too many rea- 
 sons for an opposite fear, to say so much, even if the Secretary of State 
 did not assure us that the danger is over. The youth of Ireland will 
 always be dangerous, when left without a career, or a road to their ambi- 
 tion ; and from them, any peril that may now be apprehended will cer- 
 tainly come. Many young men of the best families of the country, 
 whose estates are deeply incumbered — ^heavy mortgages and large dowries 
 weighing them down — are ready to join in any bold attempt which pro- 
 mises a new order of things. They see themselves forgotten in the dis- 
 tribution of all patronage — excluded from every office — sometimes for 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 2S9 
 
 ivi^sons ot religion — sometimes for family, even for a mere name s sake. 
 Tliey are ready to play a bold game, where losing is only quicker rwro, 
 and to gain would be a glorious victory." 
 
 " But what could a few rash and desperate young men like these effect 
 against a power so great and so consolidated as England ?" 
 
 "Little, perhaps, as regards the overthrow of a Government; but a 
 world of- injury to the prospect of future quiet. The rebeUion of a week 
 — ay, a day — ^in Ireland, will sow the seeds of fifty years of misery, and 
 retard the settlement of peaceful relations at least another century. 
 Had the Minister made the same concessions here he was glad to accord 
 to Scotland — ^had he, without insulting a nationality, converted it into a 
 banner under which loyalty was only rendered more conspicuous — ^you 
 might have, perchance, seen a different order of things in Ireland." 
 
 " For the life of me, I cannot see the evils and wrongs these people 
 labour under. I have a very large Irish acquaintance in London, and 
 pleasanter, happier fellows cannot exist than they are." 
 
 " All the young men of family in Ireland are not in the Guards," said 
 Hemsworth, with a smile, which, with all its blandishment, very thinly 
 covered over the sarcasm of his remark. 
 
 Frederick's face flushed angrily, and he turned away without 
 speaking., 
 
 "Should we not ask pardon of the ladies for this subject of our con- 
 versation I'* said Hemsworth. " I am sure neither Miss Travers not 
 Miss O'Donoghue deem the topic interesting or amusing." 
 
 " On the contrary, sir, I believe I may reply for both of us," said 
 Kate, "whatever concerns the fortunes of a country we have so near at 
 heart, has all our sympathy ; and, as an Irish girl, I feel grateful for 
 your explanation of motives which, while I appreciate, I should still be 
 unable so satisfactorily to account for." 
 
 "How happy I am to meet my countrywoman's approval," said 
 Hemsworth, bowing courteously, and with a marked emphasis directing 
 his speech to Kate. 
 
 The manner in which he spoke the words was so palpably intended 
 for herself, that she felt all the charm of a flattery to which the dispa- 
 rity of their years imparted force. 
 
 Soon after tea. Sir Marmaduke retired with Hemsworth to his study. 
 Frederick took his leave at the same time, and Sybella and Kate were 
 left alone together. 
 
 " I have a long letter to write this evening, my dear Sybella," said 
 Kate, after they had talked some time. " Poor Herbert has failed 
 his examination, and I have promised to break the news to my 
 
240 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 Ot 60 difficult a task as tHe poor boy deems, but cue to which he i» 
 Wmself unequal." 
 
 " Does he then feel it so deeply ?" said Sybella, timidly. 
 
 " Too much, as regards the object of the ambition ; but no more than 
 he ought as a defeat. It is so bad to be beaten, Sybella," said she, 
 with a sharp distinctness on each word. " I shall hate the sight of that 
 University until he carries off the next prize ; and then — then I care not 
 whether his taste incline him for another effort ;" and so saying, she 
 embraced her friend, and they parted for the night. 
 
 The epistle which Kate had promised to conclude wris in itself a 
 lengthy one — written at different intervals during the week before the 
 examination, and containing a minute account of his progress, his hopes 
 and his fears, up to that very moment. There was little in it which 
 could interest any but him to whom it was addressed, and to whom 
 every allusion was familiar, and the reference to each book and subject 
 thoroughly known — what difficulties he had found here, what obscurity 
 there — how well he had mastered this, how much he feared he might 
 have mistaken the other — until on the evening of the first day's exami- 
 nation, when the following few lines, written with a trembling hand, 
 appeared : — 
 
 *' They say I shall gain it. H called my translation of Horace 
 
 a briUiant one, and asked the Vice-Provost to Ksten to my repeating it. I 
 heard I gave it in blank verse. Oh, my dearest uncle, am I deceiving 
 myself, and deceiving you ? Shall I be able to write thus to-morrow 
 night ?" 
 
 Then came one tremulous line, dated, " Twelve o'clock :"— 
 
 " Better and better — I might almost even now say, victory ; but 
 my heart is too much excited to endure a chance." 
 
 ** And it remains for me, my dear uncle," wrote Kate after these 
 words, " to fulfil the ungrateful task of bearing bad tidings ; and I, who 
 have never had the good fortune to bring you happiness, must now 
 speak to you of misfortune. — My dear cousin has failed." 
 
 She followed these few lines by the brief narrative Herbert had given 
 her — ^neither seeking to extenuate his errors, nor excuse his rashness — 
 well knowing in. her heart that Sir Archy would regard the lesson thus 
 conveyed, an ample recompense for the honour of a victory so hardly lost. 
 
 " It is to you he looks for comfort — to you, sir, whom his efforts 
 were all made to please, and for whose praise his weary nights and toil- 
 some days were offered. You, who know more of the human heart than 
 I do, can tell how far so severe a discouragement may work for good ot 
 eril on his future life ; for myself, I feel the even current of prosperity 
 
THE o'donoghue. 241 
 
 is but a sluggish stream, that calls for no efforts to stem its tide ; and 
 were his grief over, I'd rather rejoice that he has found a conflict, be- 
 cause he may now discover he has courage to meet it. 
 
 " Even I, to follow a theme as dispiriting, even I, grow weary of plea- 
 sure, and tired of gaiety. The busy world of enjoyment leaves not a 
 moment free for happiness, and already I am longing to be back in the 
 still valley of Glenflesk. It is not that Dublin is not very brilhant, or 
 that society has less of agreeability than I expected — both have exceeded 
 my anticipations; nor is it, that I have not been what we should call in 
 France 'successful* in my * debut' — far from that, I am the fashion, 
 or, rather, half the fashion — Sybella dividing public favour with me ; — 
 but, somehow, nobody contradicts me here — ^no one has courage to tell 
 me I'm wrong — no one will venture to say, what you have often said, 
 and even oftener looked, that * I talked of what I knew nothing -* and, 
 in fact, my dear uncle, every one is so very much in love with me, that 
 I am beginning to detest them, and would give the world to be once 
 more at home, before I extend the hatred to myself, which I must inevi- 
 tably end by doing, if nobody anticipates me in. the sentiment. 
 
 "You told me I should prove faithless to you. Well, I have refused 
 heaven knows how many ' brilliant offers,' for such even the proposers 
 called them. Generals of fourscore, guardsmen of twenty, dignitaries in 
 the church, sergeants learned in the law, country gentlemen in hordes 
 two baronets, and one luckless viscount, have asked for the valueless 
 hand that writes these lines ; and yet — and yet, my dear chevalier, I 
 shall still write myself at the bottom of this page, Kate O'Donoghue. 
 I have no doubt you are very vain of my constancy, and will be so when 
 you read this ; and it is right you should be, for, I promise you, in my 
 * robe, couleur de cerise,' looped with white roses, and my ' chapeau de 
 paysanne,' I am a very pretty person indeed — at least, it seems a point 
 the twelve judges agree upon, and the Master of the Rolls tells me, 'that 
 with such long eye-lashes I might lift my eyes very high indeed.' 
 
 " And now, my dear, kind uncle, divide your sorrow between your 
 niece who is dying of vanity, and your nephew who is sick of grief — 
 continue your affection to both — and believe me, in all sincerity of heart, 
 your own fond and faithful, 
 
 **Kate O'Donoghue. 
 
 " I have met Hemsworth, and, strange to say, found him both plea- 
 sant and agreeable." 
 
 Such were the concluding lines of an epistle, in which few, who did 
 not possess Sir Archy's acuteness, could successfully trace any thing of 
 the real character of the writer. 
 
M8 THE o'donoghuk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 OU> 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 circum- 
 stances 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 settHng on the 
 window sills, and even drifting to the very roofs ; the thatch was fas- 
 tened 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 walla 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 243 
 
 shone brightly in the ruddy blaze ; the brass fender and the glasses 
 sparkled in its clear hght, 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 deso- 
 lation 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 per- 
 sons, 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 j the only misfor- 
 tune 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 
 reHsh 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 charac- 
 ters already are, they here appeared in aspect somewhat different 
 from what they have hitherto exhibited. Hemsworth, no longer the 
 
244 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 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 frank- 
 ness 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 op- 
 portimity 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 seve- 
 rity 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. 
 
 here are the letters Mark wrote to the Delegates." 
 
THE o'donoghue. 245 
 
 ** I think Mr. Morrissy has most of them, sir," said Lanty, hesitat- 
 ingly ; " 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 Tm 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 ahorse, 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 speak- 
 ing ; 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. 
 
246 THE o'donoghux. 
 
 the result of the other's deliberation. At length the hand approachea 
 the figure ; it wanted but about half a minute of the time, and Ilems- 
 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 fire- 
 place, 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, n«x, 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 buUet-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 
 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 coarse 
 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 
 
THE o'donoghue, 247 
 
 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 ex- 
 pression 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 yon 
 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 Hems- 
 worth, 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 
 
248 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 " 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 XXXL 
 
 •OMX HINTS ABOUT HA.RRT 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 Car- 
 rig-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. 
 
 " rU 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 
 
249 
 
 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 j we have 
 merely adverted to the fact inasmuch as that on the trivial circum- 
 stance 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 pos- 
 sessed in his Hfe. 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 render- 
 ing 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 
 whieh youth and money are the passports, the other darkly lumi- 
 
250 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 nated 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 vvdll 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, how- 
 ever it happens, Billy knows all the gossip of the day, fashionable, 
 political, or sporting, he keeps himself up to what is going forward 
 
THE o'dONOOHUE. S51 
 
 everywhere." And so saying, Talbot at once llaste^ed after the land- 
 lord 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 pretensions 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." 
 " Noi" 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 recep- 
 tion 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 start« 
 
252 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 Sng 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 blue jacket 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 
 mth a horse-shoe wig, and in the full dress of a bishop. 
 
 "* Who is he at all V 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 see 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 know- 
 ledge of that gentleman leading him to a very different estimate of his 
 taste and pursuits. Indeed, he only knew Talbot from his own hps, 
 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 land- 
 ing on the Irish shores. Mark could not well understand how any one 
 charged with such a mission, could have either wasted his time or endan- 
 gered 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 — 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 253 
 
 " 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 smug- 
 gler, 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 r 
 
 A nod and a smile, more grave than gay, was Crossley' s answer j 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 migk 
 bear, Talbot himself was reflecting on what he had just uttered. Thert 
 is a very strange, but not wholly unaccountable tendency in men of 
 subtle minds, to venture near enough to disclosures to awaken the suspi- 
 cions, without satisfying the curiosity of others. The dexterity witl? 
 which they can approach danger, yet not incur it, is an exercise thej 
 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 un- 
 guarded 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 tenn it is, after all. But what is the Parliament 
 doing?" 
 
1JS4 TH£ o'dONOGHTTE. 
 
 ** Voting itself into GoTernment situations." 
 
 "And the Viceroy?'* 
 
 ** Snubbing the Parliament." 
 
 " And the Government in England V* 
 
 " Snubbing the Viceroy." 
 
 " "Well, they are all employed, at least ; and, as the French say, thafs 
 always something. And who are the playmen now ?" 
 
 " The old set. Tom Whaley and Lord Drogheda — your old friend, 
 Giles Daxon — Sandy Moore " 
 
 " Ah, what of Sandy ? They told me he won heavily at the October 
 races.'* 
 
 " So he did — ^beggared the whole club at hazard, and was robbed of 
 the money the night after, when coming up through Naas.'' 
 
 " Ha ! I never heard of that, Billy. Let us hear all about it." 
 
 ** It's soon told, sir. Sandy, who never tries economy till he has won 
 largely, and is reckless enough of money when on the verge of ruin, 
 heard, on leaving the course, that a strange gentleman was waiting to get 
 some one to join him in a chaise up to Dublin. Sandy at once sent the 
 waiter to open the negociations, which were soon concluded, and the 
 stranger appeared — a fat, unwieldy-looking old fellow, with a powdered 
 wig and green goggles — not a very sporting style of travelling compa- 
 nion ; but no matter for that, he had a dark chestnut mare with him, 
 that looked like breeding, and with strength enough for any weight over 
 a country. 
 
 " * She'll follow the chaise — my son taught her that trick,* said the 
 old fellow, as he hobbled out of the inn, and took his place in the carriage. 
 
 " Well, in jumped Sandy, all his pockets bursting with guineas, and 
 a book of notes crammed into his hat — very happy at his adventure, but 
 prouder of saving half the posting than all besides. 
 
 " * Keep to your ten miles an hour, my lad, or not a sixpence,' said 
 the old gentleman, and he drew his night-cap over his eyes, and was 
 soon snoring away as sound as need be. 
 
 *' That was the last was seen of him, however, for when the postillion 
 drew up for fresh horses at Carrick's, they found Sandy alone in the 
 chaise, with his hands tied behind him, and his mouth gagged. His 
 companion and the dark chestnut were off, and all the vdnnings along 
 with them.'* 
 
 " Cleverly done, by Jove,'* cried Talbot, in an ecstacy of admiration. 
 
 *' What a contemptible fellow your friend Sandy must be,'* exclaimed 
 Mark, in the same breath. " Man to man — I can*t conceiye the thing 
 possible.** 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 25i 
 
 " A bold fellow, well armed, Mark," observed Talbot, gravely, " might 
 do the deed, and Sandy be no coward after all." 
 
 Chatting in this wise, the first evening was spent ; and if Mark was 
 at times, disposed to doubt the morality of his new friend, he was ver\ 
 far from questioning his knowledge of mankind; his observations were 
 ever shrewd and caustic, and his views of life, those of one, who looked 
 at the world with a scrutinizing glance, and although the young 
 O'Donoghue would gladly have seen in his young companion some 
 traces of the enthusiasm he himself experienced in the contemplated 
 rising, he felt convinced that a cooler judgment, and a more calcu- 
 lating head than his, were indispensable requisites to a cause beset with 
 so many dangers. He, therefore, implicitly yielded himself to Talbot's 
 guidance, resolving not to go anywhere, nor see any one, even his 
 brother, save with his knowledge and consent. 
 
 If the scenes into which Talbot introduced Mark O'Donoghue were 
 not those of fashionable hfe, they were certainly as novel and exciting 
 to one so young and inexperienced. The taverns resorted to by young 
 men of fashion, the haunts of sporting characters, the tennis court, but 
 more frequently still the houses where high play was carried on, he was 
 all familiar with — knew the precise type of the company at each, and 
 not a little of their private history ; still it seemed as if he himself 
 were but little known, and rather received for the recommendation of 
 good addi'ess and engaging manners, than from any circumstance of pre- 
 vious acquaintance. Mark was astonished at this, as well as that, al- 
 though now several weeks in Dublin, Talbot had made no advance towards 
 introducing him to the leading members of the insurgent party, and 
 latterly had even but very rarely alluded to the prospect of the contem- 
 plated movement. 
 
 The young O'Donoghue was not one to harbour any secret thought 
 long unuttered in his breast, and he briefly expressed to Talbot his sur- 
 prise — almost his dissatisfaction — at the life they were leading. At 
 first Talbot endeavoured to laugh off such inquiries, or turn them aside 
 by some passing pleasantry ; but when more closely pressed, he avowed 
 that his present part was a duty imposed upon him by his friends in 
 France, who desired above all things to ascertain the feeling among 
 voung men of family and fortune in the metropolis — how they really 
 felt affected towards England, and with what success, should French 
 republicanism fail to convert them, would the fascinations of Parisian 
 elegance and vice be thrown around them. 
 
 " There must be bribes for all temperaments, Mark," said he, at the 
 end of a very lengthened detail of his views and stratagems. " Glory is 
 
256 THE 0*D0NOGHDE. 
 
 enough for such as you, and happily you can have wherewithal to 
 satisfy a craving appetite ; but some must be bought by gold, some by 
 promises of vengeance upon others, some by indemnities for past offences, 
 and not a few by the vague hope of change, which disappointed men 
 ever regard as for the better. To sound the depths of all such motives 
 is part of my mission here, and hence, I have rigidly avoided those by 
 whom I am more than slightly known ; but in a week or two I shall 
 exchange this part for another, and then, Mark, we shall mix in the 
 gayer world of the squares, where your fair cousin shines so brilliantly. 
 Meanwhile have a little patience with me, and suffer me to seem some- 
 times inconsistent, that I may be least so in reality. I see you are not 
 satisfied with me, Mark, and I am sorry to incur a friend's reproach 
 even for a brief season ; but come — I make you a pledge. To-day is 
 the 12th; in five days more the Viceroy gives his St. Patrick's ball, at 
 which I am to meet one of our confederates. You seem surprised at 
 this ; but where can man speak treason so safely as under the canopy of 
 the Throne V* 
 
 "■ But how do you mean to go there 1 You do not surely expect an 
 invitation." 
 
 " Of course not ; but I shall go notwithstanding, and you with me. 
 Ay, Mark, never frown and shake your head. This same ball is a pub- 
 lic assembly, to which all presented at the Levees are eligible, without 
 any bidding or invitation. Who is to say that Harry Talbot and Mark 
 O'Donoghue have not paid their homage to mock royalty? If you 
 mean that there is some danger in the step, I agree with you there is ; 
 but you are not the man, I take it, to flinch on that account.*' 
 
 This adroit stroke of Talbot's settled the matter ; and Mark felt 
 ashamed to offer any objection to a course, which, however disinclined 
 to, he now believed was accompanied by a certain amount of peril. 
 
THE 0*DONOGnUE. 26/ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 "a presage op danoer." 
 
 When the long-wished-for evening drew nigh, in which Talbot had 
 pledged himself to reveal to Mark the circumstances of their enterprise, 
 and to make him known to those concerned in the plot, his manner be- 
 came flurried and excited ; — he answered, when spoken to, with signs of 
 impatience, and seemed so engrossed by his own thoughts, as to be 
 unable to divert his attention from them. Mark, in general the reverse 
 of a shrewd observer, perceived this, and attributing it to the heavy- 
 losses he had latterly incurred at play, forebore in anyway to notice the 
 circumstance, and from his silence Talbot became probably more in- 
 different to appearances, and placed less restraint on his conduct. 
 He drank,, too, more freely than was his wont, and appeared like one 
 desirous by any means to rid. himself of some unwelcome reflections. 
 
 "It is almost time to dress, Mark," said he, with an effort to seem 
 easy and unconcerned. " Let us have another flask of Burgundy be- 
 fore we go." 
 
 " I'll have no more wine, nor you, if you will be advised by me, 
 either," said Mark, gravely. 
 
 " Ha ! then you would imply I have drank too much already, Mark? 
 Not far wrong there, perhaps, and under ordinary circumstances such 
 would be the case ; but there are times when the mind, like the body, 
 demands double nourishment, and with me wine strengthens, never 
 confuses thought. Do you know, Mark, that I have a presentiment of 
 some evil before me ; — whence, and in what shape it is to come, I can- 
 not tell you ; but I feel it as certain as if it had been revealed to 
 me. 
 
 *' You are despondent about our prospects," said Mark, gloomily. 
 
 Talbot made no answer, but leaned his head on the chimney-piece, 
 and seemed buried in deep thought ; — then recovering himself, he said, 
 in a low, but distinct accent — 
 
 " Did you take notice of a fellow at the tennis-court the other day, 
 who stood beside me all the time I was settling with the marker ? Oh 1 
 I forgot — you were not there. Well, there was such a one~-a flashy- 
 looking, vulgar fellow, with that cast of countenance that betokens 
 
 8 
 
258 
 
 shrewdness and cunning. I met him yesterday in the Park, and this 
 evening, as I came to dinner, I saw him talking to the landlord's ne- 
 phew, in the hall." 
 
 " "Well, and what of all that ? If any one should keep account of 
 where and how often he had seen either of us, this week past, might he 
 not conjure up suspicions fully as strong as your's ? Let us begin to 
 take fright at shadows, and we shall make but a sorry hand of it, when 
 real dangers approach us.*' 
 
 " The shadows ate the warnings, Mark, and the wise man never ne- 
 glects a warning." 
 
 " He who sees thunder in every dark cloud above him, is but the fool 
 of his own fears," said Mark, rudely, and walked towards the window. 
 ''Is that anything like your friend, Talbot?" added he, as he beheld 
 the dark outline of a figure, which seemed standing, intently looking up 
 at tlie window. 
 
 " The very fellow !" cried Talbot ; for at the moment a passing 
 gleam of light fell upon the figure, and marked it out distinctly. 
 
 " There is something about him I can half recognize myself," said 
 Mark ; " but he is so muffled up with great-coat and cravat, I cannot 
 clearly distinguish him." 
 
 " Indeed ! Do, for heaven's sake, think of where you saw him, and 
 when, Mark ; for I own my anxiety about him is more than common." 
 
 " I'll soon find out for you," said Mark, suddenly seizing his hat ;— 
 but at the same instant the door opened, and a waiter appeared. 
 
 " There's a gentleman below stairs, Mr. Talbot, would be glad to 
 speak a few words with you." 
 
 Talbot motioned, by an almost imperceptible gesture, that Mark 
 should retire into the adjoining room; and then, approaching the 
 waiter, asked, in a low cautious voice, if the stranger were known 
 to him. 
 
 " No, sir — never saw him before. He seems like one from the coun- 
 try : Mr. Crossley says he's from the south." 
 
 " Show him up," said Talbot, hurriedly ; and, as the waiter left the 
 room, he seated himself in his chair, in an attitude of well-assumed 
 carelessness and ease. This was scarcely done, when the stranger en- 
 tered, and closed the door behind him. 
 
 " Good erening to you, Mr. Talbot. I hope I see your honor welJ,** 
 •aid he, in an accent of very unmistakable Kerry Doric. 
 
 " Good evening to you, friend," replied Talbot. " My memory is 
 not so good as yours, or Fd call you by your name also." 
 
 ** I'm Lanty Lawler, sir — that man that sold your honor the dark 
 
THE o'donoghuk. 259 
 
 chesnut mare down m the county Kerry, last winter. I was always 
 wishing to see your honor again, by reason of that same. 
 
 " How so ?" said Talbot, getting suddenly paler, but with no other 
 appearance of emotion in his manner. "Was not our contract honestly 
 concluded at the time T* 
 
 " It was, sir — there's no doubt of it. Your honor paid like a gen- 
 tleman, and in goold besides ; — but that's just '^the business ^I come 
 about here. It was French money you gave me, and I got into trouble 
 about it — some saying that I was a spy, and others making out that I 
 was, maybe, worse ; and so I thought I wouldn't pass any more of it, till 
 I seen yourself, and maybe you'd change it for me." 
 
 While he was speaking, Talbot's eye never wandered from him — not 
 fixed, indeed, with any seeming scrutiny, but still intently watching 
 every play of his features. 
 
 "You told me at the, time, however, that French gold was just as 
 convenient to you as English," said he, smiling good-humouredly, " and 
 from the company I met you in, I found no difficulty in beheving 
 you.'* 
 
 "The times is changed, sir," said Lanty, sighing. "God help us — • 
 we must do the best we can." 
 
 This evasive answer seemed perfectly! to satisfy Talbot, who assented 
 with a shake of the head, as he said — 
 
 " Very well, Lanty ; if you will come here to-morrow, I'll exchange 
 your gold for you." 
 
 "Thank your honor kindly," said Lanty, with a bow; but still 
 making no sign of leaving the room, where he stood, changing from one 
 foot to the other, in an attitude of bashful diffidence. " There was 
 another little matter, sir, but I'd be sorry to trouble you about it — an<J 
 sure you couldn't help it, besides." 
 
 " And that is Let us hear it, Lanty/* 
 
 " Why, sir, it's the horse — the mare with the one white fetlock. They 
 say, sir, that she was left at Moran's stables by the^man that robbed 
 Mr. Moore of Moore-croft. Deaf Collison, the post-boy, can swear to 
 her ; and as I bought her myself at-Dycer's, they are calling me to ac- 
 count for when I sold her, and to whom." 
 
 " Why, there's no end to your trouble about that unlucky beast, 
 Lanty," said Talbot, laughing ; " and I confess it's rather hard, that 
 you are not only expected to warrant your horse sound, but must 
 ffye a guarantee that the rider is honest.'* 
 
 Devil a lie in it, but that's just it," said Lanty, wholanghed heartfly 
 •t the notion. 
 
260 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 " Well, we must look to this for you, Lanty j for although I liave no 
 desire to have my name brought forward, still you must not suffer on 
 that account. I remember paying my bill at Rathmallow with that 
 same mare. She made an overreach coming down a hill, and became 
 dead lame with me ; and I gave her to the landlord of the Httle inn in 
 the square, in lieu of my score.'* 
 
 " See now, what liars there's in the world !" said Lanty, holding ujv 
 his hands in pious horror. " Ould Finn of the Head Inn tould me she 
 ate a feed of oats at the door, and started again for Askeaton, with a 
 gentleman just like your honor, the night after I sold her. He kne\» 
 the mare well ; and by the same token he said she was galled on the 
 shoulder with holsters that was fixed to the saddle. Now, think of 
 that, and he after buying her ! Is it early in the morning I'm to come 
 to your honor ?" said he, moving towards the door. 
 
 "Yes — that is — no, Lanty, no — about twelve o'clock. I'm a late 
 riser. Wait a moment, Lanty ; I have something more to say to you, 
 if I could only remember it." He passed his hand across his brow as 
 he spoke, and looked like one labouring to recall some lost thought 
 " No matter," said he, after a pause of some minutes ; "I shall perhaps 
 recollect it before to-morrow.'* 
 
 " Good night to you, then, sir," said Lanty, with a most obsequious 
 bow, as he opened the door. 
 
 Their eyes met : it was only for a moment ; but with such intelli- 
 gence did each glance read the other, that they both smiled significantly. 
 Talbot moved quickly forward at the instant, and closing the door with 
 one hand, he laid the other gently on Lanty* s shoulder. 
 
 "Come, Lanty," said he, jocularly, "I can afford to sport ten 
 pounds for a whim. Tell me who it was sent you after me this evening, 
 and I'll give you the money." 
 
 " Done, then !" cried Lanty, grasping his hand ; " And you'll ask 
 no more than his name ?" 
 
 " Nothing more. I pledge my word ; and here's the money." 
 
 " Captain Herasworth, the agent to the rich Englishman in Glen- 
 flesk." 
 
 " I don't think I ever saw him in my life — I'm certain I don't know 
 him. Is he a tall, dark man ?*' 
 
 " I'll tell you no more," said Lanty. " The devil a luck I ever knew 
 come of speaking of him." 
 
 " All fair, Lanty — a bargain's a bargain ; and so, good-night.** Ani 
 with a shake-hands of affected cordiality, they parted. 
 
THE ODONOGHUE. 
 
 261 
 
 "Your conference has been a long one," said Mark, who waited with 
 impatience, until the silence without permitted him to come forth. 
 
 " Not so long as I could have wished it," was Talbot's reply, as he 
 stood in deep thought over what had passed. ** It is just as I feared, 
 Mark ; there is danger brewing for me in some quarter, but how, and 
 in what shape, I cannot even guess. This same horsedealer, this Lanty 
 Lawler— — " 
 
 ** Lanty Lawler, did you say ?" 
 
 " Yes. You know him, then ?" 
 
 " To be sure I do. We've had many deahngs together. He's a 
 shrewd fellow, and not over-scrupulous in the way of his trade ; but, 
 apart from that, he's a true-hearted, honest fellow, and a friend to the 
 cause." 
 
 " You think so, Mark," said Talbot, with a smile of significant 
 meaning. 
 
 " I know it, Talbot. He is not an acquaintance of yesterday with me. 
 I have known him for years long. He is as deep in the plot as any, 
 and perhaps has run greater risks than either of us." 
 
 " Well, well," said Talbot, sighing, as though either weary of the 
 theme, or disinclined to contradict the opinion ;" let us think of other 
 matters. Shall we go to this ball or not ? I incline to say nay." 
 
 ** What ! Not go there ?" said Mark, starting back in astonishment. 
 Why, what in heaven's name have we been waiting for, but this very 
 opportunity ? — and what reason is there now to turn from our 
 plans?" 
 
 " There may be good and sufficient ones, even though they should be 
 purely personal to myself," said Talbot, in a tone of ill-dissembled 
 pique. " But come ; we will go. I have been walking over a mine 
 too long to care for a mere petard. And now, let us lose no more time, 
 but dress at once." 
 
 " Must I really wear this absurd dress, Talbot ? For very shame's 
 sake, I shall not be able to look about me." 
 
 " That you must, Mark. Remember that your safety lies in the fact 
 that we attract no notice of any kind. To be as little remarked as pos- 
 sible is our object ; and for this reason I shall wear the uniform of an 
 English militia regiment, of which there are many at every Levee. We 
 shall separate on entering the room, and meet only from time to time ; 
 but as we go along, I'll give you all your instructions. And now to 
 dress, as quickly as may be. 
 
3fk2 THE o'donoghuz« 
 
 CHAPTER XXXin. 
 
 *<THB ST. PATRICK'S BAXtL.** 
 
 Much as O'Donoghue marvelled at the change effected in his own 
 appearance by the court dress, he was still more surprised at fining 
 what a complete transformation his friend Talbot had undergone. The 
 scarlet uniform seemed to make him appear larger and fatter ; while the 
 assumption of a pair of dark whiskers added several years to his ap- 
 parent age, and totally changed the character of his countenance. 
 
 " I see by your face, Mark," said he, laughing, " that the disguise 
 is complete. Yon could scarcely recognise me — ^I may safely defy most 
 others?" 
 
 " But you are taller, I think?" 
 
 *' About an inch and a-half only — false heels inside my boots give 
 me a slight advantage over you. Don't be jealous, however, I'm not 
 your match on a fair footing.** 
 
 This flattery seemed successful, for Mark smiled, and reddened 
 slightly. As they .drove along, Talbot entered minutely into an account 
 of the people they should meet with — warning Mark of the neces- 
 sity there existed to avoid any, even the most trivial, sign of asto- 
 nishment at anything he saw — to mix with the crowd, and follow 
 the current from room to room, carefully guarding against making any 
 chance acquaintance — and, above all, not to be recognised by his cousin 
 Kate, if by any accident he should be near her. 
 
 In the midst of these directions, Talbot was interrupted by the sud- 
 den stoppage of the carriages in the line, which already extended above 
 a mile from the Castle gate. 
 
 " Here we are at last, Mark, in the train of the courtiers — does 
 your patriotism bum for the time when your homage shall be rendered 
 to a native Sovereign. Ha ! there goes one of the privileged class — 
 that carriage, with the two footmen, is the Lord Chancellor's, he has 
 the right of the private * entree,* and takes the lead of such humble 
 folk as we are mixed up with." 
 
 A deep groan from the mob burst forth, as the equipage, thus no- 
 ticed, dashed forward. Such manifestations of public feeling were then 
 
THE o'donoghue 263 
 
 fteqnent, and not always limited to mere expressions of dislike. The 
 very circumstance of quitting the regular line, and passing the rest, 
 seemed to evoke popular indignation, and it was wonderful with what 
 readiness the mob caught up allusions to the public or private life of 
 those, thus momentarily exposed to their indignation. Some speech or 
 vote in Parliament — some judicial sentence — or some act or event in 
 their private history, was at once recalled and criticised, in a manner 
 far more frank than flattering. None escaped this notice, for, notwith- 
 standing the strong force of mounted police that kept the street clear, 
 some adventurous spirit was always ready to rush forward to the car- 
 riage window, and in a moment announce to the others the name of 
 its occupant. By all this, Mark was greatly amused — he had few sym- 
 pathies with those in little favour with the multitude, and could afford 
 to laugh at the sallies which assailed the members of the Government. 
 The taunting sarcasms and personal allusions, of which the Irish mem- 
 bers were not sparing in the house, were here repeated by those, who 
 suffered the severity to lose little of its sting in their own version, 
 
 " Look at Flood, boys — there's the old vulture with broken beak and 
 cadaverous aspect — a groan for Flood," and the demand was answered 
 by thousands. 
 
 "There's Tom Connolly," shouted a loud voice, " three cheers for 
 the Volunteers — ^three cheers for Castletown." 
 
 " Thank you, boys, thank you," said a rich mellow voice, as in their 
 enthusiasm the mob pressed around the carriage of the popular mem- 
 ber, and even shook hands with the footmen behind the carriage. 
 
 " Here's Luttrel, here's Luttrel," cried out several together, and in 
 a moment the excitement, which before was all of joy, assumed a cha- 
 racter of deepest execration. 
 
 Aware of the popular feeling towards him, this gentleman* s carriage 
 was guarded by two troopers of the horse police — nor was the precau- 
 tion needless, for no sooner was he recognised, than a general rush was 
 made by the mob, and for a moment or two the carriage was separated 
 from the rest of the line. 
 
 " Groan him, boys, groan him, but don't touch the traitor," shouted 
 a savage-looking fellow, who stood a head and shoulders above the crowd. 
 
 ** Couldn't you afford to buy new liveries with the eighty thousand 
 pounds the Government gave you," yelled another, and the sally was 
 responded to with a burst of savage laughter. 
 
 *• Throw us out a penny," called a third, " it will treat all your 
 friends in Ireland — let him go, boys, let him go on, he's only stopping 
 the way of his betters." 
 
264 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 ** Here's the man that knows how to spend his money — three cheers 
 for the Englishman from Stephen' s-green — three cheers for Sir Mar- 
 maduke Travers," and the cheers burst forth with an enthusiasm that 
 •howed, how much more a character for benevolence and personal kind- 
 ness conciliated mob estimation, than all the attributes of political par- 
 tizanship. 
 
 ** Bring us a lamp here, bring us a lamp," cried a miserable object 
 in tattered rags, " take down a lamp, boys, till we have a look at the 
 two beauties," and strange as the suggestion may seem, it was hailed 
 with a cry of triumphal delight, and in another moment a street lamp 
 was taken from its place and handed over the heads of the mob, to the 
 very window of Sir Marmaduke's carriage ; while the old Baronet, kindly 
 humouring the eccentricity of the people, lowered the glass to permit 
 them to see in. A respectful silence extended over that crowd, motley 
 and miserable as it was, and they stood in mute admiration, not ven- 
 turing upon a word nor a remark, until as it were overcome by a sponta- 
 neous feeling of enthusiasm they broke forth into one loud cheer that 
 echoed from the College to the very gates of the Castle ; and with blessings 
 deep and fervent, as they would have bestowed for some real favour, 
 the carriage was allowed to proceed on its way once more. 
 
 "Here's Morris, here's the Colonel," was now the cry, and a burst 
 of as merry laughter as ever issued from happy hearts, welcomed the 
 new arrival ; " make him get out, boys, make him get out, and show 
 us his legs, that's the fellow ran away in Flanders," and before the 
 mirth had subsided, the unhappy Colonel had passed on. 
 
 " Who's this in the hackney-coach ?" said one, as the carriage in 
 which Talbot and Mark were seated came up. The window was let 
 down in a moment, and Talbot, leaning his head out, whispered a few 
 words in a low voice ; whatever their import, their effect was magical, 
 and a hurra, as wild as the war-cry of an Indian, shook the street. 
 
 " What was it you said?" cried Mark. 
 
 *' Three words in Irish,'* said Talbot, laughing ; " they are the only 
 three in my vocabulary, and their meaning is *wait awhile ;' and some- 
 how, it would seem a very significant intimation to Irishmen." 
 
 The carriage moved on, and the two friends soon alighted in the 
 brilliantly-illuminated vestibule, now lined with battleaxe-guards, and 
 resounding with the clangor of a brass band. Mixing with the crowd 
 that poured up the staircase, they passed into the first drawing-room, 
 without stopping to write their names, as was done by the others, 
 Talbot telling Mark, in a whisper, to move up and follow him closely. 
 
 The distressing impression, that he himself would be an object <^^ 
 
THE O DOr^oGHUE. 
 
 265 
 
 notice and remark to others, and which had up to that very moment 
 tortured him, gave way at once, as he found himself in that splendid 
 assemblage, where beauty, in all the glare of dress and jewels, abounded, 
 and where, for the first time, the world of fashion and elegance burst 
 upon his astonished senses. The courage that, with dauntless nerve, 
 would have led him to the cannon's mouth, now actually faltered, and made 
 ,him feel faint-hearted, to find himself mixing with those among whom 
 he had no right to be present. Talbot's shrewd intelligence seemed 
 to divine what was passing in Mark's mind, for he took him by the 
 arm, and as he led him forward, whispered, from time to time, certain 
 particulars of the company, intended to satisfy him, that, however 
 distinguished by rank and personal appearance, in reality, their 
 characters had little claim to his respect. With such success did he 
 demolish reputations — so fatally did his sarcasms depreciate those 
 against whom they were directed — that, ere long, Mark moved along in 
 utter contempt for that gorgeous throng, which at first had impressed 
 him so profoundly. To hear that the proud-looking general, his coat a 
 blaze of orders, was a coward ; that the benign and mild-faced judge 
 was a merciless, unrelenting tjrant ; that the bishop, whose simple 
 bearing and gentle quietude of manner were most winning, was in reality 
 a crafty place-hunter and a subtle " intrigant " — such were the lessons 
 Talbot poured into his ear, while amid the ranks of beauty still more 
 deadly calumnies pointed all he said. 
 
 " Society is rotten to the very core here, Mark," said he, bitterly. 
 "There never was aland nor an age when profligacy stood so high in 
 the market. It remains to be seen if our friends will do better — for a 
 time, at least, they are almost certain to do so ; but now, that I have 
 shown you something of the company, let us separate, lest we be 
 remarked. This pillar can always be our rallying spot. Whenever 
 vou want me, come here ;" and so saying, and with a slight pressure of 
 tis hand, Talbot mixed with the crowd, and soon was lost to Mark's 
 view. 
 
 Talbot's revelations served at first to impair the pleasure Mark 
 experienced in the brilHant scene around him ; but when once more 
 alone, the magnetic influence of a splendour so new, and of beauty so 
 dazzling, appealed to his heart far more powerfully than the cold 
 sarcasms of his companion. Glances which, directed to others, he caught 
 in passing, and felt with a throb of ecstasy within his own bosom ; 
 bright eyes, that beamed not for him, sent a glow of delight through 
 his frame. The atmosphere of pleasure which he had never breathed 
 before, now warmed the current of his blood, and his pulse beat high 
 
266 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 and madly. All the bitter thoughts he had harboured against hh 
 country's enemies could not stand before his admiration of that gorgeous 
 assemblage, and he felt ashamed to think that he, and such as he, should 
 conspire the downfall of a system, whose very externals were so cap- 
 tivating. He wandered thus from room to room in a dream of 
 pleasure — now stopping to gaze at the dancers, then moving towards 
 some of the refreshment-rooms, where parties were seated in familiar 
 circles, all in the full enjoyment of the brilliant festivity. Like a child 
 roaming at will through some beauteous garden, heightening enjoy- 
 ment by the rapid variety of new pleasures, and making in the quick 
 transition of sensations a source of more fervid delight, so did he pass 
 from place to place, and in this way time stole by, and he utterly forgot 
 the rendezvous he had arranged with Talbot. At last, suddenly re- 
 membering this, he endeavoured to find out the place, and in doing so 
 was forced to pass through a card-room, w^here several parties were now 
 at play. Around one of the tables a greater crowd than usual was 
 assembled. There, as he passed, Mark thought he overheard Talbot's 
 voice. He stopped and drew near, and, with some little difficulty, 
 making his way through, perceived his friend seated at the table, deeply 
 engaged in what, if he were to judge from the heap of gold before him, 
 seemed very high play. His antagonist was an old, fine-looking man, 
 in the uniform of a general officer ; but while Mark looked, he arose, 
 and his place was taken by another — the etiquette being, that the 
 winner should remain until he ceased to win. 
 
 "He has passed eleven times," said a gentleman to his friend, in 
 Mark's hearing ; *' he must at least have won four hundred pounds." 
 
 " Do you happen to know who he is V* 
 
 " No ; nor do I know any one that does. There ! — see ! — he has 
 won again." 
 
 " He's a devilish cool player — that's certain. I never saw a man 
 more collected." 
 
 "He studies his adversary far more than his cards — I remark 
 that." 
 
 " Oh ! here's old Clangoff come to try his luck :" and an opening 
 of the crowd was now made to permit a tall and very old man to approach 
 the table. Very much stooped in the shoulders, and with snow-white 
 hair. Lord Clangofif still preserved the remains of one who in his youth 
 had been the handsomest man of his day. Although simply dressed in 
 the Windsor uniform, the brilliant rings he wore upon his fingers, and 
 the splendour of a gold snuff-box surrounded by enormous diamonds, 
 evinced the taste for magnificence for which he was celebrated. There 
 
THE O DONOGHUE, Sif 
 
 was an air of dignity with which he took his seat, saluting the acquaint- 
 ances he recognised ahout him, very strikingly in contrast with the 
 famihar manners then growing into vogue, while in the courteous 
 urbanity of his bow to Talbot, his whole breeding was revealed. 
 
 " It is a proud thing even to encounter such an adversary, sir," said 
 he, smiHng. " They have just told me that you have vanquished 
 our best players." 
 
 " The caprice of Fortune, my lord, that so often favours the unde- 
 serving," said Talbot, with a gesture of Kstreme humility. 
 
 " Your success should be small at play, if the French adage have any 
 truth in it," said his lordship, alluding to Talbot's handsome features, 
 which seemed to indicate favour with the softer sex. 
 
 "According to that theory, my lord, I have the advantage over you 
 at present." 
 
 This adroit flattery of the other's earlier reputation as a gallant, seemed 
 to please him highly ; for, as he presented his box to one of his friends 
 near, he whispered — "A very well-bred fellow, indeed." Then turning 
 to Talbot, said, "Do you like a high stake ?" 
 
 " I am completely at your service, my lord — whatever you please." 
 
 " Shall we say fifty? — or do you prefer a hundred?" 
 
 " If the same to you, I like the latter just twice as well." 
 
 The old lord smiled at having found an adversary similarly disposed 
 with himself, and drew out his pocket-book with an air of palpable 
 satisfaction ; while in the looks of increased interest among the by- 
 standers could be seen the anxiety they felt in the coming struggle. 
 
 " You have the deal, my lord," said Talbot, presenting the cards. 
 " Still, if any gentleman cares for another fifty on the game " 
 
 " I'll take it, sir," said a voice from behind Lord ClangoflTs chair, and 
 Mark, struck by the accent, fixed his eyes on the speaker. The blood 
 rushed to his face at once, for it was Hemsworth who stood before him — 
 the ancient enemy of his house — the tyrant, whose petty oppressions 
 and studied insults had been a theme he was famihar with from boyhood. 
 All fear of his being recognised himself was merged in the savage plea- 
 sure he felt in staring fixedly at the man he hated. 
 
 He would have given much to be able to whisper the name into Tal- 
 bot's ear ; but remembering how such an attempt might be attended by 
 a discovery of himself, he desisted, and with a throbbing heart awaited 
 the result of the game. Meanwhile Hemsworth, whose whole atten- 
 tion was concentrated on Talbot, never turned his eyes towards any 
 other quarter. The moment seemed favourable for Mark, and gently 
 retiring through the crowd, he at last disengaged himself, and sat down 
 
268 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 on a bench near a door-way. His mind was full of its own teeming 
 thoughts, thoughts that the hated presence of his enemy sent madly 
 lironging upon him ; he lost all memory of where he was, nor did he remark 
 liat two persons had entered, and seated themselves near him, when a 
 word, a single word, fell upon his ear. He turned round, and saw his 
 cousin Kate sitting beside Frederick Travers. The start of surprise he 
 coiijl not restrain attracted her notice. She turned also, and as a 
 deadly pallor came over her features, she uttered the one word, " Mark." 
 Travers immediately caught the name, and, leaning forward, the two 
 young men's eyes met, and for some seconds never wandered from 
 each other. 
 
 " I should have gone to see you, cousin Kate," said Mark, after a 
 momentary struggle to seem calm and collected, " but I feared — that is, 
 I did not know " 
 
 " But, Mark, dear Mark, why are you here ?" said she, in a tone of 
 heartfelt terror. " Do you know that none save those presented at the 
 Levees, and known to the Lord Lieutenant, dare to attend these balls ?" 
 
 " I came with a friend," said Mark, in a voice where anger and self- 
 reproach were mingled. **If he misled me, he must answer for 
 it." 
 
 *' It was imprudent, Mr. O'Donoghue, and that's all," said Travers, 
 in a tone of great gentleness ; " and your friend should not have misled 
 you. I'll take care that nothing unpleasant shall arise in consequence. 
 Just remain here for a moment." 
 
 "Stay, sir," said Mark, as Travers arose from his seat; "I hate ac- 
 cepting favours, even should they release me from a position as awkward 
 as this is. Here comes my friend, Talbot, and he'll perhaps explain 
 what I cannot." 
 
 " I have lost my money, Mark," said Talbot, coming forward, and 
 perceiving with much anxiety that his young friend was engaged in a 
 conversation. " Let us move about and see the dancers." 
 
 "Wait a few seconds first," said Mark, sternly, "and satisfy this 
 gentleman that I am not in fault in coming here, save so far as being 
 induced by you to do so." 
 
 " May I ask how the gentleman feels called on to require the expla- 
 nation ?" said Talbot, proudly. 
 
 " I wish him to know the circumstances,*' said Mark. 
 
 "And I," said Travers, interrupting, " might claim a right to ask it, 
 as first aide-de-camp to his Excellency." 
 
 " So, then," whispered Talbot, with a smile, " it is the mere impcr- 
 iiaence of office." 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 269 
 
 Travers' face flushed up, and his Hps quivered, as in an equally low 
 iOne of Toice he said — 
 
 "Where and when, sir, will you dare to repeat these words ?" 
 
 " To-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, on the strand below Clontar^ 
 and in this gentleman's presence," said Talbot into his ear. 
 
 A nod from Travers completed the arrangement, and Talbot, placing 
 his arm hurriedly within Mark's, said — 
 
 " Let us get away from this, Mark. It is all settled. "We meet to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Mark turned one look towards Kate, who was just in the act of ac 
 cep ting Travers' arm to return to the ball-room. Their glances met for a 
 second, but with how different a meaning ! — in herSj a world of anxiety 
 and interest — in his, the proud and scornful defiance of one who seemed 
 to accept of no compromise with fortune. 
 
 " So, then, it is your friend Travers, Mark, with whom I am to have 
 the honour of a rencontre ! I'm sorry, for your sake, that it is so." 
 
 " And why so ?" asked Mark, sternly ; for in his present mood he 
 was as little satisfied with Talbot as with Travers. 
 
 " Because if I don't mistake much, you will not have the Opportunity 
 of wiping out your old score with him. I'll shoot him, Mark !" These 
 last words were uttered between his almost closed teeth, and in a tone of 
 scarce restrained anger. *' Are either of us looking very bloody-minded 
 or savage, Mark, I wonder 1 for see how the people are staring and 
 whispering as we pass !" 
 
 The observation was not made without reason, for already the two 
 young men were regarded on all sides as they passed — the different per- 
 sons in their way retiring as they approached. 
 
 " How do you do, my lord ? I hope I see you well," said Talbot, 
 bowing familiarly to a venerable old man who stood near, and who as 
 promptly returned his salute, 
 
 " Who is it you bowed to ?" said Mark, in a whisper. 
 
 " The Chief- Justice, Mark. Not that I know him, or he me ; but at 
 this critical moment such a recognition is a certificate of character, which 
 will at least last long enough to see us down stairs. There, let me move 
 on first, and follow me," and as he spoke, he edged his way through a 
 crowded door, leaving Mark to follow how he could. This was, how- 
 ever a task of more difficulty than it seemed, for already a number of 
 persons blocked up the doorway, eager to hear something which a gen- 
 tleman was relating to those about him. 
 
 *' I can only tell you," continued he, " that none seems to know 
 either of them. As Clangoff has lost the diamond snuff-box the empe- 
 
270 TflK o'donoghue. 
 
 ror of Austria presented him with — he missed it after leaving the card- 
 table — the presumption is, that we are favoured with somewhat doubtful 
 company." 
 
 "Carysford says,'* cried another, "that he knows one of them well, 
 and has often seen him in Paris at the play-houses." 
 
 A low whisper ran around after these words, and at the instant every 
 eye was directed to Mark O'Donoghuc The young man sustained their 
 looks with a frown of resolute daring, turning from one to the other to 
 see if, perchance, by any gesture or expression, he could single out one 
 to pay the penally for the rest — ^his'blood boiled at the insulting glances 
 that fell upon him, and he was in the very act of giving his temper vent, 
 when an arm was slipped within his, and Frederick Travcrs whispered 
 in his ear — 
 
 "I hope your friend has got safely away. There are some fellows 
 here to-night of notoriously bad character, and Mr. Talbot may get into 
 trouble on that account." 
 
 ** He has just left this. I hope before now he has reached the 
 street." 
 
 "Let me be your convoy, then," said Travers, good-naturedly. 
 ''These talking fools will cease their scandal when they see us to- 
 gether ;" and, affecting an air of easy intimacy, he led Mark through 
 the crowd, which even already bestowed very altered glances as they 
 passed. 
 
 " Good night, sir," said Mark, abruptly, as they arrived at the 
 room by which he remembered to have entered, "I see my friend yon- 
 der, awaiting me." Travers returned the greeting, and half extended 
 his hand, but Mark coolly bowed and turned away. The moment after 
 he was at Talbot's side. 
 
 " Thank heaven, we are breathing the free air again," he exclaimed, 
 as they issued forth into the street, " a little longer would have suffo- 
 cated me." 
 
 *' It was with Travers you parted at the head of the stair?" said Tal- 
 bot, inquiringly. 
 
 " Yes ; he was polite enough to come up when you left me, and the 
 company and myself have reason to be thankful to him, for assuredly, 
 we were, both of us, forgetting our good manners, very much at the 
 moment.^ They were pleased to look at me in a fashion of very ques- 
 tionable civihty, and I, I greatly fear, was scarcely more polite. It 
 would seem, Talbot, that some swindlers or pickpockets had introduced 
 themselves at the assembly, and we had the honor of being confounded 
 with them — so much for the prudence of our first step." 
 
,^^JA;^ my/r^^^l, /J^y.'^j^y^ 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 871 
 
 ** Come, come, Mark, don't lose temper about trifles.** 
 
 "Would it have proved a trifle, if I had thrown one of those gold- 
 laced fops out of the window into the court? I promise you the temp- 
 tation was deviHsh strong in me to act so, at one moment. But what 
 have we gained by all this — where were the friends you should have 
 met — whom have you seen — what have you learned V 
 
 Talbot made no reply, but walked on in silence. 
 
 " Or have we exposed ourselves to the taunting insolence of these 
 people, for the mock pleasure of mixing with them. Is that our gain 
 here?" 
 
 Still Talbot made no reply, and Mark, as if his passion had ex- 
 pended itself, now became silent also, and in this wise they reached the 
 hotel, each sunk in his own personal reflections. 
 
 " Now, Mark," said Talbot, when they had gained their room, " now 
 let us set ourselves to think over what is to be done, and not waste a 
 thought on what is bygone. At seven, to-morrow, I am to meet Tra- 
 vers ; before nine I must be on the way to France, that is if he do not 
 issue a leaden * ne exeat' against me. I shall certainly fire at him — 
 your pretty cousin will never forgive me for it, that I know well" — here 
 he stole a side look at Mark, across whose features a flash of passion 
 was thrown — " still, I am sorry this should have occurred, because I 
 had many things to settle here ; among others, some which more 
 nearly concerned yourself.'' 
 
 " Me ! concerned me," said Mark, in surprise. 
 
 " Yes ; I am deeper in your secrets than you are aware of — deeper 
 than you are yourself, perhaps. What would you say, Mark, if I 
 could insure you the possession of your property and estate, as it was 
 left to you by your grandfather, without debt or incumbrance of any 
 kind, free from mortgage?" 
 
 ** Free from Hemsworth," cried Mark, passionately. 
 
 " Even so — I was just coming to that.*^ 
 
 " I know not what I should say, Talbot, but I know what I should 
 do — throw every farthing of it into the scale where I have thrown life 
 and hope — the cause of my country^" 
 
 Talbot shook his head, doubtfully, for a second or two, then said : 
 " It is not money is wanting to the enterprise, it is rather what no mo- 
 ney can buy — the reckless courage of men willing to devote themselves 
 to a cause which they must never hope to live to see successful, but 
 whose graves must be the ramparts over which others will achieve 
 liberty. No, my hopes for you point otherwise. I wish to see you as 
 the head and representative of an ancient name and house, with the infln- 
 
272 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 ence property and position would confer, taking your place in the move» 
 ment, not as a soldier of fortune, but as a man of rank and weight." 
 Talbot paused for a moment to enjoy, as it were, the delight this briL 
 liant picture of coming greatness produced upon the youth, and then 
 went on, ** such a place I can offer you, Mark." 
 
 "How, and on what terms?" cried Mark, bursting with impa- 
 tience. 
 
 " I make no conditions — I am your friend, and ask nothing but your 
 friendship — a lucky chance has given me the opportunity to serve you — 
 all I bargain for is, that you do not inquire further how that chance 
 arose.'* 
 
 Mark stood in mute amazement, while Talbot, unlocking his writing 
 desk, drew forth a dark leather pocket-book, tied with a string, and 
 laid it leisurely on the table before him. 
 
 "There is a condition I will bargain for, Mark," said Talbot, after 
 a pause — " although I'm sure it is a weakness, I scarcely ever thought 
 to feel. We shall soon be separated, who knows when we shall 
 meet again, if ever. Now, if men should speak of me in terms un- 
 worthy of one who has been your friend, laying to my charge acts of 
 dishonour " 
 
 " Who will dare to do so before me ?" said Mark, indignantly. 
 
 " It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your defence of 
 me when absent — as much as that you will yourself reject all belief in 
 these calumnies. 1 have told you enough of my life to let you know 
 in what circumstances of difficulty and danger different parts have been 
 forced upon me, and it may be that, while I have personated others, they 
 in revenge have masqueraded under my name. This is no mere suspi- 
 cion. I know it has already happened ; bear it well in mind, and when 
 your friend Henry Talbot is assailed, remember the explanation and 
 your own promise." 
 
 Mark grasped Talbot's hand firmly, and shook it with the warmth oi 
 true friendship. 
 
 * Sit down beside me, Mark," said he, placing the chairs at the table, 
 " and read this." 
 
 With these words, he unfastened the string of the pocket-book, and 
 took forth a small paper from an envelope, of which the seal was 
 already broken. 
 
 " This is addressed to your father, !Mark," said he, showing him the 
 superscription. 
 
 " I know that hand-writing," said Mark, gazing fixedly at it ; "t 
 it Father Rourke's." 
 
THE O'DONOGHUK. 
 
 273 
 
 " Yes, that's the name," said Talbot, opening the letter. " Read 
 this," and he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud— 
 
 " Mark O'Donoghue, son of Miles O'Donoghue, and Mary his wife, 
 born 25th December, 1774, and christened on the morning of the 27th 
 December, same year, by me Nicholas Rourke, P.P., Ballyvourney and 
 GlengarifF. "Witnessed by us, Simon Gaffney, steward, and Sam. 
 WyHe, butler." 
 
 "And what of all that," said Mark, with a voice of evident disap» 
 pointment. " Do you think I wanted this certificate of birth or baptism 
 to claim my name or my kindred ?" 
 
 " No, but to claim your estate and fortune," said Talbot, hurriedly. 
 "Do you not perceive the date of this document — 1774 — and that you 
 only attained your majority on last Christmas day '* 
 
 "That cannot be," interrupted Mark. " I joined my father in a loan 
 upon the estate two years ago ; the sale to Hemsworth was made at the 
 same time, and I must have been of age to do so." 
 
 " That does not follow," said Talbot, smiling. " It suited the objects 
 of others to make you think so ; but you were little more than nineteen 
 at the time. Here's the certificate of your mother's marriage, and the 
 date is February, 1/73." 
 
 Mark's countenance became perfectly bloodless, his hps grew livid, 
 while his nostrils were alternately distended and contracted violently, 
 as he breathed with a heaving etlbrt. 
 
 " You have your choice, therefore," said Talbot, flippantly, " to be- 
 lieve your father, a man of honour, or your mother " 
 
 " Stop," cried Mark, as he seized his arm and shook it in his strong 
 grasp ; " speak the word, and, by Heaven, you'll never leave this spot 
 alive." 
 
 Talbot seemed to feel no anger at this savage threat, but calmly 
 said — 
 
 "It was not my wish to hurt your feeHngs, Mark. Very little 
 reflection on your part might convince you, that I can have no object to 
 serve here, save my regard for you. You seemed to doubt what I said 
 about your age, and I wished to satisfy you at once that I was correct. 
 You were not of age till last December. A false certificate of birth and 
 baptism enabled your father to raise a considerable sum of money with 
 your concurrence, and also permitted him to make a sale to Hemsworth 
 of a property strictly entailed on you and yours. Both these acts were 
 and unjust. If Hemsworth be the rightful owner of that estate, 
 
 T 
 
§7*4 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 your birtL ah AegLUcuhte — nay, nay — I am but putting the a.iemativei 
 which you cannot, dare not accept. You must hear me with temper, 
 Mark — calmly and patiently. It is a sad lesson when one must learn 
 to think disparagingly of those they have ever looked up to and revered. 
 But remember, that when your father did this act, he was surrounded 
 with difficulties on every hand. There seemed no escape from the 
 dangers around him ; inevitable ruin was his lot : he doubtless intended 
 to apply a considerable portion of this inoney to the repair of his shat- 
 tered fortunes — of his affection for you there can be no question " 
 
 " There, there," said Mark, interrupting him rudely ; " there is no 
 need to defend a father to his son. Tell me, rather, why you have 
 revealed this secret to me at all, and to what end have you added this to 
 the other calamities of my fortune V* 
 
 He stood up as he said these words, and paced the room with slow 
 steps, his head sunk upon his bosom, and his arms dropped listlessly at 
 his side. Talbot looked upon the figure, marked with every trait of 
 despondency, and for some moments he seemed really to sorrow over 
 the part he had taken ; then rallying with his accustomed energy, he 
 said — 
 
 " If I had thought, Mark, that you had neither ambition for yourself, 
 nor hatred for an enemy, I would never have told you these things. I 
 did fancy, however, that you were one who struggled indignantly against 
 an inglorious fortune, and, still more, believed that you were not of a 
 race to repay injury with forgetfulness. Hemsworth, you have often 
 told me, has been the insulting enemy of your family. Not content 
 with despoiling you of fortune, he has done his utmost to rob you of 
 fair fame — to reduce an honoured house to the ignoble condition of 
 peasants, and to break down the high and haughty spirit of a noble 
 family by the humiliating ills of poverty. If you can forgive his 
 injuries, can you forget his insults and his taunts ?" 
 
 "Would you have me repay either by arraigning my father as a 
 criminal ?" 
 
 " Not so, Mark ; many other courses are open to you. The know- 
 ledge of this fact by you, places you in a position to make your own 
 terms with Hemsworth. He who has spent thirty thousand pounds 
 on a purchase without a title, must needs yield to any conditions you 
 think fit to impose — ^you have but to threaten *' 
 
 " That I will expose my father in a court of justice,** said Mark, 
 between his teeth ; ** that I will put money in one scale, and the honour 
 of my house in the other ; that I will truck the name and credit of my 
 lace, against the acres that were thein. No, no ; you mistake me 
 
27S 
 
 much ; you know little of the kind of veiigeaflce my heart yearns for, 
 or you would never have tempted me with such a bait as this." 
 
 "Be it so,** said Talbot, coolly ; « Hemsworth is only the luckier man 
 that has met such a temperament as yours to deal with ; a vulgar spirit 
 like mine would have turned the tables upon him. But I have done ; 
 keep the paper, Mark, there might come a time when it should prove 
 useful to you. Hark ! — what's that noise below ? Don't you hear that 
 fellow Lawler's voice in the court-yard ?" — and as he spoke, the voice of 
 the host, Billy Crossley, raised very high above its usual pitch, called out— 
 
 " I tell you, gentlemen, Mr. Talbot is not in the house ; he dined 
 out to-day, and has not returned since dinner." 
 
 A confused murmur followed this announcement ; and again Crossley 
 said, but in a still louder tone — 
 
 "You have perfect liberty to look for him wherever you please; 
 don't say that I gave you any impediment or hindrance ; follow 
 rU show you the way." 
 
 Talbot knew in a moment the intention of the speaker, and reco^ 
 in Crossley' s vehemence an urgent warning to himself. 
 
 "I'm tracked, Mark," cried he; "there, take that key — bum the 
 papers in that desk — all of them. At seven to-morrow, meet me oi? 
 the strand; if all be safe, I'll be true to time ; if not " 
 
 The remainder of his sentence was cut short by the hurrying soimdt 
 of feet upon the stairs, and Crossky's voice, which in its loudest key 
 continued to protest that Talbot was not in the house, nor had he seen 
 him since dinner. 
 
 Mark hastily unlocked the desk and took out the papers, but when he 
 turned round, Talbot was gone ; a tremulous motion of the tapestry on 
 the wall seemed to indicate that his escape had been made through some 
 secret door behind it. He had no time, however, to think further of 
 the circumstance, for scarcely had he applied the lighted candle to the 
 papers, when the door was ourst violently open, and three strange men, 
 fbUowed by Lanty Lawler, entered the room, while Crossley, whom they 
 had pushed roughly aside, stood without, on the lobby, still talking 
 as loudly as before. 
 
 " is that him T said one of the fellows, who seemed like a constable 
 in plain clothes. 
 
 " No,'* whispered Lanty, as he skulked behind the shoulder of the 
 speaker ; " that's another gentleman." 
 
 ** "Were you alone in this apartment ?" said the same man who spoke 
 first, as he addressed Mark in the tone of authority. 
 
 "It is rather for me to ask what business you have to come here T** 
 
276 THE O OONOOUUE. 
 
 replied Mark, as he continued to feed the flames with the letters an^ 
 papers before him. 
 
 " You shall see my warrant when you have answered my question. 
 Meanwhile these maybe of some consequence," said the other, as, ap- 
 proaching the hearth, he stooped down to seize the burning papers. 
 
 " They do not concern you," said Mark, as he placed his foot in the 
 very middle of the blaze. 
 
 " Stand back, sir," cried the constable, half raising his arm to enforce 
 the command. 
 
 " Lay but a finger on me," said Mark, scornfully, " and I'll dash 
 your head against the wall." 
 
 The insolence of this threat might have been followed by ill conse- 
 quences, had not Lanty sprung hastily forward, and, catching the 
 constable by the arm, cried out — 
 
 *' It is the O'Donoghue of Glenflesk, a young gentleman of rank and 
 fortune." 
 
 "What do we care for his rank or fortune," said the other, passion- 
 ately. *'If he obstructs the King's warrant for the arrest of a traitor 
 or a felon, I value him no more than the meanest beggar in the street. 
 Those papers there, for all I knew, might throw light on the whole 
 plot." 
 
 " They are at your service now," said Mark, as, with a kick of his 
 foot, he dashed the blackened embers from him, and sent them in 
 floating fragments through the room. 
 
 Unwilling as he seemed to continue a contest in which his authority 
 had met only defiance, the constable gave the order to his underlings to 
 make a strict search of the apartment and the bed-room which opened 
 into it, during which Mark seated himself carelessly iu a,n arm-chair, 
 and taking a newspaper from the table, affected to read it. 
 
 Lanty stood for a few seconds, irresolute what to do ; then stealing 
 softly behind Mark's chair, he muttered, in a broken voice — 
 
 "If I thought he was a friend of yours. Master Mark But it's no 
 
 matter — I know he's off. I heard the gallop of a beast on the stones 
 since we came in. Well, well, I never expected to see you here," 
 
 Mark made no other reply to this speech than a steady frown, whose 
 contemptuous expression Lanty cowered under, as he said once more — 
 
 "It wasn't my fault at all, if I was obliged to come with the constables. 
 There's more charges nor mine against him, the chap with the black 
 whiskers says " 
 
 " It's quite clear," said the chief of the party, as he re-entered the 
 room, "it's quite clear this man was here a few minutes since, and 
 
TOE 0'l»ONOGHUE. 
 
 2T7 
 
 equally so that you know of his place of concealment. I tell yovv plainly, 
 sir, if you continue to refuse information concerning Hm, I'll take you 
 as my prisoner. I have two warrants against him — one for highwa^^ 
 rohbery, the other for treason." 
 
 " Why the devil have you no informations sworn against him for 
 murder ?" said Mark, insolently, for the language of the bailiff had 
 completely aroused his passion. " Whoever he is, you are looking for, 
 seems to have a clear conscience." 
 
 " Master Mark knows nothing at all about him, I'll go bail to any 
 amount." 
 
 ** We don't want your bail, my good friend ; we want the man who 
 calls himself Harvey Middleton in Herts, Godfrey Middleton in Surrey, 
 the ChevaHer Duchatel in France, Harry Talbot in Ireland, but who is 
 better known in the police sheet ;" and here he opened a printed paper, 
 and pointing to the words, — "full description of John Barrington, 
 convicted at the Maidstone assizes, and sentenced to fifteen years trans- 
 portation." 
 
 The smile of insolent incredulity with which Mark listened to these 
 imputations on the honour of his friend, if it did not assuage the anger 
 of the constable, served to satisfy him that he was at least no practised 
 colleague in crime, and turning to Lanty, he talked to him in a low 
 whisper for several minutes. 
 
 " I tell ye," said Lanty, eagerly, in reply to some remark of the 
 other, " his worship will never forgive you if you arrest him j his 
 time is not yet come, and you'll get Httle thanks for interfering where 
 ye had no business.'* 
 
 Whether convinced by these arguments, or deterred from making 
 Mark his prisoner, by the conscious illegality of the act, the man col- 
 lected his party, and having given them his orders in a low voice, left 
 the room, followed by the others. 
 
 A gesture from Mark arrested Lanty, as he was in the act of passing 
 out. " A word with you Lanty," said he, firmly. *' What is the in- 
 formation against Talbot ? — what is he accused of?" 
 
 ".Sure didn't you hear yourself," replied Lanty, in a simpering, 
 mock bashful voice. "They say he's Barrington the robber, and 
 faith, they've strong evidence that they're not far out. 'Tis about a 
 horse I sold him that I came here. I didn't want to harm or hurt 
 any body, and if I thought he was a friend of yours '* 
 
 " He is a friend of mine," said Mark, " and therefore these stories 
 are but one tissue of falsehoods. Are you aware, Lanty" — and here as 
 the youth spoke his voice became low and whispering — " are you aware 
 
S79 THB O'OONOGHUS. 
 
 that Talbot is an agent of the French Government — that he is over here 
 to report on the condition of our party, and arrange for the rising ?" 
 
 "Is it in earnest you are?" cried Lanty, with an expression of admi- 
 rably dissembled astonishment. " Are you telling me truth. Master 
 Mark." 
 
 " Yes, and more still — the day is not far distant now, when we shall 
 strike the blow." 
 
 " I want you here, my worthy friend," said the constable, putting 
 his head into the room, and touching Lanty*s shoulder. TKe horsedealer 
 looked confused, and for a second seemed undetermined how to act ; 
 bat suddenly recovering his composure, he smiled significantly at 
 Mark, wished him a good night, and departed. 
 
 CHAFTEH XXXIV. 
 
 TKB "DATBBBAK OV TBB STBAITP." 
 
 It was with an impatience almost amounting to madness that Mark 
 O'Donoghue awaited the dawn of day; long before that hour had 
 arrived he had made every preparation for joining his friend. A horse 
 stood ready saddled awaiting him in the stable, and his pistols — the 
 weapons Talbot knew so well how to handle — were carefully packed in 
 the heavy holsters. The time settled for the meeting was seven o'clock, 
 but he was certain that Talbot would be near the place before that hour, 
 if not already there. The scene which followed Talbot's escape also 
 stimulated his anxiety to meet with him; not that any, even the 
 faintest suspicion of his friend's honour ever crossed Mark's mind, but 
 he wished to warn him of the dangers that were gathering around him, 
 for were he arrested on a suspicion, who was to say what material 
 evidence might not [arise against him in his real character of a French 
 spy. Mark's was not a character long to brood over doubttui circum- 
 stances, and seek an explanation for difficulties which only assumed the 
 guise of suspicions. Too prone always to be led by tirst impres-sions of 
 ereiy body and every thing, he hated and avoided whatever should 
 
m 
 
 disturb the opinions he thus hastily formed. When matters too com- 
 plicated and knotty for his immediate comprehension crossed him, ha 
 turned from them without an effort, and rather satisfied himself that it 
 was a point of honour to " go on believing," than harbour a doubt even 
 where the circumstances were calculated to suggest it. This frame of 
 mind saved him from all uneasiness on the score of Talbot's honour; 
 he had often heard how many disguises and masks his friend had worn 
 in the events of his wild and dangerous career, and if he felt how in- 
 capable he himself would have been to play so many different parts, 
 the same reason prevented his questioning the necessity of such sub- 
 terfuges. That Harry Talbot had personated any or all of the persons 
 mentioned by the constable, he little doubted, and therefore he regarded 
 their warrant after him as only another evidence of his skill and clever- 
 ness, but that his character were in the least involved, was a supposition 
 that never once occurred to him. Amid all his anxieties of that weary 
 night, not one arose from this cause; no secret distrust of his friend lurked 
 in any corner of his heart ; his fear was solely for Talbot's safety, and 
 for what he probably ranked as highly — the certainty of his Tteeping 
 his appointment with Frederick Travers ; and what a world of con- 
 flicting feelings were here ! At one moment a sense of savage, unre- 
 lenting hatred to the man who had grossly insulted himself, at the next 
 a dreadful thrill of agony that this same Travers might be the object 
 of his cousin's love, and that on his fate, her whole happiness in life 
 depended. Had the meeting been between himself and Travers — had 
 the time come round to settle that old score of insult that lay between 
 them, he thought that such feelings as these would have been merged 
 in the gratified sense of vengeance, but now, how should he look on, 
 and see him fall by another's pistol ? — how see another expose his 
 life in the place he felt to be his own ? He could not forgive Talbot 
 for this, and every painful thought the whole event suggested, embit- 
 tered him against his friend as the cause of his suffering. And yet, 
 was it possible for him ever himself to have challenged Travers ? Did 
 not the discovery of Kate's secret, as he called it to her, on the road 
 below the cliff, at once and for ever, prevent such a catastrophe ? Such 
 were some of the harassuag reflections which distracted Mark's mind, 
 and to which his own wayward temper and natural excitability gav 
 additional poignancy ; while jealousy, a passion that fed and ministered 
 to his hate, lived through every sentiment and tinctured every thought. 
 Such had been his waking and sleeping thoughts for many a day — 
 thoughts which, though lurking, like a slow poison, within him, had 
 never become sj> palpable to his mind before ; his very patriotism, the 
 
280 THE O^DONOGHUE. 
 
 attachment he thought he felt to his native country, his ardent desire 
 for hberty, his aspirations for national greatness, all sprung from this 
 one sentiment of hate to the Saxon, and jealousy of the man who was 
 his rival. Frederick Travers was the embodiment of all those feelings 
 he himself believed were enlisted in the cause of his country. 
 
 As these reflections crowded on him, they suggested new sources of 
 suffering, and in the bewildered frame of mind to which he was now 
 reduced, there seemed no possible issue to his difficulties. Mark was 
 not, however, one of those who chalk out their line in Hfe in moments 
 of quiet reflection, and then pursue the career they have fixed upon. 
 His course was rather to throw passion and impulse into the same scale 
 with circumstances, and take his chance of the result. He had little 
 power of anticipation, nor was his a mind that could calmly array facts 
 before it, and draw the inferences from them. No, he met the dangers 
 of Hfe, as he would have done those of battle, with a heart undaunted, 
 and a spirit resolved never to turn back. The sullen courage of his 
 nature, if it did not suggest hope, at least supplied resolution — and 
 how many go through hfe with no other star to guide them ! 
 
 At last the grey dawn of breaking day appeared above the house-tops, 
 and the low distant sounds that prelude the movement of life in great 
 cities, stirred faintly without. 
 
 " Thank heaven, the night is over at last," was Mark's exclamation, 
 as he gazed upon the leaden streak of cloud that told of morning. 
 
 All his preparations for departure were made, so that he had only to 
 descend to the stable, and mount his horse. The animal, he was told, 
 had formerly belonged to Talbot, and nothing save the especial favour 
 of Billy Crossley could have procured him so admirable a mount. 
 
 ** He has never left the stable, sir," said Billy, as he held the stirrup 
 iimself— " he has never left the stable for ten days, but he has wind 
 enough to carry you two and twenty miles within the hour, if you were 
 put to it.*' 
 
 "And if I were, Billy," said Mark, for a sudden thought just flashed 
 across him — " if I were, and if I should not bring him back to you, 
 his price is — 
 
 " I wouldn't take a hundred guineas for him from any man living, 
 save Mr. Talbot himself ; but if it were a question of saving him from 
 danger, or any man he deems his friend, then, then, sir, I tell you fairly, 
 Billy Crossley isn't so poor a man, but he can afford to do a generous 
 thing. Take him. I see you know how to sit on him ; use him well 
 and tenderly, keep him until you find the time to give him back, and 
 now a good journey to you wherever you go ; and go quickly, whispered 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. '281 
 
 Billy, for I see two fellows at the gate who appear listening attentively 
 to our conversation. 
 
 " Take that in any case as a pledge," said Mark, as he pitched a 
 purse, containing above a hundred pounds in gold, towards Crossley, 
 and before the other could interpose to restore it, Mark had dashed his 
 spurs into the beast's flanks, and in another minute was hastening down 
 Thomas-street. 
 
 Mark had not proceeded far when he slackened his pace to a walk- 
 he remembered that it was yet two hours before the time, and with the 
 old spirit of a horseman, he husbanded the qualities of the noble ani- 
 mal he bestrode. Whether it was, that as the moment approached which 
 should solve some of the many difficulties that beset him, or that the free 
 air of the morning, and the pleasure he felt on being once more in the 
 saddle, had rallied his mind and raised his courage, I know not, but so it 
 was ; Mark's spirits grew each instant lighter, and he rode along revolving 
 other ones, if not happier thoughts, such as were at least in a frame more 
 befitting his youth and the bold heart that beat within his bosom. The 
 streets were deserted, the great city was sleeping, the thoroughfares he 
 had seen crowded with brilliant equipages and hurrying masses of foot 
 passengers, were still and vacant ; and as Mark turned from side to 
 side to gaze on the stately public edifices now sleeping in their own sha- 
 dows, he thought of the dreadful conflict which, perchance, it might 
 be his own lot to lead in that same city — he thought of the wild shout 
 of the insurgent masses, as with long-pent-up, but now loosened fury they 
 poured into the devoted streets — he fancied the swelling clangour which 
 denoted the approach of troops, ringing through the various approaches, 
 and the clattering sounds of distant musketry as post after post in dif- 
 ferent parts of the town was assailed. He halted before the Castle 
 gate, where a single dragoon sat motionless in his saddle, his carbine 
 at rest beneath his long cloak, the very emblem of peaceful security, 
 and as Mark gazed on him, his lip curled with an insolent sneer as he 
 thought over the false security of those within ; and that proud banner 
 whose lazy folds scarce moved with the breath of morning, " How soon 
 may we see a national flag replace it?" — were the words he mut- 
 tered, as he resumed his way as slowly as before. A few minutes after 
 brought him in front of the College. All was still silent in that vast 
 area, along which at noon-day the wealth and the life of the city 
 poured. A single figure here appeared, a poor miserable object in tat- 
 tered black> who was occupied in affixing a placard on the front of the 
 Post-office. Mark stopped to watch him — there seemed something sad 
 and miserable in the lot of this one poor creature, singled out as it 
 
282 THE o'donoohvx. 
 
 were to labour while others were sunk in sleep. He drew uear, and 
 as the paper was unfolded before him, read, in large letters, the worda 
 « Capital Felony — ,£500 Reward*' — and then followed a description of 
 John Barrington, which in every particular of height, age, look, and 
 gesture, seemed perfectly applicable to Talbot. 
 
 " Then, sorra one of me but would rather be tearing you down than 
 putting you up,** said the bill-sticker, as with Ms arms folded leisurely 
 on his breast, and his ragged hat set sideways on his head, he apostro- 
 phized his handiwork. 
 
 " And why so, my good fellow," said Mark, replying to the words. 
 He turned round rapidly, and pulling off his hat, exclaimed, in an ac- 
 cent of imfeigned delight — " Tear-an-ages, captain, is it yourself? 
 Och ! och ! no," added he, in a tone of as great despondency — " it is 
 the black horse that deceived me. I beg your honor's pardon." 
 
 " And yon know this horse," said Mark, with some anxiety of man- 
 ner. 
 
 The bill-sticker made no answer, but carefully surveyed Mark, for a 
 few moments from head to foot, and then, as if not perfectly satisfied 
 •with the result of his scrutiny, he slowly resumed the implements of 
 his trade, and prepared to move on. 
 
 " Stop a moment,** said Mark, " I know what you mean, this horse 
 
 belonged to ** and he pointed with his whip to th« name on the 
 
 placard. Don't be afraid of me, then, for I am his friend, perhaps the 
 nearest friend he has in the world." 
 
 "Av you were his brother, you don't like him better than I do 
 myself. I'll never forget the night he got his head laid open for ™e on 
 the bridge there beyant. The polis wanted to take me up for a bit of a 
 ballad I was singing about Major Sirr, and they were hauling me along 
 through the gutter, and kicking me at every step, when up comes 
 the captain, and he sent one flying here, and the other flying there, 
 and he tripped up the chief, calling out to me the whole time, * Run 
 for it, Dinny — run for it Uke a man ; Til give you five minutes fair 
 start of them any way.* And he kept his word, though one of them 
 cut his forehead clean down to the bone ; and here I am now sticking 
 up a reward to take him, God pardon me" — and the poor fellow uttered 
 the last words in a voice of self-reproach, that actually brought the 
 tears into his eyes. 
 
 Mark threw him a crown, and pressed on once more ; but somehow 
 the convictions which resisted, before, were now shaken by this chance 
 meeting. The recognition of the horse at once identified Talbot with 
 Barrington, and although Mark rejected altogether any thought which 
 
THE O DONOGHUS. 283 
 
 impugned the honour of his friend, he felt obliged to beHeve that, for 
 some object of intrigue, Talbot had assumed the name and character 
 of this celebrated personage. The very fact of his rescuing the bill- 
 sticker strengthened this impression. Such an act seemed to Mark 
 far more in unison with the wayward recklessness of Talbot's character, 
 than with the bearing of a man who might thus expose himself to 
 capture. With the subtlety which the will supphes to furnish argu- 
 ments for its own conviction, Mark fancied how readily Talbot might 
 have made this personation of Barrington a master-stroke of policy, 
 and while thus he ruminated, he reached the sea shore, and could see 
 before him that long bleak track of sand, which, uncovered save at 
 high tide, is called "the Bull." This was the spot appointed for the 
 meeting, and, although now within half an hour of the time, no figure 
 was seen upon its bleak surface. Mark rode on, and crossing the 
 narrow channel of water which separates " the Bull" from the main-land, 
 reached the place over which, for above two miles in extent, his eye 
 could range freely. Still no one was to be seen ; the light ripple ol 
 the ebbing tide was the only sound in the stillness of the morning ; 
 there was a calmness over the surface of the sea, on which the morning 
 sunbeams were slanting faintly, and glittering like freckled gold, wherever 
 some passing breeze or shore-current stirred the waters. One solitary 
 vessel could be seen, and she, a small schooner, with all her canvas 
 bent, seemed scarcely to move. 
 
 Mark watched her, as one watches any object which relieves the 
 dreariness of waiting, he gazed on her tall spars and white sails reflected 
 in the sea, when suddenly a bright flash burst from her side, a light- 
 blue smoke, followed by a booming sound, rolled forth, and a shot was 
 seen skimming the surface of the water, for above a mile in her wake ; 
 the next moment a flag was run up to her peak, when it fluttered for f 
 moment and was then lowered again. Mark's experience of a smug- 
 gling hfe taught him at once to recognize these signs as signals, and he 
 turned his gaze towards the land to discover to whom they were made ; 
 but although for miles long the coast lay beneath his view, he could 
 see nothing that corresponded with this suspicion. A single figure on 
 horseback was all that he could detect, and he was too far off to observe 
 minutely. Once more Mark turned towards the ship, which now was 
 feehng a fresher breeze and beginning to bend beneath it. The white 
 curl that broke from her bow, and rushed foaming along her sides, 
 showed that she was making way through the water, not as it seemed 
 without the will of those on board, for as the wind freshened they 
 ■hook out their mainsail more fully, and continued at every moment to 
 
284 THE 0*DONOUHUE. 
 
 s^i/ieaa j»jnVa.^er sail. The hollow tramp of a horse's feet galloping on 
 tne strand macie li/asi turn quickly round, and he saw the rider, whom 
 he nhtj observea be/ore, bending his course directly towards him, 
 Sunposing it must be Talbot, Mark turned to meet him, and the horse- 
 man, wno nercr slackened his speed, came quickly within view, and 
 discovereoi the features of Frederick Travers. He was unaccompanied 
 by friend or servant, and seemed, from the condition of his horse, to 
 have ridden at the top of his speed. Before Mark could think of what 
 apology he should make for, or how explain Talbot's absence, Traverg 
 addressed him 
 
 " I half feared that it might not be you, Mr. O'Donoghue," said he^ 
 as he wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he seemed no less 
 exhausted than his horse. 
 
 " I'm alone, sir," said Mark ; " and were you not unaccompanied 
 by a friend, I should feel the difficulty of my present position more 
 severely.'* 
 
 *' I know — I am aware," said Travers, hurriedly, ** your friend is gone. 
 I heard it but an hour since ; you, in all likelihood, were not aware of 
 the fact, till you saw the signal yonder." 
 
 " What !— Talbot's signal ! Was that his ?" 
 
 "Talbot, or Barrington," said Travers, smiling; "perhaps we should 
 better call him by the name he is best known by." 
 
 "And do you concur in the sUly uotion that confounds Harry 
 Talbot with a highwayman ?" said Mark, sternly. 
 
 " I fear,** said Travers, " that in doing so I but follow the impression 
 of all the world. It was not the least clever thing he has ever done, 
 his deception of you. Be assured, Mr. O'Donoghue, that the matter 
 admits of no doubt. The warrant for his apprehension, the informa- 
 tions sworn against him, are not only plain and precise, but I have 
 myself read certain facts of his intimacy with you, the places you 
 have frequented, the objects for which, it is alleged, you were con- 
 federated — all these are at this moment in the hands of the Secretary 
 of State. Forgive me, sir, if I tell you that you appear to have trusted 
 too implicitly to men who were not guided by your ovm principles of 
 honour. This very day a warrant for your own arrest will be issued 
 from the Privy Council, on the information of a man whom, I believe, 
 you never suspected. He is a horsedealer named Lawler — Lanty 
 Lawler." 
 • " And he Jias sworn informations against me ?" 
 
 ** He has done more ; he has Droduced letters written by yom' h&isd, 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 285 
 
 And addressed to diflferent leaders of tlie United Irish party, letters 
 whose treasonable contents do not admit of a doubt. 
 
 " And the scoundrel has my letters V* said Mark, as his face grew 
 purple with passion. 
 
 " He has them no longer," said Travers. " Here they are, sir. They 
 were shown ia 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 obligafAoji V* 
 
 " 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 'i%' aaad "I'ravefB, -"'as friend or foe T 
 
 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 snatched 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 out 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 
 j>ur enmity be ratitied on some better cause — we surely can have little 
 difficuity in finding one." 
 
 Mark nodded assentingly, and Travers resumed — 
 
 ** 'there is something still more pressing than this. My father will 
 
185 THE o'dONOQHUB. 
 
 be able to defer the issue of the warrant against you for three A«y% 
 when the Privy Council wiU 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 excite- 
 Itient of the affair has passed away " 
 
 "By a due expression ot sorrow and penitence, I might be fortunate 
 enough to obtam the King's pardon. You were about to say so much. 
 Is*t not so?-* 
 
 ** Not exactly," said Frederick, smiling ; " but now that the Govern- 
 ment 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 ; 
 DO prize will be too high for your aspirations." 
 
 Mark was silent, and Travers conjecturing that his words were sink- 
 ing into his heart with a persuasive power, went on to repicture the ad- 
 venturous 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 shore, 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 fixture, 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 t/ou wear with 
 honour, would be a badge of disgrace upon my shoulder. Good-bye, I 
 fan afford to thank you, because you have not made a service take the 
 orra of an * amende.' *' 
 
 Iravers forbore to press him fhrlhei '. "He wisely judged that enough 
 had been done for the present, and that his safety being provided for. 
 
THE o'donoghue. aoy 
 
 time and oppormnity wculd both present themselves for the remainder. 
 He shook his proffered hand witli cordiahty, and they separated, Fre- 
 derick to return to Dublin, Mark to wander whereTer chance might 
 incline him. 
 
 " He said truly,'* exclaimed Mark, as soon as he once more found him- 
 self 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 associates, and felt, in deep shame, 
 the companionship he had fallen into. " H^d 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 mo- 
 ment, and mingled itself with every other thought : " What would their 
 noble-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 V* 
 
 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 for- 
 borne all ebulHtions of momentary passion, in expectation of the day of 
 a greater reckoning — with what trust they obeyed their leaders — how im- 
 plicitly they confided in every direction given for their guidance. Can 
 patriotism like this survive such a trial ? Will they ever beheve 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 passed the night. As day was breaking, he was again on the 
 Toad, directing his steps towards Wicklow, where in the wild district 
 Hear Blessington, he had acquaintance with several farmers, aU sincerely 
 
29^ THE Q^DONOGHUB. 
 
 de^'Oted to tVe *' United party." It was as much to rescue his own chfti 
 racter frciT> f^v false imputations that might be cast on it, as from any 
 h.ope of learning favourable tidings, that he turned hither. The moun- 
 tain countrv, too, promised security for the present, and left him time 
 re thmR wnat course he should follow. 
 
 MarK did net m:jscalculate the good feeling of the people in this 
 auarte". No success, however triumphant, would have made him one 
 nait 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 assistance 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 j 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, 
 ind the embers of rebellion died noc out, out smould^xod* 
 
THE o'donoghtjb. 5lS9 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE wanderer's BETUBN* 
 
 xT was about two months after the events detailed in the last chapter, on 
 the evening of a bright day in midsummer, that a soUtary traveller was 
 seen descending one of the mountain-passes which lead from Macroom 
 to Glengariif, 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 ath- 
 letic, was emaciated and weary-looking. His clothes, once good, seemed 
 neglected ; and his beard, unshaven and uncared for, gave an air of sa- 
 vage 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 diffi- 
 culty 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 shed- 
 ding 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 fo- 
 liage 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 exac^ 
 at last halted, and, leaning his arm over his saddle, stood for soma 
 time in contemplation of the picture. From the spot on which ht 
 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 habita- 
 tion the traveller's eyes were fixedly bent, until their gaze was dimmed by a 
 passing emotion. He drew his hand roughly over his face, as if angry 
 
 V 
 
t90 THE 0*DONOGHUX. 
 
 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 jou 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 in smiles, he wel- 
 comed 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," repHed Terry, who applied to the 
 O^Donoghue the respected title 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 V * 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 nobody 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 
 ilhgant place it is now, wid towers and spires all over it — the ground aU 
 gardens, with grass walks as fine as a carpet, and the beautifuUest 
 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 com- 
 ing 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 dhroU choice." 
 
 " Like Hemsworth ! Do they say that my cousin likes Hems- 
 worth ?" said Mark, whose anger was only kept down by gazing on the 
 tranquil features of the poor witless object before him. 
 
 I 
 
THE O DONOGHUE, 
 
 29i: 
 
 "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 V 
 
 "What house but Carrig-na-curra — your father's house." 
 
 Mark passed 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 Hems worth, 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 farther with you. I dar'n't go there." 
 
 *' And why not, my poor fellow?" said Mark, compassionately, 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 j so long as they keep to the 
 towns, I'll never trouble them." 
 
 " And how does poor Mary bear it ?" said Mark. 
 
 " Bad enough, I hear, for nobody ever goes into the house at all, 
 since she had the red-coats, and there she's pining away every day; but 
 I must be going. I'll come down and see you soon. Master Mark, and 
 I hope you won't lave us in a hurry again." Terry did not wait for any 
 rejoinder to this speech, but with the agility of his wild life, sprung 
 lightly up the mountain, from whence his voice was heard gaily carol- 
 ling as he went, long afterwards. 
 
 Mark looked after him for a few moments, and probably amid tHc 
 compassionate feelings with which he regarded the poor creature^ there 
 
292 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 were mingled others of actual envy, so light-hearted and happy did he 
 seem amidst all his poverty. 
 
 " I could even change with him," said Mark, aloud, and then, 
 as if he had unburdened his heart of its weary load, he resumed his 
 way. 
 
 The grey twilight was fast merging into night, as he approached the 
 little inn, nor was it without emotion that he watched the light that 
 streamed from the windows across the road. Many an evening of his 
 happy boyhood had been passed beside that humble hearth — many a 
 thrilling tale and many a merry story had he listened to, there. Beneath 
 that roof it was he first imbibed the proud thoughts of his house and 
 family, and learned to know the estimation in which men held his name. 
 It was there he first felt the spirit of chieftainship, and there, too, he 
 had first devoted himself to the cause of his country. Alas ! these were 
 but sad memories, how he had lived to find himself deceived, by 
 every one he had trusted ; falsehood and treachery in so many shapes 
 surrounded him, that it needed only the extinction of hope to make him 
 feel his life a weary and unprofitable load. He stood for a few seconds 
 before the door, and listened with an indignant spirit to the coarse re- 
 velry of the soldiers who caroused within. Their very laughter smots 
 upon his ear like derision, and he turned away from the spot, angry and 
 impatient. Some vague resolve to return home and take a last farewell 
 of his father, was the only plan he could fix on ; whither, afterwards, or 
 how, he knew not, nor did he care. Like most men who attribute 
 their failures in life to evil destinies that sway them, and not to their 
 own faults and follies, his fatalism urged him to a recklessness of 
 the future, and in place of hope there sprung up in his heart a strange 
 feeling of wonder to think, what trials and straits fortune might yet have 
 in store for him. He often deliberated with himself how he should 
 meet, and how part with his father — whether acknowledge that he knew 
 the secret of the deceit that had been practised upon him, or whether he 
 should conceal that knowledge within his own bosom. To do the latter 
 was his final resolve. To spare the old man the added misery of know- 
 ing that his son had detected his criminality, was the suggestion of his 
 better and purer feeling, and even though his lea\dng him should thus 
 be wanting in the only excuse he could proffer, he preferred this to the 
 misery another course would entail. 
 
 At last he reached the old gateway, and often as it had been his lot ti 
 bring beneath its shadow a heavy and sorrow-struck heart, never had hs 
 passed it so deeply depressed as now. 
 
 '•Come on, good beast," he said, patting the wearied horse, "you 
 
^^ Way/io^^j Ar^^Ay^ 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 293 
 
 shall have rest here, and that," said he, with a sigh, " that, is more thau 
 I can promise to myself." 
 
 With these sad words he toiled up the steep ascent, and gained the 
 terrace in front of the Castle. There were lights burning in the old 
 tower and in the hall, but all the rest of the building was in darkness. 
 The door lay open, and as Mark stood within it, he could hear the mel- 
 low sounds of a harp which came floating softly through the long- vaulted 
 corridor, blended with a voice that stirred the fibres of his strong heart, 
 and made him tremble like a child. 
 
 " Why should I not linger here?" thought he ; "why not stay and 
 listen to these sweet sounds ? I shall *iever hear them more !" and he 
 stood and bent his ear to drink them in, and stirred not until they 
 ceased. The last chord had died away in silence — then hastily fasten- 
 ing his horse to the door-ring, he entered the long passage unnoticed by 
 any, and reached the door. The sound of voices, as of persons talking 
 pleasantly together, struck hardly on his ear, and the loud laughter 
 that burst forth grated strangely on his senses. 
 
 " They have little sorrow for the outcast — that is certain," said he, 
 as, with a swelling heart and proud step, he opened the door and 
 entered. 
 
 This part of the room lay in deep shadow, and while Mark could dis- 
 tinctly perceive the others, they could but dimly discern the outline of 
 his figure, without being able to recognize him. His father and Sir 
 Archy were seated, as of old, on either side of the chimney ; Kate was 
 leaning over her harp, which she had just ceased to play ; while seated 
 near her, and bending forward in an attitude of eager attention, was 
 Hemsworth himself," the man of all others he least wished to see at 
 such a moment. 
 
 " Who is that ?" cried the O'Donoghue, "who is standing yonder?" 
 and they all turned their eyes towards the door. 
 
 "Why don't you speak?" continued the old man. "Have you any 
 tidings from my son ? — ^is it news of Mark you bring me ?" 
 
 " Even so, sir," responded the other, as he slowly advanced into the 
 strong light, his arms folded upon his breast, and his brow stern and 
 contracted. 
 
 " Mark ! — my boy ! my child !" cried the old man, springing from 
 his chair, and, with a strength that seemed at once to defy age and in- 
 firmity, rushed towards him, and threw his arms about him. " He's 
 here — he's with us once more !" said he, in accents half choked by 
 sobs — " my son ! my hope ! my pride !'* — and while the old man poured 
 forth these words of happiness, the young one stood pale, cold, and 
 
294 THE o'donoghue, 
 
 •eemingly apathetic. His eyes bent on va'iancy, and his features devM 
 of all expression of passion, he turned from Sir Archy, who grasped on« 
 hand, and looked at Kate, who held the other between hers, but in his 
 gaze there was rather the look of one suddenly recalled to conscious- 
 ness out of some long-fevered sleep, than the healthful aspect of waking 
 life. 
 
 "You are not ill, Mark — ^you're only fatigued," said Kate, as a 
 tear slowly trickled down her cheek, and fell upon his hand. 
 
 Mark started as he felt the drop, and looked at her with a searching 
 glance, then turned his eyes towards Hemsworth, and back again to her, 
 and for the first time a stern an(J scornful smile curled upon his lip. 
 Kate seemed to read the glance, and returned it with a look, proud and 
 haughty as his own, while dropping his hand, she walked towards her 
 chair without speaking. 
 
 " "We maun let him hae a bit supper as soon as may be," said Sir 
 Archy, whose practical good sense saw how much bodily fatigue in- 
 fluenced the youth's demeanour. 
 
 " Supper 1" said the O'Donoghue; "ay, faith, every bottle in the 
 cellar would be too little to celebrate the boy's return. Ring that bell, 
 ^.rchy. Where is Kerry ? What are the people doing not to know 
 that their young master is here ?" 
 
 " At another moment, I should beg that Mr. O'Donoghue might re- 
 member me," said Hemsworth, with a deferential bow. " And I hope the 
 time is coming when I may be permitted to renew my acquaintance ; — 
 ibr the present, I feel how unsuited the presence of a stranger is, on an 
 occasion like this, and cannot better show how deeply I appreciate 
 feeUng than by taking my leave." 
 
 So saying, he courteously saluted the O'Donoghue, Sir Archy, 
 and Kate; while, turning to Mark, he proffered his hand, as he 
 said — 
 
 " Pray, sir, let the occasion excuse the liberty, and permit me to add 
 my welcome also." 
 
 " You do the honours of this house too early, sir," was Mark's sa- 
 vage reply, while he folded his arms upon his breast, and measured 
 Hemsworth with a glance of withering scorn. '^I'm beneath my 
 father's roof. It is not for a stranger to bid me welcome here." 
 
 Hemsworth smiled, and muttered some words in mild acquiescence, 
 their tone and accent were apologetic, and the manner in which he 
 ipoke them humble even to humihty. When they were uttered, he 
 lowed deeply, and with a look towards the others that seemed to indi- 
 late the absence of any feehng of offence, withdrew. 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 295 
 
 •*You are unco severe on Maister Hemsworth, Mark,'* said Si? 
 Archy, gravely. " If his politeness wasna altogether correct, it was 
 weel intended." 
 
 ** Mark was all right, whatever he said," cried the old man, exult- 
 ingly. " Egad, I'll not dispute with the hoy to-night, if he thought 
 proper to throw the fellow out of the window." 
 
 " I am sorry my rudeness should have offended others," said Mark, 
 with a sidelong glance at Kate. " As for Mr. Hemsworth, we under- 
 stand each other. He neither thinks better nor worse of me than he did 
 before." 
 
 "D n Hemsworth !" said the Q'Donoghue ; "why are we talk- 
 ing of him at all ? Sit down beside me, Mark. Let me see you again, 
 my boy, in your old place. Give me your hand, and let me think that 
 my three months of fretting have only been a dream." 
 
 " Would it had been a dream to me," said Mark, with a deep sigh, 
 as he seated himself beside the old man. 
 
 " Come, come, Mark," said Sir Archy, *' Ye nae often laughed at 
 my Scotch adage about * byganes,' let me have my revenge now, by 
 applying it to your own fortunes." 
 
 " So, you have come at last," cried the O'Donoghue, as Kerry 
 O'Leary at length made his appearance at the door. " Is Master Mark 
 to go supperless to bed ^" 
 
 " Master Mark," shouted Kerry, " Oh, murther alive, and is it him- 
 self that's in it. Oh, blessed hour, but I'm glad to see you home again, 
 and your honor looking so well and hearty. Maybe we won't have bon- 
 fires over the hills, when the boys hear it.'* 
 
 " The supper, the supper. Confound the fellow, the boy is famished, 
 and the rascal stands prating there about bonfires." 
 
 " My horse is far more in need of care than I am," said Mark, sud- 
 denly, remembering the wearied animal he left fastened to the door. 
 "I must look to the poor beast before I take anything myself;" and so 
 saying he left the room, none wishing to gainsay anything he desired 
 to do, 
 
 " Poor fellow," said the O'Donoghue, " how pale and carewoni he 
 looks — he appears to have suffered heavily." 
 
 " Depend upon it," said Sir Archy, gravely, " the lad has learned 
 much since we saw him last. I dinna mislike the look his features 
 have, although it be one of sorrow. What says Kate ?" No answer 
 followed this appeal, but the young girl turned away her head, and 
 affected to assist in arranging the table. 
 
 " Mind, Archy," said the O'Donoghue eagerly, "remember, not a 
 
196 THE o'dONOGHVE. 
 
 l?ord about his absence, no questioning whatever — the boy has gona 
 through too many troubles already to bear the penalty of relating them. 
 Take care, too, that there be no allusion to Hemsworth, Mark does not 
 yet know the friendly part he has taken, and only knows him as we 
 used to think and speak of him of old — but hush, here he comes." 
 
 When Mark re-entered the room, he seemed at least easier, if not 
 happier, than before. The cloud that Hemsworth' s presence threw 
 over him had passed away, and he felt anxious to show himself in more 
 favourable colours than his first appearance had displayed. "While, 
 therefore, he did his utmost to repay to his father and uncle, the kind 
 and affectionate greetings by which they met him — to his cousin Kate 
 he was either sternly distant, or totally indifferent in manner ; and when 
 at last, repulsed in many efforts to attract his notice, she arose to retire 
 for the night, he took a formal leave of her, and seemed relieved by hei 
 departure. This was not remarked by the O'Donoghue ; but Sir Archy 
 was a shrewd observer, and noted the circumstance with displeasure ; still, 
 too careful of consequences to show that he had observed it, he reserved 
 his interference for another and more favourable moment, and soon 
 afterwards, wished them good night, and left the room. 
 
 " It is time for me to go also," said Mark, as, after a silence of some 
 moments, he arose, and lighted a candle. " I have not been accustomed 
 to a good bed latterly, and I feel that one sound night's sleep is due to 
 me. 
 
 " But for that, Mark, I could not part with you just yet. I have 
 so much to say, so much to hear from you. There have been many 
 things during your absence I must tell you of." 
 
 " And first of all," said Mark, rapidly, " How comes that man, 
 Hemsworth, so intimate here? "What claim has he to darken our 
 door with his presence ?" 
 
 "The strong claim of true friendship," said the old man, firmly, 
 "a claim I have not met so much of in life, that I can afford to undervalue 
 *it when it does present itself. But for him, the ejectment would have 
 been sued out last assizes — he saved us also from a foreclosure of 
 Drake's mortgage — advanced me five thousand pounds upon my own 
 bond, Archy being a co-surety, which you well know was a matter of 
 form. This, besides saving us from any proceedings the Travers' might 
 
 have taken, in revenge for their own disappointment about Kate " 
 
 " Speak more plainly, I beg you, sir, and above all, please to remem- 
 ber that I am ignorant of everything you allude to. What of Kate ?" 
 ** Oh, I forgot you were not with us then. It was a proposal of mar- 
 riage. Young Travers made your cousin a briUiant offer, as far as 
 
THE o'donoghue. 297 
 
 money was concerned, which Kate refused. There was some nego- 
 ciation about leaving the thing open. Something about tlie future — I 
 forget exactly what — 'but I only know she was peremptory and decided, 
 as she always is, and wrote to me to take her home. Archy went up 
 for her to Dublin, and the Travers' soon after left Ireland in high 
 indignation with us, and determined, as we soon found, to let us feel 
 their enmity. Then it was that we learned to appreciate Hemsworth, 
 whom all along we had so completely mistaken, and indeed, but for 
 him, we should never have heard of you." 
 
 " Of me. What did he know of me ?" 
 
 *' Everything, Mark — ail" — said the old man, in a low whisper, as 
 ne 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 
 assumes to know of me V 
 
 " 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 deli- 
 berated 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 de- 
 plored 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 
 rou 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 V* 
 
 "Heaven forbid, boy, but that you lived on terms of closest friend- 
 ship with one branded as a felon, and that information of your inti- 
 macy 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 
 
Wm TBI O DONOGHUE. 
 
 and of such a character as would, if proved against you, have cost your 
 life ; these, Ilemsworth, 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 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 un- 
 grateful — 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, Jumprudence, 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 every- 
 thing 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 
 €ven 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 ainn, 
 " 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, 
 •nd left the room* 
 
ifiE o'donoghtje» ' 2991 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 "suspicions on evert side." 
 
 Early on the following morning Mark O'Donoghue 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 weari- 
 ness 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 senti- 
 ment 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 re- 
 quiring him to acknowledge that he had given a colouring and semblance 
 to his conduct at total variance with fact. By this means, Mark calcu 
 
|00 ^ THE o'dONOGBTTV. 
 
 jited 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 rencontrco 
 
 " 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 hii 
 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 impe- 
 tuous 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 circum- 
 stances 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 difficul- 
 ties, 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 con- 
 duct, 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 ab- 
 sence. The neat but unpretending cottage had now been converted into 
 
 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 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 30i 
 
 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 theit 
 beauties to a scene where nature had already been so lavish. 
 
 While Mark was yet looking about iit quest of the entrance to the 
 building, he saw a man approach, with whose features he was well ac- 
 quainted. 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 sick- 
 lier. " 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.** 
 
SOS THK o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 "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 haye the same luck always.' " 
 
 " It was Mr. Hemsworth he was after," said Wylie. " It was hiai 
 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 
 baflEled, he did not feel defeated. His first anger over, he began ta 
 think how best he should obtain a meeting with Hemsworth, and a re* 
 tractation 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 
 
THE O^DONOGHUE. 303 
 
 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 circum- 
 stances, — 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 mis- 
 chances 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 build- 
 ing. 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 afi*ection, 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 hap- 
 piness ; never did I feel before the ecstacy of being able to make joy 
 more pleasurable, and sorrow less afflicting. The daughter feeling has 
 
304 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 enjoy- 
 ment." 
 
 " So you are happy here, Kate," said he, taking her hand, " and would 
 not wish to leave it V* 
 
 " 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 — ambi- 
 tions 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 ; " ambifion, 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 affec- 
 tion 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 ad- 
 vantage, 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 
 
THE ODONOGHUE. 
 
 305 
 
 fame 'than those which are dictated by purely personal desire ofdi» 
 tinction ?" 
 
 Mark almost started at the words, whose direct application to him- 
 self 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 up- 
 wards, Kate, are dark and crooked — the guides that traverse them are 
 false and treacherous." 
 
 " You have, indeed, found them so," said Kate, wifh a deep sigh. 
 
 " How do you mean, I have found them so ?" cried Mark, in amaze- 
 ment 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 posses- 
 sion. 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 V* 
 
 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 pro- 
 tect 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 
 
 X 
 
306 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 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 aniid 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 ad- 
 justed his spectacles to read. " When did you receive it ?" 
 
 " About an hour ago," answered Kate, half impatient at the unhur- 
 ried coolness of the old man's manner, who at last proceeded to exa- 
 mine 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 XXXVn. 
 
 "hemswobth's letteb." 
 
 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 
 
THE o'donoghue. 307 
 
 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 yow, and I confess myself at liberty to lay less store by the opi- 
 nions of others." 
 
 Continuing for a brief space in this strain, the letter went on to 
 mention that the sudden return of Mark had left the writer no alterna- 
 tive but to venture on this correspondence, whatever the consequences — 
 consequences which, the writer palpably inferred, might prove of the 
 last moment to himself. The explanation — and, for the reader's sake, 
 it is better to spare him Hemsworth's involved narrative, and merely 
 give its substance — ^was chiefly, that information of Mark O'Donoghue's 
 complicity in the plot of the United Irish party had been tendered to 
 Government, and supported by such evidence that a Judge's warrant 
 was issued for his apprehension and the seizure of all his papers ; partly 
 from friendly interference — this was dubiously and delicately put by 
 Hemsworth — and partly from the fact that his extreme youth and igno- 
 rance of the real views of the insurgents were pleaded in his favour, 
 the execution of this warrant was delayed, and the young man suffered 
 to go at large. So long as he withdrew himself from the company 
 of the other conspirators, and avoided publicity, the Government 
 was willing to wink at the past. It had been, however, determined 
 on, that should he either be found mixed up with any of the 
 leaders of the movement in future, or should he venture to return 
 to Glenflesk, where his influence amongst the peasantry was well known 
 to, and apprehended by the Government, then there should no longer be 
 any hesitation in the hne to be followed. He was immediately to be 
 
308 THE 0*DONOGUUE. 
 
 apprehended and sent up under a sufficient escort to Dublin, to take hi* 
 trial, with five others, for high treason. The proofs of his guilt were 
 unquestionable, consisting of letters written and received, conversations 
 to which witnesses could depose, as well as an intimacy for months 
 long ^vith Barrington, whose active participation in the schemes of 
 rebellion was as well known, as the notorious fact of his being a con- 
 victed felon. To found a hope upon his innocence was thus shown 
 to be perfectly impossible. His most trusted associates were the evi- 
 dence against him ; documents in his hand-writing were also in the 
 hands of the law-officers of the Crown, and, in fact, far more than 
 enough to bring him to the scaffold. 
 
 Hemsworth, who gently hinted all through, how far his interference 
 had been beneficial, was one of those entrusted with Mark's arrest, 
 should he ever dare to re-appear in his native country. The orders of the 
 Privy Council on this score were positive and clear, and admitted of no 
 possible misconception. 
 
 " You may judge, then," continued he, *' what were my feelings on 
 seeing him suddenly enter the house last night — to think that, while I 
 was enjoying the pleasure of your society, and the hospitable attentions 
 of your home, I had actually in my pocket at the moment the official 
 order to apprehend the eldest son of my entertainer — the friend and 
 companion of your childhood — to bring grief and mourning beneath the 
 roof where I had passed so many happy hours — to dispel all the dreams 
 I had begun to nourish of a neighbourhood connected by ties of kind- 
 ness and good will. I had to choose between the alternative of this, or 
 else, by a palpable avoidance of my duty, criminate myself, and leave 
 my conduct open to the most dangerous comments of my enemies. 
 The latter involved only myself. I have adopted it, and before this 
 letter reaches your hands, I shall be on my way up to Dublin, nomi- 
 nally to attend the Council, but in reality to escape the necessity my 
 onerous position would impose. None save those beneath your roof 
 know that I have met Mr. Mark O'Donoghue, and I shall be half-way 
 to Dublin before^ his arrival in the country is suspected. So much, in 
 brief, for the past and the present. Now for the future. . There are two 
 courses open to this young gentleman, or to those who would serve and 
 befriend him. One is, by a free and unlimited confession to the 
 Government of all the circumstances of the plot, so far as they have 
 come to his knowledge, the parties interested, their several shares in the 
 undertaking, vrith. every detail of date and time, to sue for a pardon 
 for himself — a grace which, I need scarcely say, I will use all my 
 influence to obtain. The other mode is, by a temporary exile ; to 
 
THE 0*O0N0GHXJE. 309 
 
 withdraw himself from the notice of the Government, until the danger 
 having perfectly passed over, political acrimony will have abated, 
 and the necessity for making severe examples of guilt be no longer 
 urgent. This latter course I opine to be preferable, on many grounds. 
 It demands no sacrifice of private feeling — no surrender of honour. 
 It merely provides for safety, reserving the future untrammelled by any 
 pledge. Neither need the absence be long; a year or two at farthest ; 
 the probabilities are, that with their present knowledge of the schemes 
 of the insurgents, the Government can either precipitate events, or retard 
 and protract them at will. Their policy, in this respect, depending on 
 the rank and importance of those who, by either line of procedure, 
 would be delivered into their hands. Arguing from what they have 
 already done, I should pronounce it likely that their game will be to 
 wait, to weaken the hopes and break the spirit of the United party, by 
 frequent defections ; to sow distrust and suspicion amongst them, and 
 thus, while avoiding the necessity of bloodshed, to wear out rebellion by 
 a long and lingering fear. If, then, others, whose age and position involved 
 a greater prominence in these schemes, would require a longer banish- 
 ment to erase the memory of the acts, your young relative, who has both 
 youth and its rashness to plead for him, need not reckon on so length- 
 ened an absence from his native land. 
 
 "Above all things, however, remember that not an hour is to 
 be lost. Any moment may disclose to the Crown some new fea- 
 ture of the plot, and may call forth measures of stringent severity. 
 The proclamation oifering a reward for the apprehension of four per- 
 sons, of whom your cousin is one, is already printed, and in the office 
 of the Secretary. . An hour would see it all over the walls of the capital, 
 in a day or two more, it would reach every remote corner of the land. 
 Then, all efforts on my part would be ineffectual, were they even possible. 
 Reflect on this. It is not a mere question of fine or even imprisonment. 
 It is life itself is on the issue, and life which, in surrendering, will blast a 
 great name with dishonour, and a great house with obloquy and shame ; 
 for there has been no struggle, no effort, no bold and generous exposure 
 to danger, to palliate treason, and gloss over its faults. All has been 
 plotting and contriving for alien assistance and foreign help ; no self- 
 reliance, no patriotism, which, if mistaken, was still sincere and manly. 
 Eeflect on all this, and think that a life offered up in such a cause has 
 no martyrdom to throw lustre on the grave shared with the felon and 
 the highwayman. I'orgive me if, in the warmth of my zeal, I have said 
 one word which may offend. If I had not spoken thus forcibly, I should 
 be a traitor to my own heart. 
 
310 THS o'donoghvs. 
 
 " I have written hurriedly, and I doubt not, in ^(SYfie respects, unad- 
 visedly ; but the sincerity of my purpose will plead for me, should the 
 indiscretion of my zeal require apology. You will, perhaps, ask why I 
 should have imposed a task difficult as this upon you — why I should 
 have loaded you with a responsibility so weighty ? My answer is simply, 
 I dared not write to the O'Donoghue on the subject of his son's indis- 
 cretion — to impugn the acts of the young man, would be to forfeit all 
 influence with the old one. You will then say, why not address Sir 
 Archibald ? For the simple reason, that the prejudices of his country 
 are too strong in him to make due allowances for those who err from 
 excitable or impetuous natures ; not only would he judge too harshly of 
 Mark, but he would be anxious to record that judgment as a warning to 
 Herbert, for whom alone he is interested. I therefore make it a 
 strenuous request — nay, more, I esteem it as the term of a compact 
 between us, that you do not show this letter either to the O'Donoghue 
 or to his brother. I have expressed myself openly and candidly to you, 
 but with a tacit assurance that my confidence is not to be extended to 
 others. In the part I have taken, I already incur considerable risk. 
 This is a period when loyalty cannot afford to be even suspected ; yet 
 have I jeoparded mine in befriending this youth. I now conclude, 
 dear madam, assuring you that any danger I incur, or any anxiety I 
 feel, will be amply repaid if I only know that you think not unwor- 
 thily of 
 
 ** William Hemsworth." 
 
 Sir Archy studied this letter with the patient care a lawyer bestows 
 upon a brief. He thought over each sentence, and weighed the ex- 
 pressions in his mind with deep thought. It had been his fortune, in 
 early hfe, to have been thrown into situations of no common difficulty, 
 and his mind had, in consequence, acquired a habit of shrewd and 
 piercing investigation, which, though long disused, was not altogether 
 forgotten ; by the aid of this faculty, Hemsworth's letter appeared to 
 him in a very different Hght from that in which Kate viewed it. The 
 knowledge of every circumstance concerning Mark evinced an anxiety 
 which he was very far from attributing to motives of friendship. Sir 
 Archy well knew the feelings of dishke which subsisted between these 
 two men — how then account for this sudden change on Hemsworth's 
 part ? — to what attribute this wonderful interest concerning him ? 
 
 " Let us see," said the old man to himself, "let us see the fruit, and 
 tihen we may pronounce upon the tree. Where and to what does 
 Hemsworth's benevolence noint. dishonour or banishment ? Such ar* 
 
THE 0*DOWO<JHCI!;. 311 
 
 the terms he offers ; such are the alternatives his kindness suggests. 
 Might these have no other motive than friendship? — might they not be 
 the offspring of feehngs very different indeed? What benefit might he 
 derive from Mark's expatriation — that is the question ? Does he anti- 
 cipate easier terms with the old man for the little remnant of property 
 that still pertains to him — or is it merely the leaven of the old hate that 
 still rises in his nature? — or" and here his eye flashed with bril- 
 liancy as a new thought crossed his brain " or does he suspect 
 
 Mark of occupying a place in his cousin's affection^ and is rivalry the 
 source of this mysterious good nature ?" 
 
 This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than Sir Archy recalled to 
 mind all the circumstances of Hemsworth's recent behaviour — the en- 
 deavours he had made to recommend himself to their favourable notice — 
 all his acts to ingratiate himself with Kate — the ample views he affected in 
 politics — the wide-spread generosity of his plans for the amelioration of 
 the people. That his conduct was unreal, that his principles were but 
 assumed for the* occasion, the shrewd Scotchman had long suspected ; 
 and this letter, so far from dispelling the doubts, increased them tenfold. 
 Besides this, there seemed some reason to fear that Kate was not quite 
 indifferent to him. The disparity of years was so far in his favour, as 
 she could not but feel flattered by the notice of one so conversant 
 with the world and its ways, who had travelled and seen so much, and 
 might in every respect be deemed a competent judge in matters of taste. 
 Any comparison of him with Mark must redound with great advantage 
 to the former. . The accomplished scholar, the agreeable and well-bred 
 man of society, was a severe competitor for the half-educated and slovenly 
 youth, whose awkward and bashful manner seemed rather ill-temper 
 than mere difiidence. Mark was himself conscious of the disadvantages 
 he laboured under, and although Sir Archy had few fears that such an 
 admirer was likely to win ,favour with the gay and capricious girl, 
 whose foreign habits had taught her to value social quahties at the 
 highest price, still, there was a chance that Hemsworth might have 
 thought differently, and that jealousy was the secret of the whole 
 scheme. Kate, with her ten thousand pounds of a rent-charge, might be 
 a very reasonable object of Hemsworth's ambition ; and when already he 
 had absorbed so large a portion of the family estates, this additional 
 lien would nearly make him master of the entire. It was, then, per- 
 fectly possible that this was his game, and that in withdrawing Mark 
 from the scene, he both calculated on the gratitude his generosity would 
 evoke, and more securely provided for his own success. 
 
 While Sir Archy thus pondered over Hemsworth's motives, he did 
 
312 
 
 not neglect the more pressing consideration of Mark's danger. It was 
 evident that he had taken an active part in the insurrectionary move- 
 ment, and without the slightest precautions for his personal safety. 
 The first care, therefore, was to see and learn from him the full extent 
 of his danger, what proofs there existed against him, and what evidence, 
 either in writing or otherwise, might be adduced to his disadvantage. 
 
 "Tell me, frankly and freely, Mark," said he, aloud, as he arose and 
 paced the room ; " tell me, openly, how you stand, who are your 
 betrayers, what your dangers, and I'll answer for it the peril may 
 be averted.** 
 
 " I have come to do so, sir," said a voice behind him — and Mark 
 ODonoghue was standing at the door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 *'tamperino and plotting." 
 
 "While they who meditated the invasion of Ireland were thoroughly 
 informed on the state of parties, and the condition of public opinion in 
 that kingdom, the English Government were satisfied with, vague and 
 insufficient rumours of those intentions, derived from sources of ques- 
 tionable accuracy, or communicated by persons in the pay of their 
 opponents. Certain it is, neither the magnitude of the peril was appre- 
 ciated, nor its nearness suspected. Many, in England, regarded the 
 whole in the light of a menace, and believed that the embarrassments 
 of the French Directory were quite sufficient to withdraw their thoughts 
 from foreign aggression, to troubles nearer home. Their great want of 
 money, arms, and all the munitions of war, was well known and trusted 
 to as a guarantee of security. Others supposed that a rash attempt 
 might be made, but were equally sure of its being defeated by our naval 
 forces before a landing could be effected ; and many more believed that 
 the pretence of foreign aid was but a threat of the malcontents at 
 home, to enforce compliance with their demands. The event itself was 
 to show how unfounded were all these calculations, and how little rea- 
 son we had to regard our security as derived from our own measures 
 of foresight and precaution. 
 
 Constituted as the French Government of the day was, nothing would 
 
SIS 
 
 have been easier than to have Ample knowledge of all the projects. 
 The men in high situations were newly elevated to power, from posi- 
 tions of very humble pretension, with no habits of public business, no 
 experience of the mode of conducting difficult affairs, and many of 
 them of very questionable character for integrity ; and yet, with these 
 opportunities at our disposal, a few scattered facts, ill-authenticated 
 and vague, were all that our Government attained to ; and even these 
 were unattended to, save when they implicated the conduct of some 
 suspected character nearer home ; then, indeed, party violence assumed 
 an appearance of statesmanlike vigilance, and crown prosecutions and 
 ex-officio informations, seemed the safeguard of the empire. 
 
 On occasions of this kind, the activity of the Government was most 
 remarkable, and while the great question of national security was over- 
 looked, no pains were spared to track out the narrow path where some 
 insignificant treason was plodding, and bring the plotter to the scaffold. 
 Large sums of money were spent in obtaining secret information, and 
 the whole science of government was reduced to a system of " espionage." 
 This little-minded and narrow policy was, in a great measure, the con- 
 sequence of entrusting so much of the Government to the influence of 
 the lawyers, who, regarding everything through the light of their own 
 profession, placed the safety of the empire on the success of a crown 
 prosecution. 
 
 It was at a moment when this favourite policy was in the ascendant, 
 that Hemsworth reached Dublin, little aware, indeed, how far events 
 there, were hastening forward the catastrophe for which he was inte- 
 rested. Lanty Lawler, who for a long time had never communicated, 
 save to Hemsworth, his knowledge of the United Irish movement, had, 
 at length, become alarmed for his own safety ; and putting but slight 
 trust in Hemsworth's good faith, should any calamity befall him, had 
 come forward and revealed to Major Sirr all that he knew of the plot, 
 the names of several parties implicated, and in particular the whole his- 
 tory of Mark O'Donoghue's complicity. The information came well- 
 timed. The crown lawyers were desirous of exhibiting the parade of a 
 state prosecution, and all the ordinary measures were taken to secure its 
 success. Lanty, now a prisoner in Newgate, but, with the promise of a 
 free pardon and a reward, had been repeatedly examined by the Attor- 
 ney and Solicitor-general, and his statement found perfectly accurate 
 and consistent. He narrated the various interviews he had been present 
 at among the Delegates in Dublin — the messages he had conveyed from 
 them to different individuals through the country — the depots where 
 pikes and muskets were stored, and the several places of rendezvous 
 
S14 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 agreed upon, whenever the rising should take place. He also revealed 
 many facts of the feeling prevalent among the people, and exemplified 
 the conflicting state of opinion then in the country — how, that many were 
 worn out and discouraged hy delay, and helieved tliemsclves betrayed by 
 France — while others were full of hope and confidence, eager for the 
 time to come, and ready to incur any peril. While, in all these dis- 
 closures he was most candid and exphcit, he never once betrayed the 
 name of Mary M 'Kelly, nor even alluded, in any way, to her cabin, as 
 the resort of the French spies, and the secret depot of arms and ammu- 
 nition. It might have been that in the blackness of his treachery to 
 others, this one spark of better feeling survived towards her — that some 
 lurking affection lingered in a heart dead to every other noble sentiment, 
 or perhaps the lesser motive swayed him, that in excepting her from the 
 general ruin, he was securing to himself one, who as a wife, would 
 bring 'him no small share of worldly wealth. Either may be the ex- 
 planation of his conduct, for strange as it may seem, the vilest actions 
 are sometimes conceived with a reserve of conscience, that shows wha 
 casuistry guilt requires, and how much the spirit of evil lacks of cou- 
 rage, when it has to borrow the energy to act from even the semblance 
 of something good. 
 
 It was not without reluctance, at first, that Lanty ventured on the 
 betrayal of Mark O'Donoghue ; nor did he even consent to do so, until 
 his own safety had been threatened by Hemsworth, and also a solemn 
 promise given, that he should never be brought forward to give evi- 
 dence against him, nor exhibited before the world as an informer. This 
 was the character he most dreaded — it was the only reproach that had 
 any terror for his mind. Gradually, however, and by the frequency of 
 his revelations to Hemsworth, this dread diminished, and in proportion, 
 the fears for his own safety increased. Hemsworth's game was to make 
 him beheve that such depended solely on him — that at any moment he 
 could give information of a character sufficient to convict Mm — and by 
 this tie was he bound to a man he detested with all his hatred. After 
 much vacillation and doubt it was, that Lanty determined, whatever 
 the consequences to his fame, to make a full disclosure to Government, 
 and only bargain for his own hfe. Hemsworth's absence from Dublin 
 afforded the opportunity, and he seized it at once. Such, then, was 
 the position of affairs when Hemsworth reached the capital, and learned 
 that his agent, Lanty, was no longer at his disposition, but at that very 
 moment a prisoner in the gaol of Newgate, strict orders being given 
 that nobody was to be admitted to converse with him without the spe- 
 cial leave of the law officers of the crown. Now, although Hemsworth 
 
THE o'donoghub, 816 
 
 A&d, personally, little to fear from any disclosure Lanty might make, 
 yet his information might thwart all the plans he had so artfully de- 
 vised regarding the O'Donoghues ; the events impending that family 
 being, up to that moment, perfectly at his own direction and disposal, 
 to delay or precipitate which, constituted the essence of his policy. 
 Mark could not be brought to trial, he well knew, without exhibiting 
 himself in the light of an enemy and an accuser, he being the person 
 to whom Lanty originally communicated his informations. This hos- 
 tile part would form an impassible obstacle to any success with Kate, 
 and consequently to his great plan of obtaining the Glenflesk estate. 
 
 Hemsworth lost not a moment, after his arrival in town, in his en- 
 deavours to have an interview with Lanty ; and, being on terms of old 
 intimacy with the sheriff, at length persuaded him to grant him a brief 
 opportunity of speaking to him ; a permission, under the circumstances, 
 most reluctantly acceded. It was near nine o'clock — the latest hour at 
 which a visit to the gaol was practicable — when Hemsworth presented 
 himself, with the sheriff's order at the gate. A brief delay ensued, for 
 even on such an authority, the goaler scrupled to deviate from the 
 directions given him, and he was admitted. Following the turnkey for 
 some minutes, through passages and across courts, they reached an 
 angle of the building dedicated to the reception of those who were held 
 over by the crown as " approvers" against their former friends and 
 associates. Many of these had been in confinement several months, 
 the time not having arrived when the evidence, which they were to 
 corroborate, was perfected ; and not a few preferring the security of 
 a prison, to the dangers the character of an informer would expose 
 them, to without doors. A confused noise of voices and coarse laughter 
 was heard as they came near, and the turnkey, striking his bunch of keys 
 
 against a heavy door, called, *' Be silent there, b 1 ye, there's more 
 
 trouble with six of ye than we have with the whole condemned ward," 
 then turning to Hemsworth, he added, in a lower voice, "them chaps 
 is awaitin' a passage over seas — they've given their evidence long 
 ago, and they're not wanted now. That one with the cracked voice 
 is Cope, the fellow that tracked Parson Jackson — but here, this is your 
 man's cell — we cannot give you more than a quarter of an hour, and 
 so, don't lose anymore time." Hemsworth laid his hand on the gaoler's 
 arm as he extended it with the key. " One second — just wait one 
 second," said he, "as he pressed his fingers across his brow, and 
 seemed to reflect, then added, " Yes, that will do — open it now, and I 
 shall be ready to retire whenever you please." 
 
 Whether the sound without had drowned the noise, or that his at- 
 
31f> THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 tention was too much engaged to notice it, Lanty never stirred nor 
 looked round, as the heavy door was unbarred, and fastened again he- 
 hind Hemsworth. Seated in a recess of the window, and with his face 
 pressed against the iron bars, he was watching, with interest, the move- 
 ment in the street below, where a considerable number of people went 
 pMSt, their eyes directed upwards, to the front of the building, but 
 all view of which was impossible to him. Hemsworth stood and looked 
 at him for some minutes without speaking — he was as if calculating 
 the very thoughts of the other's brain — then advancing gently, he laid 
 his hand on Lawler's shoulder, as he said — 
 
 *' Ay, Lanty, that's the reward they get. Two of them are to be turned 
 oflf to-morrow." 
 
 " Two of whom, sir ?" asked Lanty, as, starting at the voice,~his face 
 became the colour of death. 
 
 ** I thought you knew !" said he, affecting astonishment; ** they are 
 the approvers against Bond. The Government has no use for the rascals 
 now, and it saves expense to hang them ; and so, they tried them for a 
 murder at Sallins, in March last. I hear they were not there ; but no 
 matter, they've enough to answer for, without that." 
 
 " But, sure, Mr. Hemsworth, they'll never treat their own friends 
 that way V* 
 
 " "Wouldn't they, Lanty ! You don't know them as well as I do. 
 They keep little faith with scoundrels, and more fools the scoundrels for 
 being caught ; but I mustn't lose time ; it was that very thing brought 
 me here. I heard this evening the scrape you were in.'* 
 
 ** Me, in a scrape 1" exclaimed Lanty, his eyes growing wider with 
 terror. 
 
 "To be sure' it is, and a devilish ugly scrape, too, my friend: 
 havn't you given information to the Attorney-general against the young 
 O'Donoghue?" 
 
 Lanty nodded, and he went on — 
 
 " Havn't you confessed the whole of the plot, and told them every- 
 thmg?" 
 
 ** Very nearly, faix I" said Lanty, dropping his head, and sighing. 
 
 " And what do you expect to gain by that. Master Lanty ? Is it by 
 showing that you are of no use to them — that you've nothing more 
 left in you — that you hope for a reward. Is it for the sake of your 
 family and friends, or on account of your remarkable honesty, they're 
 so fond of you?" Then checking this sneering tone, he added, in a slow 
 and solemn voice, "Are you a fool, man? — or don't you see what 
 you're bringing yourself to ? What will be your claim when the trial 
 
.^/^g:.^^^^^^/^^^-^^^^^^^^^^^/^ 
 
THE ODONOGMUE. 317 
 
 of the young O'Donoghue is over ? The crown lawyers will have jot 
 up in the witness-box till they've drained you dry. Devil a drop they'll 
 leave in you j and when they say * Go down/ take my word for it, it's 
 down you'll go in earnest ; and all the world wouldn't hft you up 
 afterwards.'* 
 
 Hemsworth permitted the words to sink into his heart for a few se- 
 conds in silence, and then went on— 
 
 " So long as you trusted me, you were safe. I'd never expose you in 
 open court." 
 
 '* No, sir, nor the Attorney-general neither. He said that all they 
 wanted was my information on oath." 
 
 " And you gave it !" exclaimed Hemsworth, in a voice of ill-dissembled 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Not all out, sir," said Lanty, with a shrewd glance of malicious in- 
 telligence. " I asked them for a copy, to read it over before I signed 
 ita and they gave me one" — ^here he produced a roll of paper from 
 his breast pocket, and showed it to Hemsworth — " and I'm to give it 
 back to-morrow, with my name to it." 
 
 "They've played you off well, Lanty," said Hemsworth, while, care- 
 lessly opening the paper, he affected not to pay it any attention. 
 " The lawyers have got round you nicely ; and, faith, I always thought 
 you a clever fellow before. Your evidence, so long as it was your own, 
 was worth five thousand pounds, and I wouldn't give five for your 
 chance of escape, now, that they know your secret." 
 
 " What would you say if they didn't know it ?" said Lanty, with a 
 look of impudent familiarity, he had never ventured on before. " What 
 would you say, now, if the best of my evidence was to come out yet ? 
 — that I never told one word about the French clipper that landed the 
 muskets in Glengariff-bay, and left two pipes of wine at your own house 
 the same night ?" 
 
 "Ah!' you'd try that game, would you?" said Hemsworth, with a 
 smile of deadly malice; "but I've thought of that part, my honest 
 Lanty. I've already given information on that very matter. You don't 
 suppose that I afforded those fellows my protection for the sake of the 
 bribe. No, faith ! — but I made them pay for the very evidence that 
 can any day convict them ; — ay, them and i/ou ; you, a paid spy of 
 France, a sworn United Irishman, who have administered the oaths to 
 eighteen soldiers of the Roscommon militia, and are at this moment under 
 a signed and witnessed contract, bound to furnish horses for a French 
 cavalry force on their landing here in Ireland. Are these truths, Mr 
 Lanty, or are they mere matters of fancy ?" 
 
318 THE O^DONOGHVE 
 
 " I'm a crown witness," said Lawler, sturdily, " and if 1 speak out 
 all I know, they're bound to protect me." 
 
 ** Who is (to bind them V said Hemsworth, jeeringly : " is it your 
 friends, the United Irishmen, that you betrayed ? — is it they are to 
 watch over your precious life? — or do you think your claims are 
 stronger with the other party, that you only swore to massacre ? Where's 
 the sympathy and protection to come from ? Tell me that, for I'n. 
 curious on the point." 
 
 Lanty turned a fierce look upon him — his eyeballs glared, and his 
 nether lip shook convulsively, wliile his hands were firmly clenched to- 
 gether. Hemsworth watched these evidences of growing anger, but 
 without seeming to regard them, when the key grated roughly in the 
 lock, the door opened, and the gaoler called out, with a savage attempt 
 at laughter — 
 
 " Time's up. I must turn you oif, sir." 
 
 " A short reprieve," said Hemsworth, humouring the ruffian jest, and 
 he pitched his purse into the fellow's hand. 
 
 " To settle family matters, I suppose," said the turnkey, with a grin, 
 as he retired, and closed the door once more. 
 
 The interruption seemed to oflfer a favourable opportunity to Hems- 
 worth of giving an amicable tuna, to the interview, for with a changed 
 voice, and a look of well-assumed friendship, he said — 
 
 " I have misspent my moments here sadly, Lanty. I came to be- 
 friend you, and not to interchange words of angry meaning. If I had 
 been in Dublin, I'm certain you would never have fallen into this peril- 
 ous position. Let us see how best to escape from it. This information — 
 I see it is all confined to young O'Donoghue's business — is of no value 
 whatever, until signed by you. It is just as if it were never spoken. 
 So that, if you steadily determine not to sign it, you need give no reason 
 whatever, but simply refuse when asked. Do this, and all's safe." 
 
 " Couldn't they transport me ?" said Lanty, in a feeble voice, but 
 whose very accent betrayed the implicit trust he reposed in Hemsworth's 
 answer. 
 
 " They'll threaten that, and worse, too ; but never flinch ; they've no- 
 thing against you save, your own evidence. When the time comes — 
 mark me, I say, when the time comes — your evidence is worth five 
 thousand pounds ; but, now, all it will do is convict young O'Donoghue, 
 and warn all the others not to go forward. I don't suppose you want 
 that ; the young fellow never did you any harm." 
 
 " Never," said Lanty, dropping his head with shame, for even in such 
 « presence his conscience smote him. 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. S19 
 
 ** Very well — there's no use in bringing him to trouble. Keep your 
 own counsel, and all will be well." 
 
 " I'm just thinking of a plan I've a notion in my head will do well," 
 said Lanty, musingly. " I'm to see Father Kearney, the priest of Luke's 
 Chapel, to-morrow morning — he's coming over to confess me. Well, 
 when the Attorney-general and the others come for me to write my name, 
 I'll just say that I dar'n't do it. I'll not tell why nor wherefore — 
 sorra word more, but this, * I dar'n't do it.' They'll think at once it's 
 the priest set me against it. I know well what they'll say. That 
 Father Kearney put me under a vow, and so they may. They'll scarcely 
 get him to say much about it, and I'll take care they won't make 
 ?/»e." 
 
 " That thought was worthy of you, Lanty," said Hemsworth, laugh- 
 ing, " but take care that you don't swerve from your determination. 
 Remember that there is no accusation against you — not a word nor a 
 syllable of testimony. Of course they'll threaten you with the worst 
 consequences. You'll be told- of prosecutions for perjury, and all that. 
 Never mind — wait patiently your time. "When the hour arrives, Vll 
 make your bargain for you, and it will not be merely the evidence 
 against an individual, but the disclosure of a great plot of rebellion, 
 they must pay you for. Cockayne got four thousand pounds and a free 
 pardon. Your services will rank far higher." 
 
 '." If they won't bring me up in 'pen court," said Lanty, timidly, 
 "I'll do whatever they please." 
 
 " For that very reason you must adhere to my advice. There, now, 
 I perceive the fellow is about to lock up for the night, and I must leave 
 this. You may want some money from time to time. I'll take means 
 of sending whatever you stand in need of. For the present, ten pounds 
 will, I suppose, be sufficient." 
 
 Lanty took the money with a mixture of humility and suUenness. He 
 felt it as a bribe rather than a gift, and he measured the services ex- 
 pected of him by the consideration they were costing. The turnkey's 
 presence did not admit of further colloquy, and they parted in mutual 
 suspicion and distrust, each speculating how far self-interest might be 
 worked upon as the guiding principle to sway the other's actions. 
 
 " I'm scarcely sure of him yet," said Hemsworth, as he slowly re- 
 turned to his hotel. " They'll stop at nothing to terrify him into 
 signing the informations, and if the prosecution goes on, and the young 
 O'Donoghue is convicted, the plot is blown up. The others will escape^ 
 and all my long-projected disclosures to the Government become useless. 
 Besides, I fail where failure is of more consequence. It was to little 
 
990 THE ODONOGHUE. 
 
 moment that I prevented a marriage between Travers and the girl, if 1 
 cannot make her my own ; but yet, that alliance should have been 
 thwarted on every ground of policy. It would have been to plant the 
 Travers here on the very spot I destine for myself. No, no. I must 
 take care that they never see Ireland more. Indeed this breaking off the 
 marriage will prove a strong obstacle to their returning." Thus did he 
 review his plans, sometimes congratulating himself on the success of the 
 past, sometimes fearing for the future, but always relying with confidence 
 on the skill of his own negociations — an ingenuity that never yet had 
 failed him in his diflficulties. 
 
 The next day was the time appointed for Lanty's final examination, 
 and on which he was to affix his name to the informations, and Hems- 
 worth loitered in one of the offices of the Castle, where the gossip of 
 the morning was discussed, in no common anxiety to hear how his 
 "protege" had acquitted himself. As the clerks and underlings 
 conversed among themselves on the dress or equipage of the officials who 
 at intervals drove ofi^ towards the Park, Hemsworth, who affected to 
 be engaged in reading a morning paper, overheard one remark to 
 another — 
 
 " There's the devil to pay at the Council. That fellow they have in 
 Newgate against Coyle and M'Nevin, and the rest of them, it seems, 
 now refuses to confirm his informations. They have good reason to 
 believe all he said was true, but they can't go on without him." 
 
 "What's the meaning of that? He was willing enough yesterday." 
 
 " They say a priest from Luke's Chapel was with him this morning, 
 and forbid him, under any number of curses and anathemas in case of. 
 disobedience, to reveal a syllable against the ' United party.* " 
 
 " They can compel him, however. Don't you remember Cockayne 
 did the very same thing about Jackson's business, and they brought him 
 over to Lord Clonmel's house, and made him sign there /" 
 
 " That they did, but they'll not try the same game twice. Curran 
 brought it out in the cross-examination, and made it appear that the 
 witness was terrified by the crown by a threat of consequences to him- 
 self as an accomplice, and the point went very far with the jury in 
 Jackson's favour." 
 
 Hemswor<3i did not wait to hear more. The great fact that Lanty 
 was firm, was all that he cared for, and, after a few casual remarks on 
 the morning news, he strolled forth, with all the lazy indifference of au 
 idle man* 
 
THK o'donoghue. 321 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 1 
 
 Among the unexplained phenomena of the period is one very remark- 
 able and, doubtless, pregnant circumstance — the species of lull or calm 
 in the movements of the United Irish party, which was conspicuous 
 througLout the entire of the summer and autumn of 1796. The spring 
 opened on them with hopes high, and expectations confident. Tone's 
 letters from Paris breathed encouragement ; the embarrassments of 
 England promised favourably for their cause ; and many who wavered 
 before, were found now willing to embrace the enterprize. To this 
 state of ardent feeling succeeded an interval of doubt and uneasiness ; 
 conflicting statements were circulated, and mens' minds were shaken, 
 without any apparent cause. A vague fear of betrayal and treachery 
 gained ground ; yet no one was able to trace this dread to any definite 
 source. The result, however, was evident in the greater caution of all 
 concerned in the scheme — a reserve, which seemed to threaten a total 
 abandonment of the undertaking ; such, at least, it appeared to those 
 who, like Mark O'Donoghue, having few or no opportunities of inter- 
 course with the leaders, were disposed to take their impressions from 
 the surface of events. As for him, his correspondence had ceased with 
 Lanty's treachery. He neither knew the real names nor addresses of 
 those to whom he had formerly written, and had not a single acquaint- 
 ance to whom he could look for advice and assistance. 
 
 All Sir Archy's endeavours to win his confidence had failed, not from 
 any distrust either in his judgment or his good faith, but because Mark 
 regarded his secret as a sacred depository, in which the honour of others 
 was concerned ; and however disposed to seek advice for himself, he would 
 not compromise their safety for the sake of his own advantage. Unable 
 to extort a confidence by entreaty, and well aware how little efficiency 
 there lay in menace. Sir Arcliy abandoned the attempt, and satisfied 
 himself by placing in Mark's hands Hemsworth's letter, significantly 
 hinting his own doubts of the writer's integrity. 
 
 Mark sat himself down in the garden, to study the epistle ; and how- 
 ever (ti tf 4^ly conceived, the experience his own career opened, displayed 
 ilU3 dishonesty of the writer ▼ Y 
 
9f^ THE o'dONOGHUC. 
 
 '' 1 t'Vi the obstacle to his plans — my presence here is somehow a 
 thwarting influence against him," said he, as he folded up the papcTw 
 " I must remain at every hazard ; nor is there much, so long as I bound 
 my wanderings by these great mountains — he will be a bolder than 
 Hemsworth who captures me here." 
 
 Guided by this one determination, and trusting that time might cleai 
 up some of the mysteries that surrounded him, Mark waited, as men 
 wait for an event that shall call upon their faculties or their courage for 
 some unusual effort. The same reverses of fortune that had taught him 
 distrust, had also inculcated the lesson of patience ; but it was the 
 patience of the Indian warrior, who will lie crouching in concealment foi 
 days long, till the moment of his vengeance has arrived. And thus, 
 while to others he seemed an altered character, less swayed by rash 
 impulses, and less carried away by anger, the curbed up passions became 
 only more concentrated by repression. He mixed little vnth the others, 
 rarely appearing save at meal times, and then, seldom taking any part in 
 the conversation around. He did not absent himself from home, as 
 before, for whole days or weeks long, but spent his time mostly in his 
 own chamber, where he read and wrote for hours — strange and unusual 
 habits for one who had never sought or found amusement save in the 
 fatigues of the hunting-field. His manner, too, was no longer the same. 
 Calmer and more self-possessed than before, he neither seemed to feel 
 momentary bursts of high spirits or depression. The tone of his mind 
 was indeed sad, but it was the sadness that indicated strength and con- 
 stancy to endure, fully as much as it betrayed the pain of suffering. 
 The altered features of his character impressed themselves on every 
 thing he did ; and there was an air of quiet gentleness in his demeanour, 
 quite foreign to his former rough and abrupt manner. Upon none did 
 these things make so great an impression as on Kate : her woman's tact 
 enabled her to see them differently, and more correctly than the rest. 
 She saw that a mighty change had come over him : that no mere check 
 of disappointment, no baffled ambition, could have done this : neither 
 could she attribute it to any feeling towards herself, for he was never 
 more coolly distant than now. She guessed, then, rightly, that it waa 
 the first step towards freedom, of a mind enthralled by its own strong 
 passicms. It was the struggling energy to be free, of a bold and daring 
 spirit, that learned at length to feel the lowering influences of ill- 
 directed ambition. How ardently she wished that some career were 
 open to him, now — some great path in life : she did not fear its dangers 
 or its trials — his nature suggested any thing save fear ! How sad to 
 think, that energy like his should be suffered to wane, and flicker, and 
 
THE o'donoghue. 323 
 
 die out. for want of the occasion to display its blaze. She could iwt 
 avoid communicating these thoughts to Sir Archy, who for som^ time 
 past had watched the growing change in the youth's manner. The old 
 man listened attentively as she spoke, and his glistening eye and height- 
 ened colour showed how her girlish enthusiasm moved him ; and while 
 some reminiscence of the past seemed to float before him, his voice trem- 
 bled as he said — 
 
 " Alas ! my sweet child, the world offers /ew opportunities like those 
 you speak of, and our political condition rejects them totally. The 
 country that would be safe, must give little encouragement to the 
 darings of youthful energy. His rewards are higher here, who seeks 
 out some path well trod and beaten, and tries by industry and superior 
 skill to pass by those who follow it also. The talents men prize are 
 those available for some purpose of every-day life. Gifts that make 
 mankind wiser and happier, these, bring fame and honour ; while the 
 meteor brilliancy of mere heroism can attract but passing wonder and 
 astonishment." 
 
 "You mistake Mark, my dear uncle — you undervalue the change 
 that is worked in his character. He is not deficient in ability, if he but 
 suffer himself to rely upon it, rather than on the casual accidents of for- 
 tune. If Herbert were but here " 
 
 " Herbert comes home to-night. I had thou^t to keep my secret 
 for a surprise, but you have wrested it from me." 
 
 " Herbert coming home ! Oh, how happy you have made me ! The 
 brothers once more together, how much each may benefit the other. 
 Nay, uncle, you must not smile thus. Superior as Herbert is in the 
 advantages that training and study impart, Mark has gifts of determi- 
 nation and resolve, as certain to win success. But, here he comes — may 
 I not tell him of Herbert's coming ?" 
 
 Sir Archy smiled and nodded, and the happy girl was the next 
 moment at Mark's side, relating with dehght her pleasant news. 
 
 Mark listened with pleasure to the intelligence. Any Uttle jealousy 
 he once felt for acquirements and attainments above his own, had long 
 since given way to a better and more brotherly feeling ; and he ardently 
 desired to meet and converse with him again. 
 
 " And yet, Kate, how altered may he be from what we knew him. 
 Who is to say the changes time may not have wrought in him ?" 
 
 ** Such are not always for the worse, Mark," said Kate, timidly, fof 
 she felt how the allusion might be taken. 
 
 A sHght tinge of red coloured Mark's cheek, and his eye was Hghted 
 
St* THE o'dONOGHUE 
 
 %-^ih R look of pleasure. He felt the flattery in all its force, but did not 
 <4ate to trust himself with a reply. 
 
 * i Tvnnder," said he, after a lengthenea pause — " i wonder how 
 Herbert may feel on seeing, once more, our wild glen. Will these giant 
 rocks and bold ravines appeal to his heart with the same sympathies as 
 ever ; or will the habits of the life he has left, cling to him still, an' 
 make him think this grandeur only desolation?" 
 
 " You did not feel so, surely, Mark ?" said Kate, as she turned upon 
 him a look of affectionate interest. 
 
 " Me ? — I think so ? No ! This valley was to me a place of rest — 
 a long sought -for haven. I came not here from the gay and brilliant 
 world, rich in fascinations and pleasures. I had not lived among the 
 great and learned, to hear the humble estimate they have of our poor 
 land. I came back here like the mariner whose bark puts back shat- 
 tered by the storm, and baffled by the winds, unable to stem the tide 
 that leads to fortune. Yes, shipwrecked in every thing." 
 
 " Herbert, Herbert," cried Kate. 
 
 At the same moment a chaise, advancing at full gallop, turned from 
 the road into the avenue towards the house. The boy caught sight of the 
 figures in the garden, flung open the door, and springing out, rushed 
 towards them. 
 
 " My dear, dear Kate," was his first exclamation, as he kissed her 
 affectionately ; his next, in a tone of unqualified surprise, was — " What 
 a fine fellow you have grown, Mark !" and the two brothers were locked 
 in each other's arms. 
 
 The sentiment which thus burst from him in the first moment of sur- 
 prise, was the very counterpart of Mark's own feeling on beholding 
 Herbert. Time had worked favourably for both. On the elder brother, 
 the stamp of manhood more firmly impressed, had given an elevation to 
 the expression of his features, and a character of composure to his air ; 
 while with Herbert, his career of study alternating with a life passed 
 among cultivated and polished circles, had converted the unformed strip- 
 ling into a youth of graceful and elegant demeanour. The change was 
 even greater in him than in his brother. In the one case it was, as it 
 were, but the growth and development of original traits of character ; in 
 the other, new and very different features were distinguishable. His 
 thoughts, his expressions, his very accent was changed; yet through 
 this his old nature beamed forth, bright, joyous, and affectionate as evec 
 It was the same spirit, although its flights were bolder and more darinA 
 — the same mind, but it^ workings more powerful and more free, Thi 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 325 
 
 one had placed his ambition so high, he scarcely dared to hope ; the 
 other had already tasted some of the enjoyments of success — life had 
 even already shed around him some of its fascinations, and quickened 
 the ardour of his temper. A winner in the race of intellect, he experi- 
 enced that thrilling ecstaSy which acknowledged superiority confers ; he 
 knew what it was to feel the mastery over others, and, even now, the 
 flame of ambition was lighted in his heart, and its warm glow tingled in 
 his veins and throbbed in every pulse. In vain should they who knew 
 him once, seek for the timid, bashful boy, that scarcely dared to make 
 an effort from very dread of failure. His flashing eye and haughty brow 
 told of victory ; still around his handsome mouth the laughing smile of 
 happy youth showed that no ungenerous feeling, no unworthy pride, 
 had yet mingled with his nature. 
 
 " They tell me you have swept the University of its prizes, Herbert — 
 is not this so ?" suid Mark, as he leaned his arm aff"ectionately on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 *' You would think but poorly of my triumphs, Mark," replied Her- 
 bert, with a smile. "The lists I fight in, peril not life or limb." 
 
 *' Still, there is honour in the game," said Mark. " Wherever there 
 is success on one side, and failure on the other — wherever there is hope 
 to win, and dread to lose — there, the ambition is never unworthy.'* 
 
 " But what of you, Mark ? Tell me of yourself. Have you left a 
 buck in the glen, or is there a stray grouse on the mountain ? What 
 have you been doing since we met ?" 
 
 Mark coloured and looked confused, when Kate, coming to the rescue, 
 replied — 
 
 "How can you ask such a question, Herbert? What variety does 
 life afford in this quiet valley ? Is it not the very test of our happiness, 
 that we can take no note of time ? But here comes my uncle." 
 
 Herbert turned at the words, and rushed to meet the old man. 
 
 " Have you won baith, Herbert," cried he — " baith premiums ? Then 
 I must gie you twa hands, my dear boy," said he, pressing him in a fond 
 embrace. " Were the competitors able ones ? Was the victory a hard 
 one ? Tell me all, every thing about it." 
 
 And the youth, with bent down head and rapid utterance, related, in 
 a low voice, the event of his examination. 
 
 "Go 'on, go on," said Sir Archy M*Nab, aloud — "tell me what fol- 
 lowed." 
 
 And Herbert resumed in the same tone as before. 
 
 " Ha !" cried Sir Archy, in an accent of irrepressible delight, " so they 
 said your Latin smacked of Scotland. They scented Aberdeen in it. 
 
THE O'dOKOGHUB^ 
 
 Well, boy, we beat tliem — they canna deny that Tte prize is our»-— 
 flie better that it was hardly fought for." 
 
 And thus they continued for some time to talk, as they walked side 
 by side through the garden ; the old man's firm step and joyous look 
 tellmg of the pride that filled his heart, while Herbert poured forth ic 
 happy confidence the long-treasured thoughts that crowded his brain ; 
 nor did they cease their converse, till Kerry came to summon the youth 
 to his father's room. 
 
 "He's awake now," said Kerry, gazing with undisguised rapture on 
 the tall and handsome youth ; and it's a proud man he ought to be this 
 day, that has the pair Hke ye." 
 
 The young men smiled at the flattery, and arm in arm took their 
 way towards the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE LULL BEFOBE THE STOBIC. 
 
 Once again assembled beneath that old roof, the various members of 
 the family seemed more than ever disposed to make present happiness 
 atone for any troubles of the past. Never was the old O'Donoghue so 
 contented j — ^never did Sir Archy feel a lighter heart. Herbert's spirits 
 were buoyant and high as present success and hope could make them ; 
 and Kate, whatever doubts might secretly have weighed upon her 
 mind, did her utmost to contribute to the general joy ; — while Mark, 
 over whose temperament a calmer and less variable habit of thought 
 prevailed, seemed at least more reconciled to his fortunes. 
 
 The influences of tranquiUity that prevailed over the land appeared to 
 have breathed their soothing sway over that humble dwelling, where life 
 rolled on like an unruffled stream, each day happy with that monotony 
 of enjoyment, so delicious to all whose minds have ever been tortured 
 by the conflicting cares of the world. 
 
 Formany a year long the O'Donoghue had not been so freefrora troubles. 
 The loan he had contracted on Kate's fortune had reheved him from 
 
THE o'donoghue 327 
 
 his most pressing embarrassments, and left him money enough to keex) 
 other creditors at bay. Sir Archy felt already he had received the ear- 
 nest of that success he so ardently desired for Herbert, and in the calm 
 of poHtical life, hoped that the rash scheme in which Mark had em- 
 barked was even now becoming forgotten ; and that the time was not 
 far remote when no memory of it would be treasured against him. His 
 own experience taught him, that sage lessons may be gathered from the 
 failures and checks of youthful ambition, and in the changed features of 
 Mark's character he augured most favourably for the future. But of 
 all those on whom happier prospects shone, none revelled in the enjoy- 
 ment so much as Herbert. The fascinations of that new world, of which 
 he had only caught a glimpse, hung over him like a dream. Life 
 opened for him at a moment when he himself had won distinction, 
 while a new passion stirred his heart, and stimulated hope to the utmost. 
 Kate, his companion throughout every day, was not slow to perceive the 
 lurking secret of his thoughts, and soon led him to confide them to her. 
 Herbert had never heard of Frederick Travers's attachment to his 
 cousin, still less, suspected he had made a proposal of marriage to her. 
 The studied avoidance of their names among his own family was 
 a mystery he could not solve, and he referred to Kate for the 
 explanation. 
 
 " How strange, Kate," said he, one day, as they wandered along the 
 glen somewhat further than usual, " how singular is this silence respect- 
 ing the Travers's ! I can make nothing of it. If I speak of them, no one 
 speaks again — if I allude to them, the conversation suddenly stops. 
 Tell me, if you know it, the secret of all this." 
 
 Kate blushed deeply, and muttered something about old and half- 
 remembered grudges, but he interrupted her quickly, saying— 
 
 " This can scarcely be the reason ; — at least their feehngs show nc« 
 thing of the kind towards us. Sybella talks of you as a sister nearest 
 to her heart. Sir Marmaduke never spoke of you, but with the 
 warmest terms of affection, and if the gay Guardsman did not express 
 himself on the subject, perhaps it was because he felt the more 
 deeply." 
 
 Kate's cheek grew deeper scarlet, and her breathing more hurried, 
 but she made no reply. 
 
 " My explanation," continued Herbert, more occupied with his own 
 thoughts than attentive to his companion, '' is this ; — and, to be sure, 
 it is a very sorry explanation which elucidates nothing ; — that Hems- 
 worth is somehow at the bottom of it all. Sybella told me what per- 
 suasions he employed to prevent her father returning to Glenflesk j and 
 
328 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 when every thing Hke argument failed, that he actually, under pre- 
 tence of enlarging the house, rendered the existing part uninhabitable." 
 
 "But what object could he have in this?" said Kate, who felt that 
 Herbert was merely nourishing the old prejudices of his family against 
 Hemsworth. " He is anxious for the peace and welfare of this coun- 
 try — he grieves for the poverty and privations of the people, and whe- 
 ther he be correct or not, deems the remedy, the residence amongst them 
 of a cultivated and wealthy proprietary, writh intelligence to perceive, 
 and ability to redress their grievances.'* 
 
 ** Very true, Kate," replied Herbert ; " but don't you see that in these 
 very requisites of a resident gentry, he does not point at the Travers 
 family, whose ignorance of Ireland he often exposed when affecting to 
 eulogise their knowledge. The qualities he recommends he believes to 
 be his own." 
 
 " No, Herbert, you wrong him there," said she, warmly ; " he told 
 me himself the unceasing regret he suffered, that, in his humble sphere, 
 all efforts for the people's good were ineffectual — that, wanting the in- 
 fluence which property confers, benefits from his hands became sus- 
 pected, and measures of mere justice were regarded as acts of cruelty 
 and oppression." 
 
 " Well, I only know that such is Frederick Travers' s opinion of him," 
 said Herbert, not a little piqued at Kate's unexpected defence of their 
 ancient enemy. " Frederick told me himself that he would never cease 
 until his father promised to withdraw the agency from him. Indeed, 
 he is only prevented from pressing the point, because Hemsworth ha? 
 got a long lease of part of the estate, which they desire to have bad' 
 again on any terms. The land was let at a nominal rent, as being al- 
 most valueless. The best part of the valley it turns out to be ! — the 
 very approach to " the Lodge" passes through it — so that, as Frederick 
 says, they could not reach their hall-door without a trespass, if Hems- 
 worth pleased to turn sulky." 
 
 Kate felt there might be another and more correct explanation of 
 Frederick's dislike, but she did not dare to hint at it. 
 
 "You are too favourable in your opinion of Hemsworth, Kate. Sy- 
 bella said as much to me herself." 
 
 " Sybella said so?" said Kate, as a flush, half of shame, half of dis- 
 pleasure, mantled her cheek. 
 
 " Yes," cried Herbert, for he felt that he was in a difiiculty, and there 
 was no way out save the bold one, of right through it; "yes, she saw what 
 you did not, that Hemsworth had dared to hft his eyes to you — that all 
 his displays of patriotic sentiment were o-ot up to attract your favourable 
 
THE o'donoghue. 329 
 
 notice, and that in his arguments with Frederick about Ireland, his whole 
 aim was to expose the Guardsman's ignorance, and throw ridicule upon 
 it, neither seeking to convey sound notions, nor combat erroneous im- 
 pressions." 
 
 *' Captain Travers was but too easy a mark for such weapons," said 
 Kate, angrily. " It was his pleasure to make Ireland the object of 
 his sarcasm." 
 
 " So Hemsworth contrived it !" cried Herbert, eagerly, for it was 
 a subject of which he had long been anxious to speak, and one he had 
 heard much of from Sybella. *' I know well the game he played, and how 
 successfully too.'* 
 
 Kate blushed deeply ; for a moment she believed that her own secret 
 was known to Herbert, but the next instant she was reassured that all 
 was safe. 
 
 " Sybella told me how he actually lay in wait for opportunities to en- 
 tice Frederick into discussion before you, well knowing the themes that 
 would irritate him, and calculating how far petty refutations, and half- 
 suppressed sneers would embarrass and annoy him — the more, because 
 Frederick saw how much more favourably you regarded Hemsworth' s 
 sentiments than his own ; and, indeed, sometimes I fancied, Kate, it 
 was a point the Guardsman was very tender about ; — nay, sweet cousin, 
 I would not say a word to offend you." 
 
 " Then, do not speak of this again, Herbert," said she, in a low voice. 
 
 " It is a luckless land," said Herbert, sighing. " They who know 
 it well are satisfied with the cheap patriotism of declaiming on its 
 wrongs. They who feel most acutely for its sorrows, are, for the most 
 part, too ignorant to alleviate them. I begin to think my uncle is quite 
 right — that the best thing we could do would be to make a truce — to 
 draw the game — for some twenty or thirty years, and try if the new 
 generation might not prove wiser in expedients than their fathers." 
 
 "A luckless land, indeed!" said Mark, who, coming up at the mo- 
 ment, had overheard the last words. " You were right to call it so — 
 Inhere the son of an O'Donoghue sees no more glorious path to follow 
 than that of a hollow compromise !" 
 
 Kate and Herbert started as he spoke, and while her face flashed 
 with an emotion of mingled pride and shame, Herbert looked abashed, 
 and almost angry at the reproach. 
 
 *' Forgive me, Herbert," said Mark, in a voice of deep melancholy. 
 " Not even this theme should sow a difference between us. I came to 
 bid you good-bye." 
 
 ** Good-bye, Mark ?" criea Kate, starting with terrified surprise. 
 
f|0 «Bti o'donoghue. 
 
 " Goinj to leave us^ Mark !" exclaimed Herbert, in an accent of true 
 sorrow. 
 
 "It is but for a few days— at least I hope that it will be no more,'' 
 said Mark. But I have received intelligence that makes it necessary for 
 me to remain in concealment for a short time. You see, Herbert," said 
 he, laughing, " that your theory has the advantage on the score of pru- 
 dence. Had I followed it, the chances are, I should not have occupied 
 the attention of his Majesty's Privy Council." 
 
 "The Privy Council ! I don't understand this, Mark.'* 
 
 " Perhaps this is the easiest mode of explaining it," said Mark, as 
 he unfolded a printed paper, headed " Treason — Reward for the appre- 
 hension of Mark O'Donoghue, Esq., or such information as may lead 
 to his capture." " Is that enough ? Come, come — I have no time for 
 long stories just now. If you want to hear mine about the matter, 
 you must visit me at my retreat — the low shealing at the west of 
 Hungry Mountam. At least, for the present I shall remain there. 
 
 " But is this necessary, Mark ? Are you certain that any thing 
 more is meant than to threaten?" said Kate. 
 
 ** I believe that Carrig-na-curra will be searched by a military force 
 to-night, or to-morrow at farthest — that the bribe has tempted three or 
 four — ^none of our people — don't mistake me — to set on my track. If 
 my remaining would spare my father's house the indignity of a search — 
 or if the country had any better cause at heart than that of one so 
 valueless as I am, I would stay, Kate " 
 
 "No, no, Mark. This were but madness, unworthy of you, unjust 
 to all who love you." 
 
 The last few words were uttered so faintly, as only to be heard by him 
 alone; and as she spoke them a heavy tear rolled down her cheek, now 
 pale as marble. 
 
 " But surely, Mark," said Herbert, who never suspected any thing 
 of his brother's intrigues, "this must proceed on mere falsehood. 
 There is no charge against you — ^you, whose life of quiet retirement here 
 can defy any calumny." 
 
 " But not deny the truth," said Mark, with a sorrowful smile. 
 " Once for all, I cannot speak of these things now. My time is run- 
 ning fast ; and already my guide, yonder, looks impatient at my delay. 
 Remember the shealing at the foot of the mountain. If there be any 
 mist about, you have but to whistle." 
 
 " Is poor Terry your guide, then ?" said Kate, affecting to smile with 
 some semblance of tranquilUty. 
 
 "My guide and my host both," said Mark, gaily. "It's th 
 
THE O'dONOGHUE. 331 
 
 invitation I have received for Christmas, and I accept it most will- 
 ingly, I assure you." 
 
 An impatient gesture of Terry's hand, as he stood on a small pinnacle 
 of rock, about fifty feet above the road, attracted Mark's attention^ and 
 he called out — 
 
 "Well!— what is it?" 
 
 "The dragoons!'* shouted Terry, in a terrified voice. "They're 
 crossing the ford at Caher-mohill, two miles off — eight, nine, ten — ay, 
 there's twelve now, over ; and the fellow in the dark coat, he's another. 
 Wait! they're asking the way : that's it, I'm sure. Well done! — my 
 blessing be an ye this day, whoever ye are. May I never ! if he's not 
 sending them wrong ! They're down the glen towards Killarney ;" and 
 as he finished speaking he sprang from the height, and hastened down 
 the precipice at a rate that seemed to threaten destruction at every 
 step. 
 
 " Even so, Terry. We have not more time than we need. It's a 
 long journey to the west of the mountain ; and so, good-bye, my dear 
 cousin. Good-bye, Herbert. A short absence it will be, I trust ;" and, 
 tearing himself away hurriedly, lest any evidence of emotion might be 
 seen, the young man ascended the steep pathway after Terry ; nor did 
 he turn his head round, until distance enabled him to look down unno- 
 ticed, when again he cried out " Farewell ! Remember the west side 
 of Hungry !" and waving his cap, disappeared, while Herbert and hi* 
 «ousin wended their sorrowful wav homeward. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 "A DISOOVBEY." 
 
 When Kate arrived at home, she found a note awaiting her, in Hems- 
 worth's hand-writing, and marked " haste." Guessing at once to what 
 it must refer, she broke the seal, with an anxious heart, and read : — 
 
 " My dear Madam, 
 
 " I have been unable to retard any longer the course of proceedings 
 against your cousin. It would seem that the charges against him are 
 
I3i 
 
 far more grave and menacing than either of us anticipated, at least io 
 far as I can collect from the information before me. The Privy Council 
 as determined on arresting him at once. Orders to support the war- 
 rant by a mihtary foice have been transmitted to officers commanding 
 parties in different towns of the south, and there is no longer a question 
 of the intentions of the crown regarding him. But one, of two, chances 
 is now open to him — to surrender and take his trial — or, should he, as 
 he may, without any imputation on his courage, dread this, to make 
 his escape to the coast, near Kenmare, where a lugger will lie off, on 
 "Wednesday night. By this means he will be able to reach some port 
 in France or Flanders ; or, probably, should the wind change, obtain 
 protection from some of the American vessels, which are reported as 
 cruising to the westward. 
 
 " In making this communication to you, I need scarcely observe the 
 implicit faith I repose in the use you make of it. It is intended to be 
 the means of providing for your cousin's safety — but should it, by any 
 accident, fall under other eyes than yours, it would prove the inevitable 
 ruin of your very devoted servant, 
 
 "Wm. Hemsworth." 
 
 " And they will not believe this man's integrity ?" exclaimed Kate, 
 as she finished reading the note. " He who jeopardies his own station 
 and character for the sake of one actually his enemy ! Well, their in- 
 justice shall not involve my honor. " Was it you brought this letter ?" 
 said she to Wylie, who stood, hat in hand, at the door. 
 
 '* Yes, my lady, and I was told there might, perhaps, be an answer." 
 
 " No — there is none ; say * very well' — that I have read it. Where 
 is Mr. Hemsworth ?'* 
 
 " At Macroom. There was a meeting of magistrates there, which de- 
 layed him, and he wrote this note, and sent me on, instead of coming 
 iumself." 
 
 " Say, that I shall be happy to see him — that's enough," said Kate, 
 hurriedly, and turned back again into the house. 
 
 Through all the difficulties that beset her path hitherto, she had 
 found Sir Archy an able and a wilHng adviser ; but now, the time was 
 come, when not only must she act independently of his aid, but, per- 
 haps, in actual opposition to his views — taking for her guidance one 
 distrusted by almost every member of her family. Yet what alterna- 
 tive remained — how betray Hemsworth's conduct in a case which, if 
 known, must exhibit him as false to the Government, and acting secretly 
 against the very orders that were given to him ? This, she could not 
 
THE o'donoghue. 333 
 
 think of, and thus by the force of circumstances, was constrained tc 
 accept of Hemsworth as an ally. Her anxious deliberations on t'na 
 score were suddenly interrupted by the sound of horses galloping on the 
 road, and as she looked out, the individual in question rode up tb? 
 causeway, followed by his groom. 
 
 The O'Donoghue was alone in the drawing-room, musing over the 
 sad events which necessitated Mark's concealment, when Hemswortl^ 
 entered, heated by a long and fast ride. 
 
 " Is your son at home, sir — ^your eldest son ?" said he, as soon as i 
 very brief greeting was over. 
 
 " If you'll kindly ring that bell, which my gout won't permit me 
 to reach, we'll inquire," said the old man, with a well-affected indiffe- 
 rence. 
 
 •' I must not create any suspicion among the servants," said Hem-s- 
 worth, cautiously, " I have reason to believe that some danger is inw 
 pending over him, and that he had better leave this house for a day or 
 two." 
 
 The apparent frankness of the tone in which he spoke, threw the 
 O'Donoghue completely off his guard, and taking Hems worth's hand, 
 he said — 
 
 " Thank you sincerely for this, the poor boy got wind of it this morn- 
 ing, and I trust before now, has reached some place of safety for the 
 present — but what steps can we take ? — is there anything you can ad- 
 vise us to do ? — I'm really so bewildered by all I hear, and so doubtfu\ 
 of what is true and what false, that I'm incapable of an opinion. Here 
 comes the only clear head amongst us. Kate, my sweet child, Mr. 
 Hemsworth, like a kind friend, has come over about this affair of Mark's 
 — will you and Sir Archy talk it over with him ?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon for the interruption, sir, but I must recall is 
 your memory that I am a magistrate, charged with your son's arrest, 
 and if by an unguarded expression," here he smiled significantly, 
 " I have betrayed my instructions — I rely on your honour not to expose 
 me to the consequences.'* 
 
 The O'Donoghue listened, without thoroughly comprehending the 
 distinction the other aimed at, and then, as if disliking the trouble of 
 a thought that puzzled him — he shook his head and muttered, " Aye, 
 very well — ^be it so — my niece knows these matters better than I do." 
 
 "I agree with that opinion, perfectly," said Hemsworth, in an under- 
 tone, " and if Miss O'Donoghue will favor me with her company for a 
 few minutes in the garden, I may be able to assist her to a clear under- 
 standing of the case." Kate smiled asseotingly, and Hemsworth 
 
334 THE O'DONOGHUi:. 
 
 9ii3^aS towards the door and opened it ; and then, as if after a momciH 
 tary struggle vdth his own diffidence, he offered her his arm ; this Kate 
 declined, and they walked along, side by side. 
 
 They had nearly reached the middle of the garden before Hemsworth 
 broke silence. At last he said, with a deep sigh — " I fear we are too 
 late Miss O'Donoghue. The zeal, real or affected, of the country ma- 
 gistrates, has stimulated them to the utmost. There are spies over 
 the whole country — ^he will inevitably be taken." 
 
 Kate re-echoed the last words in an accent of deep anguish, and was 
 silent. 
 
 " Yes," resumed he, " escape is all but impossible — for even if he 
 should get to sea, there are two cruisers on the look-out for any suspi- 
 cious sail. 
 
 " And what if he were to surrender and stand his trial," said Kate, 
 boldly. 
 
 Hemsworth shook bis head sorrowfully, but never spoke. 
 
 **What object can it be with any Government to hunt down a rash, 
 inexperienced youth, whose unguarded boldness has led him to ruin ? 
 On whom would such an example tell, or where would the lesson spread 
 terror, save beneath that old roof yonder, where sorrows are rife enough 
 already ?" 
 
 ** The correspondence with France — that's his danger. The inter- 
 course with the disturbed party at home might be palliated by his youth 
 — the foreign conspiracy admits of little apology." 
 
 " And what evidence have they of this ?" 
 
 «*Alas ! but too much — the table of the Privy Council was actually 
 covered with copies of letters and documents — some, written by himself 
 — almost all, referring to him as a confidential and trusty agent of the 
 cause. This cannot be forgiven him ! When I heard a member of the 
 Council say, * Jackson's blood is dried up already,' I guessed the dread- 
 ful result of this young man's capture. 
 
 Kate shuddered at these words, which were uttered in a faint tone, 
 tremulous through emotion. " Oh, God," she cried, " do not let this 
 calamity fall upon ns. Poverty, destitution, banishment, anything, 
 save the death of a felon I'* 
 
 Hemsworth pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, and looked away, 
 as the young girl, with upturned face, muttered a brief but fervent 
 prayer to heaven. 
 
 " But you, so gifted and experienced in the world's ways," cried shc^ 
 turning on him a glance of imploring meaning — " can you not think ol 
 anything ? Is there no means, however difficult and dangerous, hf 
 
THE 0*D0N0GHT7E. .^35 
 
 which he might be saved ? Could not the honor of. an ancient house 
 plead for him ? Is there no pledge for the future could avail him." 
 
 " There is but one such pledge — and that" — here he stopped and 
 blushed deeply, and then, as if by an effort, resumed — " Do not, I 
 beseech you, tempt me to utter what if once spoken, decides the des- 
 tiny of my life V 
 
 He ceased, and she bent on him a look of wondering astonish- 
 ment. She thought she had not heard him aright, and amid her fears 
 of some vague kind, a faint hope struggled, that a chance of saving 
 Mark yet remained. Perhaps, the mere expression of doubt her fea- 
 tures assumed, was more chilling than even a look of displeasure, for 
 Hemsworth's self possession, for several minutes, seemed to have de- 
 serted him ; when, at last recovering himself, he said — 
 
 " Pray, think no more of my words, I spoke them rashly. I know 
 of no means of befriending this young man. He rejected my counseU 
 when they might have served him. I find how impossible it is to win 
 confidence from those whose prejudices have been fostered in adverse 
 circumstances. Now, I am too late— my humble task is merely to 
 offer you some advice, which the day of calamity may recall to your 
 memory. The Government intends to make a severe example of his 
 case. I heard so much, by accident, from the Under Secretary. They 
 will proceed, in the event of his conviction — of which there cannot be 
 a doubt — to measures of confiscation regarding his property — timely 
 intervention might be of service here." 
 
 This additional threat of misfortune did not seem to present so 
 many terrors to Kate's mind as he calculated on its producing. She 
 stood silent and motionless, and appeared scarcely to notice his words. 
 
 " I feel how barbarous such cruelty is to an old and inoffensive pa- 
 rent," said Hemsworth, " whose heart is rent by the recent loss of a 
 son." 
 
 " He must not die," said Kate, with a hollow voice, and her pale 
 cheek trembled with a convulsive motion. **Mark must be saved, 
 What was the pledge you hinted at ?" 
 
 Hemsworth's eyes flashed, and his lip curled with an expression of 
 triumph. The moment, long sought, long hoped for, had at length 
 arrived, which should gratify both his vengeance and his ambition. 
 The emotion passed rapidly away, and his features assumed a look of 
 subdued sorrow. 
 
 " I fear, Miss O'Donoghue," said he, " that my hope was but nke 
 the straw which the drowning hand will grasp at ; but, tortured as my 
 mmd has been by expedients, which more mature thought has ever 
 
!»30 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 discovered to be impracticable, I suffered myself to believe that posav 
 ble, which my own heart forbids me to hope for." 
 
 He waited a few seconds to give her an opportunity of speaking, bi* 
 she was silent, and he went on — 
 
 " The guarantee I alluded to would be the pledge of one, whose loyalty 
 to the Government stands above suspicion; one, whose services have 
 met no requital, but whose reward only awaits the moment of demanding 
 it ; such a one as this might make his own character and fortune the 
 recognizance for this young man's conduct, and truck the payment of 
 his own services for a free pardon.'* 
 
 " And who is there thus highly placed, and willing to befriend us.** 
 
 Hemsworth laid his hand upon his heart, and bowing with deep 
 humility, uttered, in a low, faint voice — 
 
 " He who now stands before you !" 
 
 " You," cried Kate, as clasping her hands in an ecstacy, she fixed 
 her tearful eyes upon him. "You would do this?" Then gromng sud- 
 denly pale, as a sick shudder came over her, she said, in a deep and 
 broken voice, " At what price, sir V* 
 
 The steady gaze she fixed upon him seemed to awe and abash him, 
 and it was with unfeigned agitation that he now spoke. 
 
 " A price which the devotion of a life long could not repay. Alas ! 
 a price I dare no more aspire to, than hope for." 
 
 " Speak plainly, sir," said Kate, in a firm, collected tone, " this is 
 not a moment for misconception. What part have I to play in this 
 compact, for by your manner I suppose you include me in it ?" 
 
 *' Forgive me, young lady, I have not courage to place the whole for- 
 tunes of my life upon one cast ; already I feel the heaviness of heart 
 that heralds in misfortune. I would rather live on with even this faint 
 glimmer of hope than with the darkness of despair for ever." His 
 hands dropped powerless at his side, his head fell forward on his bosom, 
 and as if without an effort of his will, almost unconsciously his lips 
 muttered the words, *' I love you." 
 
 Had the accents been the sting of an adder they could not have called 
 up an expression of more painful meaning than flashed over Kate's 
 features. 
 
 " And this, then, is the price you hinted at — this was to be the com- 
 pact." 
 
 The proud look of scorn she threw upon him evoked no angry feel- 
 ing in his breast, he seemed overwhelmed by sorrow, and did not dare 
 even to look up. 
 
 *• You judge me hardly, unfairly too ; I never meant my intercessioa 
 
THE O'nONOGHUE 33? 
 
 t^'TjLi be purchased — humble as I am, I should be still more unworthy, 
 bad I harboured sach a thought ; my hope was this, to make my in- 
 tervention available, I should show myself linked with the fortunes of 
 that house I tried to save — it should be a case, where, personally, 
 my own interest was at stake, and where my fortune, all I possessed in the 
 world was in the scale, if you consented" — here he hesitated, foltered, 
 and finally became silent, then passing his hands across his eyes, re- 
 sumed more rapidly — **but I must not speak of this ; alas ! that mj 
 tongue should have ever betrayed it ;, you have forced my secret from 
 me, and with it my happiness for ever — forget this, I beseech you for- 
 get that, even in a moment so unguarded, I dared to lift my eyes to the 
 shrine my heart has worshipped. I ask no pledge, no compact, 1 will 
 do my utmost to save this youth ; I will spare no exertion or influ- 
 ence I possess with the Government ; I will make his pardon the re- 
 compense due to myself, but if that be impossible, I will endeavour 
 to obtain connivance at his escape, and all the price I ask for this is, 
 your forgiveness of my presumption." 
 
 Kate held out her hand towards himj while a smile of bewitching 
 loveliness played over her features ; "this is to be a friend indeed," said 
 she. 
 
 Hemsworth bent down his head till his lips rested on her fingers, 
 and as he did so, the hot tears trickled on her hand, then suddenly 
 starting up, he said, " I must lose no time ; where shall I find your 
 cousin ? — in what part of the country has he sought shelter ?" 
 
 " The shealing at the foot of Hungry mountain, he mentioned to 
 Herbert as the rendezvous for the present." 
 
 " Is he alone — has he no companion ?" 
 
 " None, save, perhaps, the idiot boy who acts as his guide in the 
 mountains." 
 
 " Farewell then," said Hemsworth, *'you shall soon hear what suc- 
 cess attends my efforts ; farewell" — and, without waiting for more, he 
 hastened from the spot, and was soon heard descending the causeway 
 at a rapid pace. 
 
 Kate stood for r; few moments lost in thought, and as the sound of 
 the retreating hoofs aroused her, she looked up, and muttering to her- 
 self, " It was nobly done," returned with slow steps to the house. 
 
 As Hemsworth spurred his horse, and urged him to his fastest 
 speed, expressions of mingled triumph and vengeance burst from him 
 at intervals — " Mine at last," cried he — " miae in spite of every obstacle, 
 —Fortune is seldom so kind as this — vengeance and ambition both 
 gratified together — me, whom they dispised for my poverty, and my 
 
 z 
 
338 THE o'eonoghue. 
 
 low birth — ^that it should be my destiny to crush them to tae d&st." 
 These words were scarcely uttered, when his horse, pressed bejoiii 
 his strength, stumbled over a rut in the road, aud fell heavily to the 
 ground, throwing his rider under him. 
 
 For a long time no semblance of consciousness returned, and the 
 groom, fearing to leave him, had to wait for hours until a country 
 car should pass, in which his wounded master might be laid. There 
 came one by at last, and on this Hemsworth was laid, and brought 
 back to " the Lodge." Before he peached home, however, sense had so 
 far returned, as, that he felt his accident was attended with no serious 
 injury ; the shock of the fall was the only circumstance of any gravity. 
 
 The medical man of Macroom was soon with him, and partly confirmed 
 his own first impressions, but strictly enjoining rest and quiet, as in the 
 event of any imusual excitement, the worst consequences might ensue, 
 Hemsworth bore up under the injnnction with all the seeming fortitude 
 he could muster, but in his heart he cursed the misfortime that thus 
 delayed the hour of his long-sought vengeance. 
 
 ** This may continue a week, then ?" cried he, impatiently. 
 
 The doctor nodded an assent. 
 
 " Two — three weeks, perhaps 1" 
 
 " It will be a month, at least, before I can pronounce you out of 
 danger," said the physician, gravely. 
 
 " A month ! Great Heaven ! — a month ! And what are the dan- 
 gers you apprehend, in the event of my not submitting ?" 
 
 " There are several, and very serious ones — inflammation of the 
 brain, fever, derangement even." 
 
 " Yes, and are you sure this confinement will not drive me mad ?" 
 cried he, passionately ; " will you engage that my brain will hold out 
 against the agenizing thoughts that will not cease to torture me all 
 this while ? — or can you promise that events shall stand still for the 
 moment when I can r*isume my place once more among men V 
 
 The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only a more 
 certain evidence of the truth of the medical fears; and, without ven- 
 turing on any direct reply, the doctor gave some directions for his treat- 
 ment, and withdrew. 
 
 The physician's apprehensions were well founded. The first few 
 hours after the accident seemed to threaten nothing serious, but as 
 night fell, violent headache and fever set in, and before day-break, he 
 was quite delirious. 
 
 No sooner did the news reach Carrig-na-curra, than Kerry was dis« 
 patched to bring back tidings of his state ; for, however difierent the 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 339 
 
 estimation in which he was held by each, one universal feeling per- 
 vaded all — of sorrow for his disaster. Day after day. Sir Archy or 
 Herbert went over to inquire after him ; but some chronic feature of 
 his malady seemed to have succeeded, and he lay in one unvarying con- 
 dition of lethargic unconsciousness. 
 
 In this way, week after week glided over, and the condition of the 
 country seemed like that of the sick man — one of slumbering apathy. 
 The pursuit of Mark, so eagerly begun, had, as it were, died out. The 
 proclamations of reward, torn down by the country people on their 
 first appearance, were never renewed, and the military party, after an 
 ineftectual search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards 
 towards Tralee, and soon after returned to head -quarters. Still, with all 
 these signs of security, Mark, whose short experience of life, had taught 
 him caution, rarely ventured near Carrig-na-curra, and never passed 
 more than a lew moments beneath his father's roof. 
 
 While each had a foreboding that this calm was but the lull that 
 preludes a storm, their apprehensions took very different and opposing 
 courses. Kate's anxieties increased with each day of Hemsworth's ill- 
 ness ; she saw the time gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, 
 and yet knew not how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, coup- 
 ling the activity with which Mark's pursuit was first undertaken, with 
 the sudden visit of Hemsworth to the country, and the abandonment 
 of all endeavours to capture him, vhich followed on Hemsworth's ac- 
 cident, felt strong suspicion that the agent was the prime mover in 
 the whole affair, and that his former doubts were well founded regard- 
 ing him ; while Herbert, less informed than either on the true state 
 of matters, formed opinions which changed and vacillated with each 
 day's experience. 
 
 In this condition of events. Sir Archy had gone over one morning 
 alone, to inquire after Hemsworth, whose case, for some days preceding, 
 was more than usually threatening — symptoms of violent delirium 
 having succeeded to the dead lethargy in which he was sunk. Buried 
 deeply in his conjectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, 
 and how far his motives tallied with honourable intentions, the old 
 man plodded wearily on, weighing every word he could remember that 
 bore upon events, and carefully endeavouring to divest his mind of evei^ 
 thing like a prejudice. Musing thus, he accidentally diverged from the 
 regular approach, and turned off into a narrow path, which led to the 
 back of "the Lodge ;" nor was he aware of his mistake, till he saw, at the 
 end of the walk, the large window of a room he remembered as be- 
 longing to the former building. The sash was open, but the curtain* 
 
340 
 
 were drawn closely, so as to intercept any view from within or witliont. 
 He observed these things, as fatigued by an unacctistomed exertion, he 
 seated himself, for some moments' rest, on a bench beneath the trees. 
 
 A continuous, low, moaning sound soon caught his ear ; he listened, 
 and could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of a sick man, accom- 
 panied as it was by long-drawn sighs. There were voices, also, of per- 
 sons speaking cautiously together, and the words, " He is asleep at 
 last," were plainly audible, after which the door closed, and all was still. 
 
 The solemn awe which great illness inspires was felt in all its force 
 by the old man, as he sat like one spell-bound, and unable to depart. 
 The labouring respiration that seemed to bode the ebb of life, made 
 his own strong heart tremble, for he thought how, in his last hours, he 
 might have wronged him. "Oh! if I have been unjust — if I have 
 followed him to the last with ungenerous doubt — forgive me, Heaven j 
 even now my own heart is half my accuser ;" and his lips murmured 
 a deep and fervent prayer, for that merciful benevolence, which, in his 
 frail nature, he denied to another. He arose from his knees with a spirit 
 calmed, and a courage stronger, and was about to retire, when a sud- 
 den cry from the sick room arrested his steps. It was followed by 
 another more shrill and piercing still, and then a horrid burst of 
 frantic laughter : dreadful as the anguish-wrung notes of suffering — how 
 little do they seem in comparison with the sounds of mirth from the 
 lips of madness I 
 
 "There — there," cried a voice, he at once knew as Hemsworth's — 
 "that's him, that's your prisoner — make sure of him now; remember 
 your orders, men ! — do you hear ; if they attempt a rescue, load with 
 ball, and fire low — mind that, fire low. Ah! you are pale enough 
 DOW ;" and again the savage laughter rung out. " Yes, madam," 
 continued he, in a tone of insolent sarcasm, " every respect shall be 
 shown him — a chair in the dock — a carpet on the gallows. You shall 
 wear mourning for him — all the honeymoon, if you fancy it. Yes," 
 screamed he, in a wild and frantic voice, " this is like revenge ! You 
 struck me once — you called me coarse plebeian, too ! We shall be able 
 to see the blood you are proud of — aye, the blood ! the blood !" — and 
 then, as if worn out by exhaustion, he heaved a heavy sigh, and fell 
 into deep moaning as before. 
 
 Sir Archy, who felt in the scene a direct acknowledgment of his 
 appeal to Heaven, drew closer to the window, and listened. Gradually, 
 and like one awaking from a heavy slumber, the sick man stretched his 
 limbs, and drew a long sigh, whose groaning accent spoke cf great 
 debihty j and then, starting up in his bed, shouted — 
 
4^xC4^y'yy %. 
 
 :v^:; 
 
 /y 
 
THE o'donoghue. 341 
 
 " It is, it is the King's warrant — who dares to oppose it. Ride iu 
 faster, men — faster ; keep together here, the west side of the mountain. 
 There — there, yonder, near the heach. Who was that spoke of pardon ? 
 Never ; if he resists, cut him down. Ride for it, men, ride ;" and n 
 his mad excitement, he arose from his bed, and gained the floor. 
 ** There — that's him yonder ; he has taken to the mountains ; five hun- 
 dred guineas to the hand that grasps him first," and he tottered to the 
 window, and tearing aside the curtain, looked out. 
 
 Worn and wasted, with beard unshaven for weeks long, and eyes 
 glistening with the lustre of insanity, the expression of his features ac- 
 tually chilled the heart's blood of the old man, as he stood almost at his 
 side, and unable to move away. For a second or two Hemsworth gazed on 
 the other, as if some struggling effort of recognition was labouring in 
 his brain ; and then, with a mad struggle he exclaimed — 
 
 " They were too late ; the Council gave but eight days. I suppressed 
 the proclamation in the south. Eight days — after that, no pardon — in 
 this world at least" — and a fearful grin of malice convulsed his features ; 
 then with an altered accent, and a faint smile, from which sickness tore 
 its oft-assumed dissimulation, he said, " I did every thing to persuade 
 him to surrender — to accept the gracious favour of the crovra ; but he 
 would not — no, he would not !" — and, with another burst of laughter, 
 he staggered back into the room, and fell helpless on the floor. Sir 
 Archy was in no compassionate mood at the moment, and without be- 
 stowmg a thought on the sufferer, he hastened down the path, and 
 with all the speed of which he was capable, returned to Carrig-na-curra. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE S HEALING. 
 
 Sir Archy's manner, so precise and xneasured in every occasion of 
 life, had undergone a very marked change before he arrived at Carrig- 
 na-curra ; exclamations broke from him at every moment, mingled with 
 fervently expressed hopes, that he might not be yet too late to rescue 
 Mark from his peril. The agitation of his mind and the fatigue of liis 
 
^4 THE O'dONOGHUE. 
 
 m the drawing-room, fortunately contributed to this end, and induced 
 both the O'Donoghue and Kate to beheve that, whatever the nature of the 
 tidings Sir Archy had learned, their source was no other than Hemsworth 
 himself, of whose good intentions towards Mark no suspicion existed. 
 
 Herbert's part was limited to the mere warning of Mark, that he 
 should seek some more secure resting-place ; but what kind the danger 
 was, from whom or whence it came, the youth knew nothing. He was 
 not, indeed, unaware of Mark's political feelings, nor did he undervalue 
 the effect his principles might produce upon his actions. He knew him 
 to be intrepid, fearless, and determined ; and he also knew how the 
 want of some regular pursuit or object in life had served farther to un- 
 settle his notions and increase the discontent he felt with his condition. 
 If Herbert did not look up to Mark with respect for the superior quali- 
 ties of mind, there were traits in his nature that inspired the senti- 
 ment fully as strongly. The bold rapidity with which he anticipated 
 and met a danger, the fertile resources he evinced at moments when 
 most men stand appalled and terror-struck, the calmness of his spirit 
 when great peril was at hand, showed that the passionate and wayward 
 nature was the struggle which petty events create, and not the real 
 germ of his disposition. 
 
 Herbert foresaw that such a character had but to find the fitting 
 sphere for its exercise, to win an upward way ; but he was well aware of 
 the risks to which it exposed its possessor. On this theme his thoughts 
 dwelt the entire day, as he trod the solitary path among the mountains ; 
 nor did he meet with one human thing along that lonely road. At last, 
 as evening was falling, he drew near the glen which wound along the 
 Sase of the mountain, and as he was endeavouring to decide on the path, 
 alow whistle attracted him. This, remembering it was the signal, he 
 replied to, and the moment after Terry crept from a thick cover of 
 Brushwood, and came towards him. 
 
 " I thought I'd make sure of you before I let you pass, Master Her- 
 bert," cried he, *' for I couldn't see your face, the way your head Avas 
 hanging down. Take the little path to the left, and never turn till you 
 come to the white-thorn tree — then straight up the mountain for a 
 |uarter of a mile or so, till you reach three stones, one over another. 
 From that spot you'll see the shealing down beneath you." 
 
 "My brother is there now?" said Herbert, enquiringly. 
 
 " Yes ; he never leaves it long now ; and he got a bit of a fright the 
 other evening, when the French schooner came into the bay." 
 
 "A French schooner here, in the bay ?" 
 
 "Ay, just so;. but with an English flag flying. She landed ten 
 
4 
 
//; 
 
THE o'donoghue. 345 
 
 wen at tlie point, and then got out to sea as fast as she could. She 
 ivas out of sight before dark." 
 
 " And the men — what became of them ?" 
 
 " They staid an hour or more with Master Mark. One of them was 
 an old friend, I think ; for I never saw such delight as he was in to see 
 your brother. He gave him two books, and some paper, and a bundle — 
 1 don't know what was in it — and then they struck off towards Kenmare 
 Bay, by a road very few know in these parts." 
 
 All these particulars surprised and interested Herbert not a little ; — 
 for although far from implicitly believing the correctness of Terry's 
 tidings, as to the vessel being a French one, yet the event seemed not 
 insignificant, as showing that Mark had friends, who were aware of his 
 present place of concealment. Without wasting further time, how- 
 ever, he bade Terry good-bye, and started along the path down the 
 glen. 
 
 Following Terry's directions, Herbert found the path, which, in 
 many places was concealed by loose furze bushes, evidently to prevent 
 detection by strangers, and at last, having gained the ridge of the moun- 
 tain, perceived the little shealing at a distance of some hundred feet 
 beneath him. It was merely a few young trees, covered over with loose 
 sods, which, abutting against the slope of the hill, opened towards the 
 sea, from whence the view extended along thirty miles of coast on either 
 hand. 
 
 At any other moment, the glorious landscape before him would have 
 engrossed Herbert's entire attention. The calm sea, over which night 
 was slowly stealing — the jutting promontories of rock, over whose sides 
 the white foam was splashing — the tall dark cliffs, pierced by many a 
 cave, through which the sea roared like thunder — all these caught his 
 thoughts but for a second, and already with bounding steps he hurried 
 down the steep, where the next moment a scene revealed itself, of far 
 deeper interest to his heart. 
 
 Through the roof of the shealing, from which, in many places, the 
 dry sods had fallen, he discovered his brother, stretched upon the 
 earthen floor of the hut, intently gazing on a large map, which lay wide- 
 spread before him. The figure was indeed Mark's. The massive head, 
 on either side of which, in flowing waves, the long and locky hair de- 
 scended, there was no mistaking. But the costume was one Herbert 
 saw for the first time. It was a simple uniform of blue and white, with 
 a single silver epaulette, and a sword, hilted with the same metal. The 
 shako was of dark fur, and ornamented with a large bouquet of tri-co- 
 lored ribbons, whose gay and flaunting colours streamed with a strange 
 
346 THE 0*DONOGHUE 
 
 contrast along the dark earthen floor. Amid all his terror for what these 
 emhlems might portend, his heart bounded with pride at the martial 
 and handsome figure, as, leaning on one elbow, he traced with the other 
 hand the lines upon the map. Unable to control his impatience longer, 
 he cried out — 
 
 "Mark, my brother!" and the next moment they were in each 
 other's arms. 
 
 *' You passed Terry on the mountain? He was at his post, I trust V 
 said Mark, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes, but for his directions I could never have discovered the 
 path." 
 
 " All's well, then. Until I hear a certain signal from him, I fear 
 nothing. The fellow seems neither to eat nor sleep. At least since 
 I've been here, he has kept watch night and day in the mountains.'* 
 
 " He always loved you, Mark." 
 
 " He did so ; but now it is not me he thinks of. His whole heart 
 is in the cause — ^higher and nobler than a mere worthless life Uke 
 mine." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! he is but half-witted at best," said Herbert. 
 
 "The more reason for his fidelity now," said Mark, bitterly. " The 
 men of sense are traitors to their oaths, and false to their friends. The 
 enterprise cannot reckon, save on the fool or the madman. I know the 
 taunt you hint at, as ^' 
 
 *' My dearest brother," cried Herbert, with streaming eyes. 
 
 " My own dear Herbert, forgive me," said Mark, as he flung his arm 
 round his neck. " These bursts of passion come over me after long and 
 weary thoughts. I am tired to-day. Tell me, how are they all at 
 Carrig-na-curra V* 
 
 " Well, and, I would say, happy, Mark, were it not for their anxi- 
 eties about you. My uncle heard some news to-day so threatening in its 
 nature, that he has set out for Dublin post haste, and merely wrote these 
 few lines, which he gave me for you before he started." 
 
 Mark read the paper twice over, and then tearing it, threw the frag- 
 ments at his feet, while he muttered — 
 
 " I cannot, I must not leave this." 
 
 " But your safety depends on it, Mark — so, my uncle pressed upon 
 me. The danger is imminent, and, he said, fatal." 
 
 '* So would it be, were I to leave my post. I cannot tell you, Herbert 
 — I dare not rereal to you what our oath forbids me : — but here I must 
 remain." 
 
THE o'donoghue. 347 
 
 " And this dress, Mark — why increase the risk you run by a uniform 
 which actually designates treason ?" 
 
 "Who will dare to tell me so?" cried Mark, impetuously. " The 
 uniform is that of a French grenadier — the service whose toil is glory, 
 and whose cause is liberty. It is enough that I do not wear it without 
 authority. You can satisfy yourself on that head soon. Read this," 
 and he unfolded a paper, which, bearing the arm-S and seal of the French 
 Republic, purported to be a commission as Lieutenant in Hoche's own 
 regiment of grenadiers, conferred on Mark O'Donoghue in testimony of 
 esteem for his fidelity to the cause of Irish independence. " You are 
 surprised that I can read the language, Herbert," said he, smiling ; 
 " but I have laboured hard this summer, and, with Kate's good aid, have 
 made some progress." 
 
 "And is your dream of Irish independence brought so low as this, Mark 
 — ^that the freedom you speak of must be won by an alien's ^alour?" 
 
 " They are no aliens, whose hearts beat alike for liberty. Language, 
 country, seas may divide us, but we are brothers in the glorious cause 
 of humanity. Their swords are with us now, as would be ours for them, 
 did the occasion demand them. Besides, we must teach the traitors, 
 boy, that we can do without them — that if her own sons are false, 
 Ireland has friends as true ; and then, woe to them who have betrayed 
 her. Oh, my brother, the brother of my heart, how would I kneel in 
 thankfulness to heaven, if the same hopes that stirred within me were 
 yours also. If the genius you possess were enlisted in the dear cause of 
 your own country — if we could go forth together, hand in hand, and 
 meet danger side by side, as now we stand." 
 
 " My love for you would make the sacrifice, Mark," said Herbert, as 
 the tears rolled heavily along his cheek ; but my convictions, my reason, 
 my religion, alike forbid it." 
 
 "Your religion, Herbert? — did I hear you aright?'' 
 
 " You did. I am a Protestant.'* 
 
 Mark fell back as his brother spoke ; a cold leaden tinge spread ovei 
 his features, and he seemed like one labouring against the sickness of 
 an ague. 
 
 " Oh, is it not time !" cried he, as he clasped his hands above his head, 
 and shook them in an agony of emotion — " is it not time to strike the 
 blow, ere every tie that bound us to the land should be rent asunder ; 
 rank, place, wealth, and power they have despoiled us of ; our faith 
 degraded, our lineage scoffed, and now the very links of blood divided — 
 we have not brothers left us !" 
 
 Herbert bent down his head upon his knees, and wept bitterly. 
 
348 THE O O0N06HUE. 
 
 " Who will tell me I have not been tried, now ?" continued Mark, in 
 a strain of impassioned sorrow — " deceived on every hand — robbed of 
 my heritage^my friends all false — my father" — he stopped short, for 
 at the moment Herbert looked up, and their eyes met. 
 
 " What of our father, Mark V 
 
 "My brain was wandering then," said Mark, in a broken voice. 
 " Once more I ask forgiveness : we are brothers still ; if we be but true of 
 heart to Him who knows all hearts, He will not suffer us to be divided. 
 Can you remain a while with me, Herbert ? — I know you don't mind a 
 rough bivouac.'* 
 
 *' Yes, Mark, I'll not leave you. All is well at home, and they will 
 guess what cause detained me." So saying, the two brothers sat down 
 side by side, and with hands clasped firmly in each other, remained 
 sunk in silent thought. 
 
 The wbj)le night through they talked together. It was the first 
 moment, for many a long year, since they had unburdened their hearts 
 like brothers, and in the fulness of their affection the most secret thoughts 
 were revealed, save one topic only, of which neither dared to speak, and 
 while each incident of the past was recalled, and friends were men- 
 tioned, Mark never once alluded to Kate, nor did Herbert utter the 
 name of Sybella Travers. 
 
 Of his plans for the future, Mark made no secret ; he had accepted a 
 commission in the French army, on the understanding that an invasion 
 of Ireland was determined on, in the event of which, his services would 
 be of some value. He hoped to reach France by the schooner, which, 
 after landing her cargo near the mouth of the Shannon, was to return 
 at once to Cherbourg ; once there, he was to enter the service, and learn 
 its discipline. 
 
 " I have made my bargain with them ; my face is never to turn from 
 England, till Ireland be free ; after that I am theiri^ to march on the 
 Rhine or the Danube— -where they will. Personal ambition I have none! 
 — to serve as a simple grenadier in the ranks of that army, that shall first 
 plant the standard of liberty here ; such is my only compact. Speak 
 to me of defeat or disaster, if you will ; but do not endeavour to per- 
 suade me against an enterprise I have resolved to go through with, nor try 
 to argue with me, where my impulses are stronger than my reason." 
 
 In this strain Mark spoke, and while Herbert listened in sorrow, he 
 knew too well his brother's nature, to offer a word of remonstrance in 
 opposition to his determination. 
 
 Mark, on his side, led his brother to talk of many of his own plans for 
 the future, where another and a very different ambition was displayed. 
 
THE o'donoghue. 349 
 
 Herbert had entered the hsts where intellect and genius are the weapons, 
 and in his early triumphs had conceived that passion for success, which 
 once indulged, only dies with life itself. The day broke upon them, thus 
 conversing, and already the sunlight was streaming over the western 
 ocean, as they lay down side by side, and slept. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 "the confederates." 
 
 The paroxysm which Sir Archibald had witnessed, formed the crisis 
 of Hems worth's malady ; and on the evening of the same day, his disease 
 had so far abated of its violence, that his delirium had left him, and ex- 
 cessive debility was now the only symptom of great danger remaining. 
 With the return of his faculties, came back his memory, cleai and 
 unclouded, of every incident up to the very moment of his accident ; and 
 as he lay, weak and wasted on his bed, his mind reverted to the plans 
 and projects of which his illness had interrupted the accomplishment. 
 The excitement of the theme seemed rather to serve than be hurtful to 
 him ; and the consciousness of returning health gave a spring to his 
 recovery ; fatigue of thought induced deep sleep, and he awoke on the 
 following day refreshed and recruited. 
 
 The lapse of time in illness is, probably, one of the most painful 
 thoughts that await upon recovery. The lethargy in which we have 
 been steeped simulates death ; while the march of events around us 
 show how insignificant our existence is, and how independently of us the 
 work of life goes on. 
 
 When Wylie was summoned to his master's bed-side, the first ques- 
 tion put to him was, what day of the month it was ? and his astonish- 
 ment was, indeed, great, as he heard it was the I6th of December, and 
 that he had been above two months on a sick bed. 
 
 " Two months here !" cried he ; *' and what has happened since V* 
 
 " Scarcely anything, sir," said Wylie, well knowing the meaning oi 
 the question. " The country is quiet — the people tranquil. Too much 
 so, perhaps, to last. The young O'Donoghue has not been seen up the 
 glen for several weeks past; but his brother passes frequently frocj 
 
350 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Carrig-na-cnrra to the coast, and back again, so that there is little 
 doubt of his still being in his old hiding-place. Talbot — Barrington 
 I mean — ^has been here again, too." 
 
 "Barrington! — ^what brings him back? I thought he was in 
 France." 
 
 ** The story goes that he landed at Bantry with a French agent. One 
 thing is certain, the fellow had the impudence to call here and leave 
 his card for you, one day I was at Macroom." 
 
 •* That piece of boldness bodes us no good," said Hemsworth. " What 
 of the others ? Who has called here from Carrig-na-curra ?" 
 
 " A messenger every day ; sometimes twice in the same day." 
 
 "A messenger ! — not one of the family ?" 
 
 " For several weeks they have had no one to come. Sir Archy and 
 the younger brother are both from home." 
 
 " Where, then, is Sir Archy ?" said Hemsworth, anxiously. 
 
 " That would seem a secret to every one. He left this one morning 
 at a moment's notice, taking the chaise that brought the doctor here. 
 The post-boy pretended he was discharged ; but I say that the excuse 
 was made up, and that the fellow was bribed. On reaching Macroom, the 
 old man got fresh horses, and started for Cork." 
 
 " And what's the report in the country, Wylie ?" 
 
 "There are two stories. One, that he heard some rumours of an 
 accusation against himself, for intriguing with the United people, and 
 thought best to get over to Scotland for a while.** 
 
 " That's folly ; what is the other rumour ?" 
 
 " A more hkely one," said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd glance beneath 
 his half-closed eye-lids. " They say that he determined to go up to 
 Dubhn, and see the Lord Lieutenant, and ask him for a free pardon for 
 Mark." 
 
 Hemsworth sprung up in the bed at these words, as if he had been 
 stung. 
 
 " And who says this, Wylie V* 
 
 " I believe I was the first that said so myself," said Wylie, aficcting 
 modesty ; " when Kerry told me, that the old man packed up a court 
 dress and a sword." 
 
 *' You're right, Sam ; there's not a doubt of it. How long is this 
 ago?" 
 
 " Five weeks on Tuesday last." 
 
 ** Five weeks ! — five weeks lost already ! And have you heard what 
 has been done by him ? — ^what success he's met with ?'* 
 
 "No, sir ; but you can soon know something about it yourself." 
 
THE O'DONOtJHUE. 351 
 
 '^* How do you mean ? — I don't understand you. 
 
 ••These are the only two letters he has written as yet. This one 
 came on Saturday. I always went down in the mornings to Mary 
 M 'Kelly's, before the bag came in, and as she could not read over well, 
 I sorted the letters for her myself, and slipped in these among your 
 own." 
 
 Hemsworth and his companion exchanged looks. Probably never did 
 glances more rapidly reveal the sentiments of two hearts. Each, well 
 knew the villainy of the other ; but Hemsworth for the first time saw 
 himself in another's power, and hesitated how far the advantage of the 
 discovery was worth the heavy price he should pay for it ; besides that 
 the habits of his life made him regard the breach of confidence, incurred 
 in reading another man's letter, in a very diiferent hght from his under- 
 bred associate, and he i.-iade no gesture to take them from his hand. 
 
 *•' This has an English post-mark," said Wylie, purposely occupying 
 nimself with the letter, to avoid noticing Hemsworth's hesitation. 
 
 "You have not broken the seals, I hope," said Hemsworth, faintly. 
 
 '' No, sir ; I knew better than that/' replied Wylie, with well- 
 assumed caution. " I knew your honour had a right to it, if you sus- 
 pected the correspondence was treasonable, because you're in the Com- 
 mission, and it's your duty ; but I could'nt venture it, of myself." 
 
 "I'm afraid your law is not very correct. Master Wylie," said Hems- 
 worth, who felt by no means certain as to the smcerity of the opinion. 
 
 " It's good enough for Glenflesk, anyhow," said the fellow, boldly ; for 
 he saw that in Hemsworth's present nervous condition, audacity 
 might succeed where subserviency would not. 
 
 " By which you mean that we have the case in our own hands, 
 Wylie ; well, you're not far wrong in that ; still, I cannot break open a 
 letter. 
 
 " Well, then, I'm not so scrupulous when my master's interests are 
 concerned ;" and so saying, he tore open each in turn, and threw them 
 on the bed. " There, sir, you can transport me for the offence when- 
 ever you like." 
 
 " You are a strange fellow, Sam," said Hemsworth, whose nerves 
 were too much shaken by illness, to enable him tc act with his orclinary 
 l^jcision, and he took up one of the letters, and perused it slowly. 
 "This is merely an announcement of his arrival in Dublin; he has 
 waited upon, but not seen the Secretary — finds it difficult to obtain an 
 audience — press of parliamentary business for the nev/ session — no ex- 
 citement about the United party. What tidings has the other ? Ha !— 
 what's this ?" — and his thin and haggard face flushed scarlet. " Leave 
 
352 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 me, Sam ; I must have a little time to consider this. Come back to me 
 in an hour." 
 
 Wylie said not a word, but moved towards the door ; whilt in his 
 sallow features a savage smile of malicious triumph shone. 
 
 As Hemsworth flattened out the letter before him on the bed, his 
 eyes glistened and sparkled with the fire of aroused intelligence : the 
 faculties which, during his long illness, had lain in abeyance, as if 
 refreshed and invigorated by rest, were once more excited to their 
 accustomed exercise ; and over that face, pale and haggard by sickness, 
 a flush of conscious power stole, lighting up every lineament and 
 feature, and displaying the ascendancy of mental effort over mere 
 bodily infirmity. 
 
 " And so this Scotchman dares to enter the list with ?we," said he, 
 vfith. a smile o^ contemptuous meaning ; "let him try it." 
 
THE o'donoohue. 35S 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRIS! 
 
 A. LITTLE lower down the valley than the post occupied hy Terry as his 
 look-out, was a small stream, passable by stepping-stones ; this was the 
 usual parting place of the two brothers, whenever Herbert returned home 
 for a day or so, and this limit Mark rarely or never transgressed, regard- 
 ing it as the frontier of his little dominion. Beside this rivulet, as night 
 was falling, Mark sat, awaiting with some impatience his brother's com- 
 ing, for already the third evening had passed in which Herbert pro- 
 mised to be back, and yet he had not come. 
 
 Alternately stooping to listen, or straining his eyes to see, he waited 
 anxiously ; and while canvassing in his mind every possible casualty he 
 could think of to account for his absence, he half resolved on pushing 
 forward down the glen, and, if necessary, venturing even the whole way 
 to Carrig-na-curra. Just then a sound caught his ear — he listened, and 
 at once recognized Terry's voice, as, singing some rude verse, he came 
 hastening down the glen at his full speed. 
 
 " Ha ! I thought you'd be here," cried he, with delight in his coun- 
 tenance ; "I knew you'd be just sitting there on that rock." 
 
 "What has happened, then, Terry, that you wanted me ?" 
 
 " It was a message a man in sailor's clothes gave me for your honour 
 this morning, and, somehow, I forgot to tell you of it when you passed, 
 though he charged me not to forget it." 
 
 "What is it, Terry?" 
 
 "Ah, then, that's what I misremember, and I had it all right this 
 morning. Let me think a bit." 
 
 Mark repelled every symptom of impatience, for he well knew how 
 the sHghtest evidences of dissatisfaction on his part would destroy every 
 chance of the poor fellow regaining his memory, and he waited silently 
 for several minutes. At last, thinking to aid his recollection, he said — 
 
 " The man was a smuggler, Terry ?" 
 
 " He was, but I never saw him before. He came across from Kinsal^ 
 over the mountains. Botheration to him, why didn't he say more, and 
 1 wouldn't forget it now." 
 
 " Have patience, you'll think of it all by-and-by." 
 
3M THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ** Maybe so. He was a droll-looking fellow, with a short cutlash at 
 his side, and a hairy cap on his head ; and he seemed to know yer honour 
 well, for he said — 
 
 " * How is the O'Donoghues — don't they live hereabouts V 
 
 " * Yes,' says I, * a few miles down that way.* 
 
 " ' Is the eldest boy at home V says he. 
 
 " * Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't,' says I, for I wouldn't tell hm 
 where you were. 
 
 " * Could you give him a message,* says he, * from a friend?* 
 
 **^ * Av it was a friend,' says I. 
 
 " * A real friend,' says he. * Tell him — ^just tell him — • — ' 
 
 " There it is now — divil a one o' me knows what he said." 
 
 Mark suffered no sign of anger to escape him, but sat without speak- 
 ing a word, while Terry recapitulated every sentence in a muttering 
 voice, to assist him in remembering what followed. 
 
 " I have it now," said he at last ; and clapping his hands with glee, 
 he cried out, "them's the very words he said — 
 
 " * Tell Mr. Mark, it's a fine sight to see the sun rising from the top 
 of Hungry Mountain ; and if the wind last, it will be worth seeing to- 
 morrow.' " 
 
 " Were those his words ?'* asked Mark eagerly. 
 
 " Them, and no other — I have it all in my head now.*' 
 
 " Which way did he take when he left you ?" 
 
 " He turned up the glen, towards Googawn Barra, and I seen him 
 crossing the mountain afterwards ; but here comes Master Herbert ;'* 
 and at the same instant he was seen coming up the valley at a fast pace. 
 
 When the first greetings were over, Herbert informed Mark that a 
 certain stir and movement in the glen and its neighbourhood for the last 
 few days had obliged him to greater caution ; that several strangers had 
 been seen lurking about Carrig-na-curra ; and that in addition to the 
 military posted at Mary's, a sergeant's guard had that morning arrived 
 at " the Lodge," and taken up their quarters there. All these signs 
 of vigilance combined to make Herbert more guarded, and induced him 
 to delay for a day or two his return to the shealing, 
 
 " Hemsworth has been twice over at our house," continued Herbert, 
 " and seems most anxious about you ; he cannot understand why we 
 have not heard from my uncle. It appears to me, Mark, as if difiicul- 
 ties w^re thickening around us j and yet this fear may only be tbe appre- 
 hension which springs from mystery. I cannot see my way through 
 this dark and clouded atmosphere." 
 
 " Never fret about the dangers that come like shadows, Herbert 
 
THE o'donoghtje. 355 
 
 Come up the mountain with me to-morrow at sunrise, and let us take 
 counsel from the free and bracing air of the peak of old Hungry." 
 
 Herbert was but too happy to find his own gloomy thoughts so well 
 combatted, and in mutual converse they each grew lighter in heart ; and 
 when at last, wearied out, they lay down upon the heather of the sheal- 
 ing, they slept without a dream. 
 
 It was still dark as midnight when Mark awoke and looked at his 
 watch — it wanted a quarter of four. The night was a wild and gusty 
 one, with occasional showers of thin sleet, and along the shore the sea 
 beat heavily, as though a storm was brewing at a distance off. 
 
 The message of the smuggler was his first thought on waking, but 
 could he venture sufiicient trust in Terry's version to draw any inference 
 from it ? Still, he resolved to ascend the mountain, little favourable as 
 the weather promised for such an undertaking. It was not without 
 reluctance that Herbert found himself called upon to accompany his 
 brother. The black and dreary night, the swooping wind, the wet spray, 
 drifting up to the very shealing, were but sorry inducements to stir 
 abroad ; and he did his utmost to persuade him to defer the excursion 
 to a more favomiible moment. 
 
 " We shall be wet through, and see nothing for our pains, Mark," 
 said he, half sulkily, as the other overruled each objection in turn. 
 
 '* Wet we may possibly be," said Mark ; " but with the wind, north- 
 ing by west, the mist will clear away, and by sunrise the coast will be 
 glorious ; it is a spring-tide, too, and there will be a sea running moun- 
 tains high." 
 
 " I know well we shall find ourselves in a cloud on the top of the 
 mountain ; it is but one day in a whole year any thing can be seen 
 favourably." 
 
 "And who is to say this is not that day? It is my birth-day, Her- 
 bert — a most auspicious event, when we talk of fortunate occurrences." 
 
 The tone of sarcasm he spoke these words in, silenced Herbert's 
 scruples, and without further objection he prepared to follow Mark's 
 guidance. 
 
 The drifting rain, and the spongy heavy (ground in which at each 
 moment the feet sank to the very instep, made the way toilsome an(? 
 weary, and the two brothers seldom spoke as they plodded along the 
 jrteep ascent. 
 
 Mark's deep pre-occupation of mind took away all thought of the 
 dreary road ; but Herbert followed with reluctant steps, half angry 
 with himself for compliance with what he regarded as an absurd caprice. 
 The way was not without its perils, and Mark halted from time to time 
 
356 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 to warn his brother of the danger of some precipice, or the necessity ta 
 guard against the sHppery surface of the heather. Except at these 
 times, he rarely spoke, but strode on with firm step, lost in his own 
 reflections. 
 
 " We are now twelve hundred feet above the lake, Herbert," said he, 
 after a long silence on both sides, " and the mountain at this side is 
 like a wall. This same island of ours has noble bulwarks for defence.'* 
 
 Herbert made no reply ; the swooping clouds that hurried past, hea- 
 vily charged with vapour, shut out every object ; and to him the rugged 
 path was a dark and cheerless way. Once more they continued their 
 ascent, which here became steeper and more difficult at every step ; and 
 although Mark was familiar with each turn and winding of the narrow 
 track, more than once he was obliged to stop, and consider the course 
 before him. Herbert, to whom these interruptions were fresh sources 
 of irritation, at length exclaimed — 
 
 " My dear Mark, have we not gone far enough yet, to convince you 
 that there is no use in going farther. It is dark as midnight this 
 moment — you yourself are scarcely certain of the way — there are preci- 
 pices and gulleys on every side — and grant that we do reach the top for 
 sunrise, what shall we be able to see amid the immense masses of cloud 
 around us ?" 
 
 *'No, Herbert, that same turning back policy it is, which thwarts 
 success in life. Had you yourself followed such an impulse, you had 
 not gained the honours that are yours. Onward, is the word of hope to 
 all. And what if the day should not break clearly, it is a fine thing to 
 sit on the peak of old Hungry, with the circling clouds wheeling madly 
 below you, to hear the deep thundering of the sea far, far away, and the 
 cry of the curlew mingling with the wailing wind — to feel yourself high 
 above the busy world, in the dreary region of mist and shadow. If at 
 such times as this the eye ranges not over leagues of coast and sea, long 
 winding valleys and wide plains, the prophetic spirit fostered by such 
 agencies looks out on life, and images of the future flit past in cloudy 
 shapes and changing forms. There, see that black mass that slowly 
 moves along, and seems to beckon us with giant arm. You'd not reject 
 an augury so plain." 
 
 " I see nothing, and if I go on much farther this way, I shall feel 
 nothing either, I am so benumbed with cold and rain already." 
 
 " Here, then, taste this — I had determined to give you nothing unti/ 
 <ve reached the summit." 
 
 Herbert drained the little measure of whiskey, and resumed his way 
 more cheerily. 
 
THE o'donoghue. 357 
 
 " There is a bay down here beneath where we stand — a lovely little 
 nook in summer, with a shore like gold, and waves bright as the greenest 
 emerald. It is a wild and stormy spot to-day — no boat could live a 
 moment there ; and so steep is the cliff, this stone will find its way to 
 the bottom within a minute." 
 
 And as Mark spoke he detached a fragment of rock from the moun- 
 tain, and sent it bounding over the edge of the precipice, while Herbert, 
 awe-struck at the nearness of the peril, recoiled instinctively from the 
 brink of the chff. 
 
 " There was a ship of the Spanish Armada wrecked in that little bay 
 — they show you still some mounds of earth upon the shore they call 
 the Spaniards' graves," said Mark, as he stood peering through the 
 misty darkness into the depth below. ''The peasantry had lighted a 
 fire on this rock, and the vessel, a three-decker, decoyed by the signal, 
 held on her course, in shore, and was lost. Good heavens I" cried he, 
 after a brief pause, *' why has this fatality ever been our lot ? "Why 
 have we welcomed our foes with smiles, and our friends with hatred and 
 destruction ? These same Spaniards were our brethren and our kindred, 
 and the bitter enemies of our enslavers ; and even yet we can perpetuate 
 the memory of their ruin, as a thing of pride and triumph. Are we for 
 ever to be thus, or is a better day to dawn upon us ?" 
 
 Herbert, who by experience knew how much more excited Mark 
 became by even the slightest opposition, forbore to speak, and again 
 they pursued their way. 
 
 They had continued for some time thus, when Mark, taking Herbert's 
 arm, pointed to a dark mass which seemed to loom straight above their 
 heads, where, towering to a considerable height, it terminated in a sharp 
 pinnacle. 
 
 " Yonder is the summit, Herbert — courage for a quarter of an hour 
 more, and the breach is won." 
 
 The youth heaved a heavy sigh, and muttered — 
 
 " Would it were so." 
 
 If Herbert became dispirited and worn out by the dark and dreary 
 way, where no sight nor sound relieved the dull monotony of fatigue, 
 Mark's spirit seemed to grow lighter with every step he went. As if he 
 had left his load of care with the nether world, his light and bounding 
 movement, and his joyous voice, spoke of a heart which, throwing off 
 its weight of sorrow, revelled once more in youthful ecstasy. 
 
 "You who are a poet, Herbert, tell me if you have faith in those in- 
 stinctive fancies which seem to shadow forth events." 
 
 " If you mean to ask me whether, from my present sensations, I auti* 
 
358 THE 0*DONOGHTJE. 
 
 bipate a heavy cold, or a fit of rheumatism, I say, most certainly," 
 replied Herbert, half doggedly. 
 
 Mark smiled, and continued— 
 
 " No, those are among the common course of events. What I asked 
 fen* was an explanation of my own feelings at this moment. Why, here 
 upon this lone and gloomy mountain, a secret whispering at my heart 
 tells me to hope — that my days and nights of disaster are nigh over — 
 and that the turning point of my life is at hand, even as that bold peak 
 above us.'* 
 
 ** I must confess, Mark, this is a strange time and place for such rose- 
 coloured visions," said Herbert, as he shook the rain from his soaked 
 garments ; " my imagination cannot carry me to such a lofty flight." 
 
 Mark was too intent upon his own thoughts to bestow much atten- 
 tion on the tone and spirit of Herbert's remark, and he pressed forward 
 towards the summit with every effort of his strength. After a brief but 
 t(Hlsome exertion he reached the top, and seated himself on a little pile 
 of stones that marked the point of the mountain. The darkness was 
 still great ; faint outlines of the lesser mountains beneath could only be 
 traced through the masses of heavy cloud that hung, as it were, suspended 
 above the earth ; while over the sea an unusual blackness was spread. 
 The wind blew with terrific force around the lofty peak where Mark sat, 
 and in the distant valleys he could hear the sound of crashing branches as 
 the storm swept through the wood ; from the sea itself, too, a low boom- 
 ing noise arose, as the caves along the shore re-echoed to the swelhng 
 clangour of the waves. 
 
 Herbert at last reached the spot, but so exhausted by the unaccus- 
 tomed fatigue, that he threw himself down at Mark's feet, and with a 
 wearied sigh exclaimed — 
 
 " Thank heaven, there is no more of it." 
 
 ** Day will not break for half an hour yet," said Mark, pointing west- 
 ward ; " the grey dawn always shows over the sea. I have seen the 
 whole surface Kke gold, before the dull mountains had one touch of 
 
 fight." 
 
 The heavy breathing of the youth, as he lay with his head on Mark's 
 knees, attracted him ; he looked down, and perceived that Herbert had 
 fallen into a calm and tranquil sleep. 
 
 " Poor fellow," cried Mark, as he smoothed the hair upon his brow, 
 ** this toil has been too much for him." 
 
 Placing himself in such a position as best to shelter his brother from 
 the storm, Mark sat awaiting the breaking dawn. The hopes that in 
 the active ascent of the mountain were high in his heart, already began 
 
THE o'donoghue. 359 
 
 to fail ; exertion had called them forth, and now, as he sat silently amid 
 the dreary waste of darkness, his spirit fell with every moment. One 
 by one the bright visions he had conjured up faded away, his head fell 
 heavily on his bosom, and thoughts gloomy and dark as the dreary 
 morning crowded on his brain. 
 
 As he remained thus deep sunk in sad musings, the grey dawn broke 
 over the sea, and gradually a pinkish hue stained the sky eastward. 
 The rain, which up to this time drifted in heavy masses, ceased to fall ; 
 and instead of the gusty storm, blowing in fitful blasts, a gentle breeze 
 rolled the mists along the valleys, as if taking away the drapery of Night 
 at the call of Morning. At first the mountain peaks appeared through 
 the dense clouds ; and then, by degrees, their steep sides, begirt with 
 rock, and fissured with many a torrent. At length the deep valleys and 
 glens began to open to the eye, and the rude cabins of the peasants, 
 marked out by the thin blue wreath of smoke that rose into the air, ere 
 it was scattered by the fresh breeze of morning. Over the sea the sun- 
 light glittered, tipping the glad waves that danced and sported towards 
 the shore, and making the white foam upon the breakers look fairer 
 than snow itself. Mark looked upon the scene thus suddenly changed, 
 and shaking his brother's arm, he called out — 
 
 " Awake, Herbert ! see what a glorious day is breaking. Look, that 
 is Sugarloaf, piercing the white cloud ; and yonder is Castletown. See 
 how the shore is marked out in every jutting point and cliff. I can see 
 the Kenmare river as it opens to the sea." 
 
 " It is indeed beautiful," exclaimed Herbert, ail fatigue forgotten in 
 the extasy of the moment. " Is not that Garran Thual, Mark, that 
 rears its head above the others ?" 
 
 But Mark's eyes were turned in a different direction, and he paid no 
 attention to the question. 
 
 " Yes," cried Herbert, still gazing intently towards the land, " and 
 that must be Mangerton. Am I right, Mark ?" 
 
 "What can that mean?" said Mark, seizing Herbert's arm, and 
 pointing to a distant point across Bantry Bay. " There, you saw it 
 then." 
 
 " Yes, a bright flash of flame. See, it burns steadily now." 
 
 " Ay, and there's another below Beerhaven, and another yonder at 
 the Smuggler's Rock." 
 
 And while he was yet speaking, the three fires blazed out, and conti- 
 nued to burn brilliantly in the grey light of the morning. The dark 
 mist that moved over the sea gave way before the strong breeze, and the 
 tall spars of a large ship were seen as a vessel rounded the point, and 
 
360 THE O DONOGHT7E. 
 
 iield on her course up Bantry Bay. Even at the distance Mark's expe* 
 fenced eye could detect that she was a ship of war — her ports, on which 
 the sun threw a passing gleam, bristled with guns, and her whole trim 
 »nd bearing bespoke a frigate. 
 
 " She's a King's ship, Mark, in pursuit of some smuggler," said Her- 
 bert ; " and the fires we have seen were signals to the other. How 
 beautifully she sails along ; and see, is not that another ?" 
 
 Mark made no reply, but pointed straight out to sea, where now seven 
 sail could be distinctly reckoned, standing towards the Bay with all their 
 canvas set. The report of a cannon turned their eyes towards the fri- 
 gate, and they perceived that already she was abreast of Whitty Island, 
 "H'here she was about to anchor. 
 
 " That gun was fired by her : and see, there goes her ensign. What 
 does that mean, Mark?" 
 
 " It means Liberty, my boy !" screamed Mark, with a yell that 
 sounded like madness. " France has come to the rescue ! See, there 
 they are — eight — nine of them ! — and the glorious tricolor floating at 
 every mast ! Oh, great heaven ! in whose keeping the destinies of men 
 and kingdoms lie, look favourably upon our struggle now. Yes, my bro- 
 ther, I was right — a brighter hour is about to shine upon our country I 
 Look there — think of those gallant fellows that have left home and coun- 
 try to bring freedom across the seas, and say, if you will be less warm in 
 the cause than the alien and the stranger. How nobly they come along ! 
 Herbert, be with us — be of us, now !" 
 
 " Whatever be our ills, here," said Herbert sternly, " I know of no 
 sympathy to bind us to France ; nor would I accept a boon at such 
 hands, infidel and blood-stained as she is." 
 
 " Stop, Herbert ; let us not here, where we may meet for the last 
 time, interchange aught that should darken memory hereafter. My 
 course is yonder." 
 
 " Farewell, then, Mark ; I will not vainly endeavour to turn you from 
 your rash project. The reasons that seemed cold and valueless in the 
 hour of tranquil thought, have few chances of success in the moment of 
 your seeming triumph." 
 
 " Seeming triumph !" exclaimed Mark, as a slight change coloure 
 his cheek. *' And will you not credit what your eyes reveal before you 
 Are these visions? Was that loud shot a trick of the imagination? 
 Oh ! Herbert, if the loyalty you boast of, have no better foundation than 
 these fancies, be with your country — stand by her in the day of her peril." 
 
 ** I will do so, Mark, and with no failing spirit either," said Herbert, 
 he turned away, sad and sorrow-struck. 
 
THE o'donoghue. 361 
 
 " You would not betray us," cried Mark, as he saw his brother pre» 
 paring to descend the mountain. 
 
 " Oh, Mark, you should not have said this." 
 
 And in a torrent of tears he threw himself upon his brother's bosom 
 For some minutes they remained close locked in each other's arms, and 
 then Herbert, tearing himself away, clasped Mark's hand in both of his, 
 and kissed it. The last " Good-bye " broke from each lip together, and 
 they parted. 
 
 Mark remained on the spot where his brother had left him, his eyes 
 fixedly directed towards the Bay, where already a second ship had 
 arrived — a large three-decker, with an admiral's pennon flying from the 
 mast-head. The first burst of wild enthusiasm over, he began to reflect 
 on what was next to be done. Of course he should lose no time in 
 presenting himself to the oflicers in command of the expedition, and 
 making known to them his name, and the place he occupied in the con- 
 fidence of his countrymen. His great doubt was, whether he should not 
 precede this act by measures for assembling and rallying the people, 
 who evidently would be as much taken by surprise as himself at the 
 sudden arrival of the French. 
 
 The embarrassment of the position was great ; for although deeply 
 implicated in the danger of the plot, he never had enjoyed either inti- 
 macy or intercourse with its leaders. How then should he satisfy the 
 French that his position was such as entitled him to their confidence ? 
 The only possible escape to this difficulty was by marshalling around 
 him a considerable body of the peasantry, ready and wilHng to join the 
 arms and follow the fortunes of the invaders. 
 
 " They cannot long distrust me with a force of three hundred men 
 at my back," exclaimed Mark aloud, as he descended the mountain with 
 rapid strides. " I know every road through these valleys — every place 
 where a stand coul'd be made, or an escape effected. "We will surprise 
 the party of soldiers at Mary M 'Kelly's, and there, there are arms 
 enough for all the peasantry of the country." 
 
 Thus saying, and repeating to himself the names of the diff'erent 
 farmers whom he remembered as true to the cause, and on whose cou- 
 rage and readiness he depended at this moment, he hastened on. 
 
 '* Holt at the cross-roads promised eighteen, all armed with fire-locks 
 M'Sweeny has six sons, and stout fellows they are, every man of then 
 ready. Then, there are the O'Learys, but there's a split amongst them — • 
 confound their petty feuds, this is no time to indulge them. They shall 
 come out, and they must — ah ! hand in hand, too, though they have 
 been enemies this twelvemonth. Black O'SuUivan numbers nigh eighty 
 
362 . THE o'donoghue. 
 
 '—pike-men every one of them. Our French friends may smile at their 
 ragged garments, but our enemies will scarce join in the laugh. Carrig- 
 na-curra must be occupied, it is the key of the glen. * The Lodge ' 
 we'll burn to the ground : but no, we must not visit the sin of the ser- 
 vant on the master. Young Travers behaved nobly to me — there is a 
 wild time coming, and let us, at least, begin our work in a better spirit, 
 for bloodshed soon teaches cruelty." 
 
 Now, muttering these short and broken sentences, now, wondering 
 what strength the French force might be — how armed — how disposed 
 for the enterprize — what spirit prevailed among the officers, and what 
 hopes of success animated the chiefs — Mark moved along, eager for the 
 hour to come when the green flag should be displayed, and the war-cry 
 of Ireland ring in her native valleys. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ** THB PROGBESS OF TBEAOHEBT.** 
 
 Leaving, for the present, Mark O'Donoghue to the duties he imposed 
 on himself of rallying the people around the French standard, we shall 
 turn to the old castle of Carrig-na-curra, where life seemed to move on 
 in the same unbroken tranquilUty. For several days past, Hemsworth, 
 still weak from his recent illness, had been a frequent visitor, and al- 
 though professing that the great object of his solicitude was the safety 
 of young O'Donoghue, he found time and opportunity to suggest to 
 Kate, that a more tender feeling influenced him : so artfully had he 
 played his part, and so blended were his attentions with traits of de- 
 ference and respect, that however little she might be disposed to en- 
 courage his addresses, the difficulty of repelling them without offence 
 was great indeed. This delicacy on her part was either mistaken by 
 Hemsworth, or taken as a ground of advantage. All his experiences in 
 life pointed to the fact, that success is ever attainable by him who plays 
 well his game ; that the accidents of fortune, instead of being obstacles 
 and interruptions, are in reaUty, to one of quick intelligence, but so 
 
THE o'donoghue. 363 
 
 many aids and allies. His illness alone had disconcerted his plans ; 
 but now once more well, and able to conduct his schemes, he had no 
 fears for the result. Up to this moment, every thing promised success. 
 It was more than doubtful that the Travers' would ever return to Ire- 
 knd. Frederick would be unwilling to visit the neighbourhood where 
 his affections had met so severe a shock. The disturbed state of the 
 country, and the events which Hemsworth well knew must soon occur, 
 would in all likelihood deter Sir Marmaduke from any wish to revisit 
 his Irish property. This was one step gained : already he was in pos- 
 session of a large portion of the Glenflesk estate, of which he was well 
 aware the title was defective, for he had made it a ground of consider- 
 able abatement in the purchase money to the O'Donoghue, that his son 
 was in reality under age at the time of sale. Mark's fate was, however, 
 in his hands, and he had little fear that the secret was known by any 
 other. Nothing, then, remained incomplete to the accomplishment of 
 his wishes, except his views regarding Kate. "Were she to become his 
 wife, the small remnant of the property that pertained *to them would 
 fall into his hands, and he become the lord of the soil. His ambitions 
 were higher than this. Through the instrumentality of Lanty Lawler, 
 he had made himself master of the conspiracy in all its details. He 
 knew the names of the several chiefs, the parts assigned them, thi 
 places of rendezvous, their hopes, their fears, and their difficulties. 
 He was aware of the views of France, and had in his possession copies 
 of several letters which passed between members of the French execu- 
 tive and the leaders of the United party in Ireland. Far from commu- 
 nicating this information to the Government, he treasured it as the 
 source of his own future elevation. From time to time, it is true, he 
 made known certain facts regarding individuals whom he either dreaded 
 for their power, or suspected that they might themselves prove false to 
 their party and betray the plot ; but, save in these few instances, he 
 revealed nothing of what he knew, determining, at the proper moment, 
 to make this knowledge the ground-work of his fortune. 
 
 ** Twenty-four hours of rebellion," said he, " one day and night of 
 massacre and bloodshed will make me a Peer of the realm. I know 
 well what terror will pervade the land, when the first rumour of a French 
 landing gains currency. I can picture to myself the affrighted looks of 
 the Council ; the alarm depicted in every face, when the post brings 
 the intelligence, that a force is on its march towards the capital ; and 
 then — then, when I can lay my hand on each rebel of them all, and 
 say, this man is a traitor, and that, a rebel — when I can show where arms 
 are collected and ammunition stored — when I can tell the plan of their 
 
364 THE O*DON0GHU£. 
 
 operation, their numbers, their organization, and their means — I have 
 but to name the price of my reward." 
 
 Such were the speculations that occupied the slow hours of his reco- 
 very, and such the thoughts which engrossed the first days of his 
 returning health. 
 
 The latest letters he liad seen from France announced that the expe- 
 dition would not sail till January, and then, in the event of escaping 
 the English force in the Channel, would proceed to land fifteen thousand 
 men on the banks of the Shannon. The causes which accelerated the 
 sailing of the French fleet before the time originally determined on were 
 unknown to Hemsworth, and on the very morning when the vessels 
 anchored in Bantry Bay, he was himself a visitor beneath the roof of 
 Carrig-na-curra, where he had passed the preceding night, the severity 
 of the weather having detained him there. He, therefore, knew nothing 
 of what had happened, and was calmly deliberating on the progress of 
 his own plans, when events were occurring which were destined to dis- 
 concert and destroy them. 
 
 The family was seated at breakfast, and Hemsworth, whose letters 
 had been brought over from ''the Lodge," was reading aloud such por- 
 tions of news as could interest or amuse the O'Donoghue and Kate, 
 when he was informed that Wylie was without, and most anxious to see 
 him for a few minutes. There was no communication which, at the 
 moment, he deemed could be of much importance, and he desired him 
 to wait. "Wylie again requested a brief interview — one minute would 
 be enough — that his tidings were of the deepest consequence. 
 
 " This is his way ever," said Hemsworth, rising from the table ; " if 
 a tenant has broken down a neighbour's ditch, or a heifer is impounded 
 he always comes with this same pressing urgency ;" and, angry at the 
 interruption, he left the room to hear the intelligence. 
 
 " Still, no letter from Archy, Kate," said the O'Donoghue, when they 
 were alone ; " once more the post is come, and nothing for us. I am 
 growing more and more uneasy about Mark ; these delays will harass 
 the poor boy, and drive him perhaps to some rash step." 
 
 "Mr. Hemsworth is doing everything, however, in his power," said 
 Kate, far more desirous of offering consolation to her uncle, than satis- 
 fied in her own mind as to the state of matters. " He is in constant 
 correspondence with Government ; the only difficulty is, they demand 
 disclosures my cousin neither can, nor ought to make. A pardon is no 
 grace, when it commutes death for dishonour. This will, I hope, be got 
 over soon." 
 
 While she was yet speaking, the door softly opened, and Kerry, with 
 
THE o'donoghue. 3G5 
 
 a noiseless step, slipped in, and approaching the table unseen and un- 
 heard, was beside the O'Donoghue's chair before he was perceived. 
 
 " Whisht, master dear — whisht, Miss Kate," said he, with a gestm-e 
 of warning towards the door. " There's great news without. The 
 French is landed — twenty-eight ships is down in Bantry Bay. Bony 
 himself is with them. I heard it all, as Sam Wylie was telling Hems- 
 worth ; I was inside the pantry door." 
 
 *' The French landed !" cried the O'Donoghue, in whom amazement 
 overcame all sensation of joy or sorrow. 
 
 "The French here in Ireland!" cried Kate, her eyes sparkling with 
 enthusiastic delight ; but before she could add a word, Hemsworth re- 
 entered. Whether his efforts to seem calm and unmoved were in reality 
 well devised, or that, as is more probable, Hemsworth's own pre-occu- 
 pation prevented his strict observance of the others, he never remarked 
 that the O'Donoghue and his niece exhibited any traits of anxiety or 
 impatience ; while Kerry, after performing a variety of very unnecessary 
 acts and attentions about the table, at last left the room, with a sigh 
 over his inability to protract his departure. 
 
 Hemsworth eye wandered to the door to see if it was closed before 
 ♦ he spoke ; and then leaning forward, said, in a low, cautious voice — 
 
 " I have just heard some news that may prove very important. A 
 number of the people have assembled in arms in the glen, your sou 
 Mark at their head. What their precise intentions, or whither they 
 are about to direct their steps, I. know not ; but I see clearly that young 
 Mr. O'Donoghue will fatally compromise himself, if this rash step be- 
 come known. The Government never could forgive such a proceeding 
 on his part. I need not tell you that this daring must be a mere hope- 
 less exploit ; such enterprises have but one termination — the scaifold." 
 
 The old man and his niece exchanged glances — rapid, but full of 
 intelHgence. Each seemed to ask the other, " Is this man false ? Is 
 he suppressing a part of the truth at this moment, or is this all inven- 
 tion ? Why has he not spoken of the great event — the arrival of the 
 French?" 
 
 Kate was the first to venture to sound him, as she asked — 
 
 *'And is the rising some mere sudden ebullition of discontent, or 
 have they concerted any movement with others at a distance ?" 
 
 " A mere isolated outbreak — the rash folly of hair-brained boys, with* 
 out plan or project." 
 
 " What is to become of poor Mark ?" cried the O'Donoghue, all sus- 
 picions of treachery forgotten in the anxiety of his son's safety. 
 
 " I have thought of that," said Hemsworth, hastily. "The move- 
 
366 THB 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 ment must be put down at once. As a magistrate, and in the full con- 
 fidence of the Government, I have no second course open to me, and 
 therefore I have ordered up the military from Macroom. There are 
 four troops of cavalry and an infantry regiment there. With them in 
 front, this ill-disciplined rabble will never dare to advance, but soon 
 scatter and disband themselves in the mountains — the leaders only will 
 incur any danger. But as regards your son, you have only to write a 
 few lines to him, and dispatch them by some trusty messenger, saying 
 that you are aware of what has happened — know everything — and with- 
 out wishing to interfere or thwart his designs, you desire to see and 
 speak with him, here, at once. This he will not refuse. Once here 
 safe, and within these walls, I'll hasten the pursuit of these foolish 
 country fellows ; and even should any of them be taken, your son will 
 not be of the number. You must take care, however, when he is here, 
 that he does not leave this until I return." 
 
 " And are these brave fellows, misguided though they be, to be kid- 
 napped thus, and by our contrivance, too ?" said Kate, on whom, for 
 the first time, a dread of Hemsworth's duplicity was fast breaking. 
 
 " I did not know Miss O'Donoghue's interest took so wide a range, 
 or that her sympathies were so Catholic," said Hemsworth, with a smile 
 of double meaning. " If she would save her cousin, however, she must 
 adopt my plan, or at least suggest a better one." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Kate, Mr. Hemsworth is right," said the O'Donoghue, 
 in whom selfishness was always predominant ; " we must contrive to 
 get Mark here, and to keep him when we have him." 
 
 " And you may rely upon it. Miss O'Donoghue," said Hemsworth, 
 in a whisper, " that my pursuit of the others will not boast of any 
 excessive zeal in the cause of loyalty. Such fellows may be suffered to 
 escape, and neither King nor Constitution have any ground of com- 
 plaint for it." 
 
 Kate smiled gratefully in return, and felt angry with herself for even 
 a momentary injustice to the honourable nature of Hemsworth's 
 motives. 
 
 " Mr. Hemsworth's horses is at the door," said Kerry, at the same 
 moment. 
 
 " It is, then, agreed upon, that you will write this letter at once," 
 said Hemsworth, leaning over the old man's chair, as he whispered the 
 words into his ear. 
 
 The O'Donoghue nodded an assent. 
 
 "Without knowing that," continued Hemsworth, "I should be 
 uncertain how to proceed. I must not let the Government suppose me 
 
THE o'donoghue. 367 
 
 either ignorant or lukewarm. Lose no time, therefore ; send off the 
 letter, and leave the rest to me." 
 
 " You are not going to ride, I hope," said Kate, as she looked out of 
 the window down the glen, where already the rain was falling in torrents, 
 and the wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Hemsworth muttered a few 
 words in a low tone, at which Kate coloured, and looked away. 
 
 "Nay, Miss O'Donoghue," said he, still whispering, "I am not 
 one of those who make a bargain for esteem ; if I cannot win regard, 
 I will never buy it." 
 
 There was a sadness in his words, and an air of self-respect about 
 him, as he spoke them, that touched Kate far more than ever she had 
 been before by any expression of his feelings. When she saw him 
 leave the room, her first thought was, " It is downright meanness to 
 suspect him." 
 
 "Is it not strange, Kate,** said the O'Donoghue, as he took her 
 hand in his, "he never mentioned the French landing to us? What 
 can this mean ?" 
 
 "I believe I can understand it, sir," said Kate, musingly; for 
 already she had settled in her mind, that while Hemsworth would 
 neglect no measures for the safety of Carrig-na-curra, he scrupled 
 to announce tidings which might overwhelm them with alarm and 
 terror. " But let us think of the letter ; Kerry, I suppose, is the best 
 person to send with it." 
 
 " Yes, Kerry can take it ; and as the way does not lead past Mary's 
 door, there's a chance of his deHvering it without a delay of three hours 
 on the road." 
 
 "There, sir, will that do?" said Kate, as she handed him a paper, 
 on which hastily a few lines were written. 
 
 "Perfectly — ^nothing better; only, my sweet Kate, when a note 
 begins * my dear son/ it should scarcely be signed * your own affectionate 
 Kate O'Donoghue.' " 
 
 Kate blushed deeply, as she tore the paper in fragments, and without 
 a word reseated herself at the table. 
 
 " I have done better this time," said she, as she folded the note and 
 sealed it ; while the old man, with an energy quite unusual for him, 
 arose and rung the bell for Kerry. 
 
 " Did I ever think I could have done this," said Kate to herself, as a 
 tear slowly coursed along her cheek and fell on the letter ; that I could 
 dare to recall him, when both honour and country demand his services ; 
 that I could plot for life, when all that makes Hfe worth having is in 
 the opposite scale ?" 
 
368 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 " You must find out master Mark, Kerry," said the O'Donoghuq 
 "and give him this letter ; there is no time to be lost about it.'* 
 
 " Sorra fear ; I'll put it into his hand this day." 
 
 " This day !" cried Kate, impatiently. ** It must reach him within 
 three hours time. Away at once — the foot of Hungry Mountain — 
 the shealing — Bantry Bay — you cannot have any difficulty in finding 
 him now." 
 
 Kerry waited not for further bidding, and though not by any means 
 determined to make any unusual exertion, left the room with such 
 rapidity as augured well for the future. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Branagan, whose anxiety for news had led her to 
 the head of the kitchen stairs, an excursion which, at no previous 
 moment of her life, had she been known to take, ''well, Kerry, what's 
 going on now ?'* 
 
 " Faix, then, I'll tell ye, ma*am," said he, sighing ; " 'tis myself 
 foey're wanting to kill. Here am I setting out wid a letter, and where 
 lo, do you think ? the top of Hungry Mountain, in the Bay of Bantry, 
 that's the address — divil a lie in it." 
 
 " And who is it for ?" said Mrs. Branagan, who, affecting to bestow 
 a critical examination on the document, was inspecting the superscrip- 
 tion wrong side up." 
 
 " 'Tis for Master Mark ; I heard it all outside the door ; they don't 
 want him to go with the boys, now that the French is landed, and we're 
 going to have the country to ourselves. 'Tis a dhroll day when an 
 O'Donoghue would'nt have a fight for his father's acres." 
 
 " Bad cess to the weak-hearted, wherever they are," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Branagan ; " don't give him the letter, Kerry avich ; lie quiet in the 
 glen till evening, and say you couldn't find him, by any manner of means. 
 Do that, now, and it will be a good sarvice to your country this day." 
 
 " I was just thinking that same myself," said Kerry, whose resolu- 
 tion wanted little prompting ; " after I cross the river, I'll turn into the 
 Priests' Glen, and never stir out till evening." 
 
 With these honest intentions regarding his mission, Kerry set out, 
 and if any apology could be made for his breach of faith, the storm 
 might plead for him ; it had now reached its greatest violence ; the 
 wind blowing in short and frequent gusts, snapped the large branches 
 like mere twigs, and covered the road with fragments of timber ; the 
 mountain rivulets, too, were swollen, and dashed madly down the rocky 
 chffs with a deafening clamour, while the rain, swooping past in torrents, 
 concealed the sky, and covered the earth with darkness. Muttering in 
 no favourable spirit over the waywardness of that sex, to whose peculiar 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 369 
 
 interposition he ascribed his present excursion, Kerry plodded slon^ 
 taming, as he went, a despairing look at the barren and bleak prospect 
 around him. To seek for shelter in the glen, he knew was out of tho 
 question, and so he at once determined to gain the priest's cottage, 
 where a comfortable turf fire and a rasher of bacon were certain to 
 welcome him. 
 
 Dreadful as the weather was, Kerry wondered that he met no one on 
 the road. He expected to have seen groups of people, and all the 
 signs of that excitement the arrival of the French might be supposed to 
 call forth ; but, on the contrary, everything was desolate as usual, not a 
 human being appeared, nor could he hear a signal nor a sound, that 
 betokened a gathering. 
 
 " I wouldn't wonder now if it was a lie of Sam Wy lie's, and the 
 French wasn't here at all," said he to himself; 'tis often I heerd that 
 Hemsworth could have the rebellion brake out whenever he liked it, 
 and sorra bit but that may be it now, just to pretend the French was 
 here, to get the boys out, and let the army at them." 
 
 This reflection of Kerry's was scarcely conceived, when it was 
 strengthened by a boy who was coming from Glengariff with a turf-car, 
 and who told him that the ships that came in with the morning's tide 
 had all weighed anchor, and sailed out of the Bay before twelve o'cloclq 
 and that nobody knew anything about them, what they were, and 
 whence from. "We thought they were the French," said the boy, 
 '* till we seen them saihng away ; but then we knew it wasn't them, and 
 some said it was the King's ships coming in to guard Bantry." 
 
 "And they are not there now?" said Kerry. 
 
 " Not one of them ; they're out to say, and out of sight, this hour 
 back." 
 
 Kerry hesitated for a second or two, whether this intelhgence might 
 not entitle him to turn homeward ; but a second thought — the priest's 
 kitchen — seemed to have the advantage, and thither he bent his steps 
 ficcordingly. 
 
 9 » 
 
S70 THE O'dONOGHUE. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THB PBIEST'S COTTAQB. 
 
 When Mark and Herbert separated on the mountain, each took a 
 different path downward. Mark, bent on assembling the people at 
 once, and proclaiming the arrival of their friends, held his course 
 towards Glengariff and the coast, where the fishermen were, to a mao' 
 engaged in the plot. Herbert, uncertain how to proceed, was yet 
 equally anxious to lose no time, but could form no definite resolve what 
 course to adopt amid his diflficulties.. To give notice of the French 
 landing, to apprise the magistrates of the approaching outbreak, was, 
 of course, his duty ; but in doing this, might he not be the means of 
 Mark's ruin ; — ^while, on the other hand, to conceal his knowledge would 
 be an act of disloyalty to his sovereign, a forfeiture of the principles he 
 held dear, and the source, perhaps, of the most dreadful evils to his 
 country. Where, too, should he seek for counsel or advice — his father, 
 he well knew, would only regard the means of his brother's safety, 
 reckless of all other consequences ; Kate's opinions, vague and unde- 
 fined as they were, would be in direct opposition to his own. Hems- 
 worth he dared not confide in — what then remained ! There was but one 
 for miles round, in whose judgment and honour together he had trust ; 
 but from him latterly he had kept studiously aloof. This was his old 
 tutor. Father Rourke. Unwilling to inflict pain upon the old man, and 
 still imable to reconcile himself to anything like duplicity in the matter, 
 Herbert had avoided the occasion of meeting him, and of avowing that 
 change in his reHgious belief, which, although secretly working for 
 many a year, had only reached its accomplishment when absent from 
 home. He was aware how such a disclosure would afflict his old friend 
 — ^how impossible would be the effort to persuade him that such a change 
 had its origin in conviction, and not in schemes of worldly ambition ; 
 and to save himself the indignity of defence from such an accusation, 
 and the pain of an interview, where the matter should be discussed, he 
 had preferred leaving to time and accident, the disclosure, which from his 
 own lips would have been a painful sacrifice to both parties. These con. 
 siderations, important enough as they regarded his own happiness, had 
 little weight with him now. The graver questions had swallowed up all 
 
THE o'dONOGHUE. 3/1 
 
 others — the safety of the country — ^his brother's fate. It was true the 
 priest's sympathies would be exclusively with one party ; he would not 
 riew with Herbert's eye the coming struggle ; but still might he not 
 regard with him the results? — ^might he not, and with prescience 
 stronger from his age, anticipate the dreadful miseries of a land devas- 
 tated by civil war ? — was it not possible that he might judge unfavour- 
 ably of success, and prefer to endure what he regarded as evils, rathei 
 than incur the horrors of a rebellion, and the re-enactment of penalties 
 it would call down ? 
 
 The hopes such calculations suggested were higher, because Mark 
 had himself often avowed, that the French would only consent to the 
 enterprize, on the strict understanding of being seconded by the almost 
 unanimous voice of the nation. Their expression was, " We are ready 
 and wiUing to meet England in arms, provided not one Irishman be in 
 the ranks/' Should Father Rourke, then, either from motives of policy 
 or prudence, think unfavourably of the scheme, his influence, unbounded 
 over the people, would throw a damper on the rising, and either detei 
 the French from any forward movement, or at least delay it, and afford 
 time for the Government to take measures of defence. This alone 
 might have its effect on Mark, and perhaps be the means of saving 
 him. 
 
 Whether because he caught at this one chance of succour, when all 
 around seemed hopeless, or that the mind fertilizes the fields of its 
 own discovery, Herbert grew more confident each moment that this 
 plan would prove successful, and turned with an eager heart towards 
 the valley where the priest lived. In his eagerness to press forward, 
 however, he diverged from the path, and at last reached a part of the 
 mountain where a tremendous precipice intervened, and stopped all 
 further progress. The storm increasing every minute made the way 
 slow and perilous, for around the different peaks the wind swept with a 
 force that carried aU before it. Vexed at his mistake, he resolved, if 
 possible, to discover some new way down the mountain ; but in the 
 endeavour he only wandered still further from his course, and finally 
 found himself in front of the sea once more. 
 
 The heavy rain and the dense drift shut out for some minutes the 
 view ; but when at last he saw the Bay, what was his surprise to per 
 ceive that the French fleet was no longer there ; he turned his eyes 05 
 every side, but the storm-lashed water bore no vessel on its surface, 
 and save some fishing craft at anchor in the little nooks and bays of thg 
 coast, not a mast could be seen. 
 
 Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses, he knelt down 
 
572 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 the cliff, and bent his gaze steadily on the Bay ; and when at length 
 re-assured and certain that no deception existed, he began to doubt 
 whether the whole had not been unreal, and that the excitement of his 
 interview with Mark had conjured the images his wishes suggested. 
 The faint flickering embers of an almost extinguished fire on the Smug- 
 gler's Rock decided the question, and he knew at once that all had 
 actually happened. 
 
 He did not wait long to speculate on the reasons of this sudden flight 
 — enough for him that the most pressing danger was past, and time 
 afibrded to rescue iVIark from peril ; and without a thought upon that 
 armament, whose menace had already filled him with apprehension, he 
 sped down the mountain in reckless haste, and never halted till he 
 reached the glen beneath. The violence of the storm — the beating rain, 
 seemed to excite him to higher eff'orts of strength and endurance, and 
 his courage appeared to rise as difficulties thickened around him. It 
 was late in the day, however, before he came in sight of the priest's 
 cottage, and where, as the gloom was falling, a twinkling light now 
 shone. 
 
 It was with a last effort of strength, almost exhausted by fatigue and 
 hunger, that Herbert gained the door ; this lay, as usual, wide open, 
 and entering, he fell overcome upon a seat. The energy that had sustained 
 him hitherto seemed suddenly to have given way, and he lay back 
 scarcely conscious, and unable to stir. The confusion of sense, so 
 general after severe fatigue, prevented him for some time from hearing 
 voices in the little parlour beside him ; but after a brief space he 
 became aware of this vicinity, when suddenly the well-known accents 
 of Mark struck upon his ear ; he was speaking louder than was his 
 wont, and evidently with an effort to control his rising temper, while 
 the priest, in a low, calm voice, seemed endeavouring to dissuade and 
 turn him from some purpose. 
 
 A brief silence ensued, during which Mark paced the room with 
 slow and heavy steps, then ceasing suddenly he said — 
 
 ** "Why was it, then, that we never heard of these scruples before, 
 sir? — why were we not told that unbelieving France was no fitting ally 
 for saintly Ireland ? But why do I ask : had the whole fleet arrived in 
 safety — were there not thirteen missing vessels, we should hear less of 
 such Christian doubts." 
 
 " You are unjust, Mark," said the priest, calmly ; "you know me too 
 well and too long, to put any faith in your reproaches. I refuse ta 
 ddress the people, because I would not see them fall, or even conquer, 
 a an unjust cause. Raise the banner of the Church " 
 
THE O DONOGHUE. d/<) 
 
 *' The banner of the Church !" said Mark, with a mocking laugh. 
 
 "What does he say ?" whispered a third voice, in French, as a new 
 speaker mingled in the dialogue. 
 
 " He talks of the banner of the Church !" said Mark, scoffingly. 
 
 " *Oui, parbleu,' if he likes it," replied the Frenchman, laughing ; " it 
 smacks somewhat of the middle ages ; but the old proverb is right, * a 
 bad etiquette never spoiled good wine.' '* 
 
 " Is it then in full canonicals, and with the smoke of censers, we 
 are to march against the Saxon ?" said Mark, with a taunting sneer. 
 
 " Hear me out, Mark," interrupted the priest ; ** I didn't say that we 
 were yet prepared even for this ; there is much to be done, far more 
 indeed than you wot of. Every expedition insufficiently planned and 
 badly supported, must be a failure ; every failure retards the accom- 
 pUshment of our hopes ; such must this enterprise be, if now ' 
 
 ** Now or never," interposed Mark, as he struck the table violently 
 with his clenched hand — " now, or never, for me at least. You have 
 shown me to these Frenchman, as a fool or worse. One with influence, 
 and yet without a man to back me — with courage, and you tell me to 
 desert them — with the confidence of my countrymen, and I come alone, 
 unaccompanied, unaccredited, to tell my own tale amongst them. 
 What other indignities have you in store for me, or in what other light 
 am I next to figure ? But for that, and perhaps you would dare to go 
 further, and say I am not an O'Donoghue ;" and in his passion Mark 
 tore open a pocket-book, and held before the old man's eyes the certi- 
 ficate of his baptism, written in the priest's hand. " Yes, you have 
 forced me to speak, of what I ever meant to have buried in my own 
 heart. There it is, read it, and bethink you, hoAv it becomes him who 
 helped to rob me of my inheritance, to despoil me of my honour also." 
 
 " You must unsay these words, sir," said the priest in an accent as 
 stem a,nd commanding as Mark's own ; "I was never a party to any 
 fraud, nor was I in this country when your father sold his estates." 
 
 " I care not how it happened," cried Mark, passionately. " When my 
 own father could do this thing, it matters little to me who were his 
 accomplices ;" and he tore the paper in fragments, and scattered them 
 over the floor. '* Another and a very differen cause brought me here. 
 The French fleet has arrived." 
 
 The priest here muttered something in a low tone, to which Mark 
 quietly replied — 
 
 " And if they have, it is because their anchors were dragging ; you 
 would not have the vessels go ashore on the rocks ; the next tide they'll 
 stand up the Bay again. The people that should have been ready to 
 
374 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 welcome them, hold back. The whole country round is become suddenly 
 craven ; of the hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seventeen 
 appeared this morning, and they were wretches more eager for pillage 
 than the field of honourable warfare. It is come then to this, you 
 either come forth, at once, to harangue the people, and recall them to 
 their sworn allegiance, or the expedition goes on without you — go on it 
 shall." 
 
 Here he turned sharply round, and said a few words in French, to 
 which the person addressed replied — 
 
 " Certainly ; the French Republic does not send a force like this for 
 the benefit of a sea voyage." 
 
 "Desert the cause, then," continued Mark, in a tone of denunciation ; 
 " desert us, and by G — d, your fate will be worse than that of our more 
 open enemies. To-night the force will land ; to-morrow we march all 
 day, aye and all' night too : the blazing chapels shall light the way." 
 
 "Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of outraged heaven 
 is more terrible than you think of. "Whatever be the crime and guilt of 
 others, remember that you are an Irishman ; that what the alien may 
 do in recklessness, is sacrilege in him who is the son of the soil." 
 
 " Save me, then, from this guilt — save me from myself," cried Mark? 
 in an accent of tender emotion. " I cannot desert this cause, and oh, do 
 not make it one of dishonour to me." 
 
 The old man seemed overcome by this sudden appeal to his affections, 
 and made no reply, and the deep breathing of Mark, as his chest 
 heaved in strong emotion, was the only sound in the stillness. Herbert, 
 who had hitherto listened with that vague half consciousness of reality 
 excessive fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the eventful mo- 
 ment was come, when, should the priest falter or hesitate, Mark might 
 succeed in his request, and all hope of rescuing him be lost for ever. 
 With the energy of a desperate resolve he sprang forward, and entered 
 the room just as the priest was about to reply. 
 
 " No, Father, no," cried he, wildly; **be firm, be resolute; if this 
 finhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found 
 b opposing ranks." 
 
 " This from you, Herbert !" said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a 
 cold, stern gaze upon his brother. 
 
 " And why not from him," said the priest, hastily. " Is he not an 
 Mshman in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as 
 tons?'? 
 
 " I give you joy upon the alliance. Father," said Mark, with a scorn- 
 ful laugh. " Herbert is a Protestant." 
 
THE ODONOGHUE. 375 
 
 "What ! — did I hear aright?" said the old man, as with a face pale 
 as death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth hy either arm. 
 " Is this true, Herbert ? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so." 
 
 " It is true, sir, most true ; and if I have hitherto spared you the 
 pain it might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the 
 avowal might cost me." 
 
 The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a hvid 
 hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew glassy and lustre- 
 less. 
 
 " We may well be wretched and miserable," exclaimed he with a faint 
 sigh, "when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to 
 each other.'* 
 
 The French officer — for such he was — muttered some words into 
 Mark's ear, who replied — 
 
 " I cannot blame you for feeling impatient ; this is no time for fool- 
 ing. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, we'll meet again 
 soon ;" and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from the room 
 with his companion. 
 
 Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to 
 say something, yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the 
 old man's chair, he said — 
 
 " There is yet time to avert the danger j the people are irresolute — 
 many actually averse to the rising ; my brother will fall by his rashness." 
 
 " Better to do so than survive in dishonour," said the priest, snatch- 
 rudely away his hand from Herbert's grasp. "Leave me, young 
 man — go ; this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it 
 sheltered the apostate." 
 
 " I never thought I should hear these words, here," said Herbert, 
 mildly ; " but I cannot part from you in anger." 
 
 " There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, 
 Herbert," said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke ; 
 " kneel now, my child." 
 
 Herbert knelt at the priest's feet, when placing his hand on thd 
 young man's head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, a* 
 he concluded — 
 
 " And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and 
 bring you back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth." 
 
 He kissed the young man's forehead, and then covering his eyes with 
 his hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts. 
 
 At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice 
 without J he stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little 
 
376 
 
 porch, found Kerry O'Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had 
 reached the cotiuge, after several hours* endeavour to cross the water- 
 courses, swollen into torrents by the rain. 
 
 " A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir," said Kerry ; for heartily sick of 
 iis excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to 
 which brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his 
 unpleasant mission. 
 
 The note began, " My dear son ;" and m ithout the mention of a 
 name, simply entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert 
 felt both duty and inclination called him, and without a moment's delay 
 left the cottage, and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra. 
 
 The night was dark and starless, as they plodded onward, and as the 
 rain ceased, the wind grew stronger, while for miles inland the roaring of 
 the sea could be heard like deep continuous thunder. Herbert, too much 
 occupied with his own thoughts, seldom spoke, nor did Kerry, exhausted 
 as he felt himself, often break silence as they went. As they drew near 
 the castle, however, a figure crossed the road, and advancing towards 
 them said — 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 " Who could that be, Kerry ?" said Herbert, as the stranger passed 
 on. 
 
 " I know the voice well,*' said Kerry, "though he thought to dis- 
 guise it. That's Sam Wylie, and it's not for any thing good he's here.** 
 
 Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang down upon 
 iiid seized them. 
 
 " This is our man," said one of the party, as he held Herbert by 
 the collar, with a grasp there was no resisting ; " but secure the other 
 also.'* 
 
 Herbert's resistance was vain, although spiritedly made, and stifling 
 his cries for aid, they carried him along for some little distance to a 
 spot, where a chaise was standing with four mounted dragoons on either 
 side. Into this he was forced, and seated between two men in plain 
 clothes, the word was given to start. 
 
 "You know your orders if a rescue be attempted," said a voice, 
 Herbert at once knew to be Hemsworth's. 
 
 The answer was lost in the noise of the wheels ; for already the 
 horses were away at the top of their speed, giving the escort all they 
 could do to keep up beside them. 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE. 377 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE DAT OF BECKONINO. 
 
 Never had the O'Donoghue and Kate passed a day of more painful 
 anxiety, walking from window to window, whenever a view of the glen 
 might be obtained, or listening to catch among the sounds of the storm 
 for something that should announce Mark's return ; their fears in- 
 creased as the hours stole by, and yet no sign of his coming appeared. 
 
 The old castle shook to its very foundations, as the terrific gale tore 
 along the glen, and the occasional crash of some old fragment of ma- 
 sonry, would be heard high above the roaring wind — while in the road 
 beneath were scattered branches of trees, slates, and tiles, all evidencing 
 the violence of the hurricane. Under shelter of the great rock, a shiver- 
 ing flock of mountain sheep were gathered, with here and there amidst 
 them a heifer or a wild pony, all diiferences of habit merged in the 
 common instinct of safety. Within doors every thing looked sad an(J 
 gloomy ; the kitchen, where several country people, returning from the 
 market, had assembled, waiting in the vain hope of a favourable mo- 
 ment to proceed homeward, did not present any of its ordinary signs of 
 gaiety. There was no pleasant sound of happy voices ; no laughter, 
 no indulgence in the hundred little narratives of personal adventure 
 by which the peasant can beguile the weary time. They all sat around 
 the turf fire, either silent, or conversing in low cautious whispers, while 
 Mrs. Branagan herself smoked her pipe in a state of moody dignity, 
 that addfed its shade of awe to the solemnity of the scene. 
 
 It was a strange feature of the converse, nor would it be worth to 
 mention here, save as typifying the wonderful caution and reserve oi 
 the people in times of difficulty ; but no one spoke of the " rising," 
 nor did any allude, except distantly, to the important military prepa- 
 rations going forward at Macroom. The fear of treachery was at the 
 moment universal ; the dread that informers were scattered widely 
 through the land, prevailed everywhere, and the appearance of a stran- 
 ger, or of a man from a distant part of the country, was always enough 
 to silence all free and confidential intercourse. So it was now — none 
 spoke of anything but the dreadful storm — the injury it might do the 
 <iountry — how the floods would carry away a bridge here, or a mill there. 
 
S78 THK o'dONOOUUE. 
 
 vfhtit roads would be impassable — what rivers would no longer be ford- 
 able — some had not yet drawn home their turf from the bog, and were 
 now in despair of ever reaching it — another had left his hay in a low cal- 
 low, and never expected to see it again — while a few, whose speculations 
 took a wider field ventured to expatiate on the terrible consequences of 
 the gale at sea, a topic which when suggested led to many a sorrowful 
 tale of shipwreck on the coast. 
 
 It was while they were thus, in low and muttering voices, talking 
 over these sad themes, that Kate, unable any longer to endure the sus- 
 pense of silent watching, descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen, 
 to try and learn there some tidings of events. The people stood up 
 respectfully as she came forward, and while each made his or her hum- 
 ble obeisance, a muttered sound ran through them, in Irish, of wonder 
 and astonishment at her grace and beauty ; for, whatever be the priva- 
 tions of the Irish peasant, however poor and humble his lot in life, 
 two faculties pertain to him like instincts — a relish for drollery, and an 
 admiration for beauty — these are claims that ever find acknowledg- 
 ment from him, and in his enjoyment of either, he can forget himself, 
 and all the miseries of his condition. The men gazed on her as some- 
 thing more than mortal, the character of her features heightened by 
 costume strange to their eyes, seemed to astonish almost as much as it 
 captivated them — while the women, with more critical discernment, 
 examined her more composedly, but, perhaps, with not less admiration; 
 Mrs. Branagan, at the same time throwing a proud glance around, as 
 though to say, " You didn't think to see the likes of that, in these 
 parts." 
 
 Kate happened on this occasion to look more than usually handsome. 
 "With a coquetry it is not necessary to explain, she had dressed herself 
 most becomingly, and in that style which distinctly marks a French 
 woman — the only time in his life Mark had ever remarked her costume 
 was when she wore this dress, and she had not forgotten the criticism. 
 
 " I didn't mean to disturb you," said Kate, with her slightly foreign 
 accent ; " pray sit down again — well, then, I must leave you, if you 
 won't — every one let's me have my own way — is it not true, Mrs. 
 Branagan?" 
 
 Mrs. Branagan' s reply was quite lost in the general chorus of the 
 others, as she said — 
 
 " And why wouldn't you, God bless you for a raal beauty !" while a 
 powerful looking fellow, with dark beard and whiskers, struck his stick 
 violently against the ground, and cried out in his enthusiasm — 
 
 "Let me see the man that would say agin it — that's all." 
 
THE O'DONOOHTJE. 379 
 
 Kate smiled at the speaker, not all ungrateful for such rude chivalry 
 and went on — " I wanted to hear if you have any news from the town 
 — was there any stir among the troops, or anything extraordinary 
 going forward there ?" 
 
 Each looked at the other as if unwilling to take the reply upon him- 
 self, when at last an old man, with a head as white as snow, an- 
 swered — 
 
 "Yes, my lady, the soldiers is all under arms since nine o'clock, 
 then came news that the French was in the Bay, and the army was 
 sent for to Cork." 
 
 " No, 'tis Limerick I heerd say," cried another. 
 
 " Limerick indeed ! sorra bit, 'tis from Dublin they're comin wid 
 cannons ; but it's no use, for the French is sailed off again as quick as 
 they come." 
 
 " The French fleet gone ! — left the Bay — surely you must mistake," 
 said Kate, eagerly. 
 
 " Faix, I won't be sure, my lady ; but here's Tom McCarthy seen 
 them going away, a little after twelve o'clock." 
 
 The man thus appealed to, seemed in nowise satisfied with the allu- 
 sions to him, and threw a quick distrustful look around, as though 
 far from feeling content with the party before whom he should ex- 
 plain, a feeling that increased considerably as every eye was now turned 
 towards him. 
 
 Kate, with a ready tact that never failed her, saw his difficulty, and 
 approaching close to where he stood, said, in a voice only audible by him- 
 self 
 
 " Tell me what you saw in the Bay, do not have any fear of me." 
 
 McCarthy, who was dressed in the coarse blue jacket of a fisherman, 
 possessed that sharp intelligence so often found among those of his call- 
 ing, and seemed at once to have his mind reheved by this mark of con- 
 fidence. 
 
 " I was in the boat, my lady," said he, " that rowed Master Mark 
 out to the French frigate, and waited for him alongside to bring him 
 back. He was more than an hour on board talking with the officers, 
 sometimes down in the cabin, and moretimes up on the quarter-deck, 
 where there was a fierce-looking man, with a blue uniform, lying 
 on a white skin — a white bear. Master Mark tould me it was. The 
 officer was wounded in the leg before he left France, and the sea voy- 
 gge made it bad again, but, for all that, he laughed and joked away 
 like the others." 
 
 " And they were laughing then, and in good spirits ?" said Kate. 
 
380 THE O'DONOGHUB. , 
 
 "'Tis that you may call it. I never heerd such pleasant gentle- 
 men before, and the sailors too was just the same — sorra hit would 
 sarve them, but making us drink a bottle of rum apiece, for luck, I 
 suppose — devil a one had a sorrowful face on him but Master Mark, 
 whatever was the matter with him, he wouldn't eat anything either, 
 and the only glass of wine he drank, you'd think it was poison, the 
 face he made at it — more bytoken he flung the glass overboard when 
 he finished it. And to be sure the Frenchmen weren't in fault, they 
 treated him like a brother — one would be shaking hands wid him — 
 another wid his arm round his shoulders, and" — here Tom blushed and 
 stammered, and at last stopped dead short. 
 
 " Well, go on, what were you going to say ?" 
 
 " Faix, I'm ashamed then — but 'tis true enough — saving your pre- 
 sence, I saw two of them kiss him." 
 
 Kate could not help laughing at Tom's astonishment at this specimen 
 of French greeting — ^while for the first time, perhaps, did the feeling of 
 the peasant occur to herself, and the practice she had often witnessed 
 abroad, without remark, became suddenly repugnant to her delicacy. 
 
 " And did Master Mark come back alone," asked she, after a 
 minute's hesitation. 
 
 " No, my lady, there was a little dark man vdd gould epaulettes, 
 and a sword on him, that came too. I heerd them call him, Mr. Morris, 
 but sorra word of English or Irish he had." 
 
 *'And where did they land, and which way did they take after- 
 wards ?" 
 
 " I put them ashore at Glengariif, and they had horses there to take 
 them up the country. I heerd they were going first to Father Rourke's 
 in the glen." 
 
 "And then, after that?" 
 
 *• Sorra a one of me knows. I never set eyes on them since — I was 
 trying to get a warp out for one of the French ships, for the anchors 
 was dragging — they came to the wrong side of the island, and got into the 
 north channel, and that was the reason they had to cut their cables and 
 stand out to sea till the gale is over, but there's not much chance of 
 that for some time." 
 
 Kate did not speak for several minutes, and at length said — 
 
 " The people, tell me of them, were they in great numbers along the 
 coast, were there a great many of them with Mr. Mark when he came 
 down to the shore ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you no lie, my lady ; there was not — there was some boys 
 i'om Castletown, and down thereabouts, but the O'Learys and the Sul- 
 
THE o'donoghue. 331 
 
 livans, the McCarthys — my own people — and the Neals wasn't there ; 
 and sure enough it was no wonder if Master Mark was angry, when he 
 looked about and saw the fellows was following him. ' Be off/ says he, 
 * away wid ye, 'tis for pillage and robbery the likes of ye comes dowc 
 here — if the men that should have heart and courage in the cause won't 
 come forward, I'll never head ruffians like you to replace them.' Them's 
 the words he said, and hard words they were." 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Kate, as she wiped away a tear from her eye, 
 " none stand by him, not one, " And why is this the case," asked she, 
 eagerly, "have the people grown faint-hearted — are there cowards 
 amongst them ?" 
 
 "There's as bad," said McCarthy, in a low, cautious whisper — 
 " there's traitors, that would rather earn blood money, than live ho- 
 nestly — there's many a one among them scheming to catch Master Mark 
 himself, and he is lucky if he escapes at last." 
 
 "There's horses now, coming up the road, and fast they're coming 
 too," said one of the country people, and the quick clattering of a gal- 
 lop could be heard along the plashy road. 
 
 Kate's heart beat almost audibly, and she bounded from the spot, 
 and up the stairs. The noise of the approaching horses came nearer, 
 and at last stopped before the door. 
 
 "It is him — it is Mark," said she to herself, in an ecstasy of delight, 
 and with trembling fingers withdrew the heavy bolt, and undid the 
 chain, while, with an effort of strength the emergency alone conferred, 
 she threw wide the massive door, clasped and framed with iron. 
 
 "Oh, how I have watched for you," exclaimed she, as a figure, 
 dismounting hastily, advanced towards her, and the same instant the 
 voice revealed Hemsworth, as he said — 
 
 " If I could think this greeting were indeed meant for me. Miss 
 O'Donoghue, I should call this moment the happiest of my life." 
 
 " I thought it was my cousin," said Kate, as almost fainting, she 
 fell back into a seat, " but you may have tidings of him, can you tell 
 if he is safe?" 
 
 " I expected to have heard this intelligence from you," said he, as 
 recovering from the chagrin of his disappointment, he resumed his 
 habitual deference of tone ; " has he not returned ?" 
 
 " No, we have not seen him, nor has the messenger yet come back. 
 Herbert also is away, and we are here alone." 
 
 As Hemsworth offered her his arm to return to the drawing-room, 
 he endeavoured to reassure her on the score of Mark's safety, while he 
 hinted that the French, who that morning had entered Bantry Bay with 
 
392 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 deren Tessels, unprepared for the active reception his measures had 
 provided, had set sail again, either to await the remainder of the 
 fleet, or perhaps return to France. ; "I would not wish to throw 
 blame on those whose misfortune is already heavy, but I must tell 
 you. Miss O'Donoghue, that every step of this business has been 
 marked by duplicity and cowardice. I, of course, need not say, that 
 in either of these, your friends stand guiltless, but your cousin has 
 been a dupe throughout ; the dupe of every one who thought it worth 
 his while to trick and deceive him — he believed himself in the con- 
 fidence of the leaders of the expedition — they actually never heard of 
 his name. He thought himself in a position of trust and influence — 
 he is not recognized by any — unnoticed by his own party, and unac- 
 knowledged by the French, his only notoriety will be the equivocal one 
 of martyrdom." 
 
 Every word of this speech, uttered in a voice of sad, regretful mean- 
 ing, as though the speaker were sorrowing over the mistaken opinions 
 of a dear friend, cut deeply into Kate's heart — she knew not well at 
 the instant, whether she should not better have faced actual danger 
 for her cousin, than have seen him thus deceived and played upon. 
 Hemsworth saw the effect his words created, and went on — 
 
 ** Would that the danger rested here, and that the fate of one 
 rash, but high-spirited boy, was all that hung on the crisis" — as he 
 spoke he threw a cautious look around the roomy apartment to see that 
 they were, indeed, alone. 
 
 " Great Heaven ! there is not surely worse than this in store for 
 us," cried Kate, in a voice of heartrending affliction. 
 
 " There is far worse. Miss O'Donoghue ; the ruin that threatens 
 is that of a whole house — a noble and honoured name — your uncle 
 is unhappily no stranger to these mischievous intentions — I was slow- 
 to put faith in the assertion." 
 
 " It is false — I know it is false," said Kate, passionately — " My 
 poor dear uncle, overwhelmed with many calamities, has borne up 
 patiently and nobly, but of any participation in schemes of danger 
 or enterprize he is incapable — think of his age — his infirmity." 
 
 ** I am aware of both, young lady, but I am also aware that for 
 years past, his pecimiary difficulties have been such that he would 
 hesitate at nothing which should promise the chance of extrication. 
 Many have imagined like him, that even a temporary triumph over 
 England would lead to some new settlement between the two coun- 
 tries, concessions of one kind or other, laws revoked and repealed, 
 and confiscations withdrawn ; nor were the expectations, perhaps, alto- 
 
THE o'donoghue. 383 
 
 j>etlier unfounded. Little has ever been accorded to Ireland as a 
 grace — much has been obtained by her by menace." 
 
 "He never calculated on such an issue to the struggle, sir; depend 
 upon it, no unworthy prospect of personal gain ever induced an 
 O'Donoghue to adopt a cause like this. You have convinced me, now, 
 that he is unconnected with this plot." 
 
 " I sincerely wish my own convictions could follow yours, madam, 
 but it is an ungrateful office I have undertaken. "Would to heaven I 
 knew how to discharge it more fittingly. To be plain, Miss O'Donoghue, 
 the statute of high treason, which will involve the confiscation of your 
 uncle's estate, will, if measures be not speedily taken, rob you of youi 
 fortune ; to prevent this — 
 
 " Stay, sir, I may save you some trouble on my account. I have 
 no fortune, nor any claim upon my uncle's estate." 
 
 " Pardon me, young lady, but the circumstance of my position 
 has made me acquainted with matters connected with your family; 
 your claim extends to a very considerable, and a very valuable pro- 
 perty." 
 
 " Once more, sir, I must interrupt you — I have none." 
 
 *' If I dare contradict you I would say " 
 
 " Nay, nay, sir," cried she, blushing, partly from shame, and partly 
 from anger — *'this must cease, I know not what right you have to 
 press the avowal from me. The property you speak of is no longer 
 mine ; my uncle did me the honour to accept it from me, would that 
 the gift could express the thousandth part of the love I bear him." 
 
 "You gave over your claim to your uncle !" said Hemsworth, leav- 
 ing a pause between every word of the sentence, while a look of 
 malignant anger settled on his brow. 
 
 " Who dares to question me on such a subject," said Kate, for 
 the insulting expression so suddenly assumed by Hemsworth, roused 
 all her indignation. 
 
 " Is this, then, really so," said Hemsworth, who, so unaccustomed 
 as he ever was to be overreached, felt all the poignancy of a deception 
 in his disappointment. 
 
 Kate made no answer, but moved towards the door, while Hems- 
 worth sprang forward before her, and placed his back against it. 
 
 " What means this, or how comes it, that you dare to treat me thus 
 beneath my uncle's roof?" 
 
 " One word only. Miss O'Donoghue," said Hemsworth, with an 
 effort to assume his habitual tone of deference ; " May I ask was this 
 transfer of property made legally and formally." 
 
384 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 * Sir," said Kate, as drawing herself up, she stared full at him. wiljli« 
 out another word of reply. 
 
 "I see it all," said Hemsworth, rapidly, and as if thinking, aloud. 
 " This was the money that paid off Hickson — in this way the mortgage 
 was redeemed, and the bond for two thousand also recovered — duped 
 and cheated at every step. And so, madam," — here he turned a look 
 of insulting menace towards her — " I have been the fool in your hands 
 all this time ; and not content with thwarting my views, you have 
 endeavoured to sap the source of my fortune. Yes, you need not affect 
 ignorance ; I know of Sir Archibald's kind interference in my behalf: 
 Sir Marmaduke Travers has withdrawn his agency from me ; he might 
 have paused to inquire where was the property from which he has 
 removed me — ^how much of it owns him the master, or me. This 
 was your uncle's doing. I have it under his own hand, and the letter 
 addressed to yourself." 
 
 " And you dared, sir, to break the seal of my letter !" 
 
 " I did more, madam — I sent a copy of it to the Secretary of State, 
 whose warrant I possess : the young officials of the Home Office will, 
 doubtless, thank me for the amusement I have afforded them in its 
 contents. The match-making talents of Sir Archy and his niece's 
 fascinations have, however, failed for once. The Guardsman seems to 
 have got over his short-lived passion." 
 
 " Stand back, sir, and let me pass." 
 
 " One moment more, madam ; if I have suffered some injuries from 
 your family, I have at least one debt of gratitude to acknowledge — but 
 for your note, written by your own hand, I should scarcely have suc- 
 ceeded in capturing a rebel, whose treason will not long await its 
 penalty — but for your able assistance, your cousin might have escaped — 
 indeed, it may be worth while to inform you that Sir Archibald had 
 good hopes of obtaining his pardon, a circumstance which will, doubt- 
 less, be satisfactory to the surviving members of the family." 
 
 *'My cousin Mark taken!" cried Kate, as she clasped her hands to 
 either side of her head in a paroxysm of agony. 
 
 " Taken, and on his way to Dublin, under a military escort ; on 
 Wednesday he will be tried by court-martial : I hope and trust on 
 Thursday — but perhaps it would be cruel to tell you of Thursday's 
 proceedings." 
 
 Kate reeled, and endeavoured to support herself by a chair ; but a 
 sickness like death crept over her, and with a faint low sigh she sank 
 lifeless on the floor ; at the same instant the door was burst open by a 
 tremendous effort, and Hemsworth sent forward into the room. It 
 
THE O'DONOGIiUE, 385 
 
 was Mark, splashed and dripping, his face flushed with violent exertion, 
 that entered. With one glance at Hemsworth, and another at the 
 fainting form before him, he seemed to divine all. 
 
 *' Our day of reckoning is come at last, sir," said he, in a low distinct 
 voice ; "it has been somewhat tardy, however." 
 
 *' If you have any claim on me, Mr. O'Donoghue," said Hemsworth, 
 with a forced calmness, " I am ready, at the proper time and place, to 
 offer you every satisfaction." 
 
 " That time and place is here, sir," said Mark, as without the 
 slightest sign of passion he bolted the door, and drew a heavy table 
 across it. "Here, in this room, from which both of us shall never 
 walk forth alive." 
 
 "Take care, sir, what you do ; lam armed," said Hemsworth, as 
 he threw a quick glance around, to see if any hope of escape should 
 present itself. 
 
 "And so am I," said Mark, coolly, who still busied himself in 
 removing every object from the middle of the room, while gently lifting 
 Kate, he laid her, still unconscious as she was, upon a sofa. 
 
 " We have neither of us much time to throw away, I fancy," said he, 
 with a bitter laugh ; " choose your place now, sir, and fire when you 
 please — mine is yonder;" and as he spoke he turned half round to walk 
 towards the spot indicated. With the quickness of lightning, Hems- 
 worth seized the moment, and drawing a pistol from his bosom, aimed 
 and fired ; the ball grazed Mark*s shoulder, and made him stagger for- 
 wards ; but in a second he recovered himself : the casualty saved him ; 
 for while falling, a second Dullet whizzed after the first. With a cry of 
 vengeance that mado the old walls ring again, Mark sprang at him ; it 
 was the deadly leap of a tiger on his prey ; the impulse was such, that 
 as he caught him in his arms, both rolled over together on the floor. 
 The struggle was but brief ; Mark, superior in youth, strength, and acti- 
 vity, soon got him under, and with his knee upon his chest, pinioned him 
 down to the ground. There was a pause, the only sounds being the 
 quick-drawn breathings of both, as with looks of hate they gazed at 
 each other ; — while with one hand he grasped Hemsworth by the throat, 
 with the other he felt for his pistol : slowly he drew forth the weapon, 
 and cocked it ; then laying the cold muzzle upon the other's forehead, 
 he pressed the trigger ; the cock snapped, but the priming burned. 
 He flung the weapon from him in passion, and drew another ; but ers " 
 he could adjust it, Hemsworth ceased to breathe ; a cold livid colour 
 spread over his features, and a clammy sweat bedewed his fora- 
 head — he had fainted. 2 C 
 
386 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 Mark dropped the uplifted weapon, as he muttered — "It was a fit- 
 ting fate — the death of a coward." Then standing up, he approached 
 the window tliat overlooked the road, and threw it wide open. The 
 storm still hlew with all its force, and in a second extinguished the 
 lights in the room, leaving all in darkness. With cautious steps, Mark 
 moved towards where the body lay, and lifting it in his powerful arms, 
 carried it towards the window ; with one vigorous effort he hurled the 
 lifeless form from him, and the hea\y mass was heard as it fell crashing 
 among the brushwood that covered the precipice. 
 
 Mark gazed for a few seconds into the black abyss beneath, and then 
 withdrawing, he closed the window, and barred it. By the aid of his 
 pistol he struck a light, and relighted the candles, and then approached 
 the sofa where Kate lay. 
 
 " Have I been ill, Mark ?" said she, as she touched his hand— 
 *' have I been ill, and dreaming a horrid dream ? I thought Hems- 
 worth was here, and that — that — but he was here — I know it now — 
 you met him here. Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, what has happened — 
 where is he ?" 
 
 Mark pointed to the window, but never spoke. 
 
 " Is he killed — did you kill him ?" cried she, as her eyes grew wild 
 with the expression of terror. " Oh, merciful heaven, who has visited 
 us so heavily, why will reason remain when madness would be mercy ! 
 You have killed him !" 
 
 " He did not die by my hand, though he well deserved to have done 
 so," said Mark, sternly ; but are our hours to be so many now, that we 
 can waste them on such a theme. The French are in the Bay — at least 
 a portion of the fleet — sixteen vessels, nine of which are ships of the 
 line, are holding by their anchors beneath our cliffs ; twenty more are 
 at sea, or wrecked or captured by the English, for who can tell the 
 extent of our disasters. All is against us ; but against all we might 
 succeed, if we had not traitors amongst us." 
 
 " The Government is aware of the plot, Mark — knows every man 
 engaged in it, and is fully prepared to meet your advance." 
 
 " Such is the rumour ; but there's no truth in it : the people hold 
 back, and give this as the excuse for their cowardice. The priests will 
 not harangue them, and the panic spreads every moment wider, of 
 treachery and betrayal. Lanty Lawler, the fellow who should have 
 supplied horses for the artillery, is an informer ; so are half the others. 
 There's nothing for it but a bold plunge — something to put every neck 
 in the halter, and then will come the spirit to meet all difficulties — so 
 thinks Tone, and he's a noble-hearted fellow, and ready for any peril." 
 
THE o'donoghue. 387 
 
 A loud knocking at the door of the tower now broke in upon the con- 
 verse, and Kerry O'Leary called aloud — 
 
 " Open the door. Master Mark ; be quick, the soldiers is comin'. *' 
 
 Mark speedily withdrew the heavy table from its place across the 
 door, and opened it. Kerry, his clothes reduced to rags, and his face 
 and hands bleeding, stood before him, terror in every feature. " They 
 took me prisoner at the gate there, but I contrived to slip away, and 
 took to the mountain, and a fine chase they gave me for the last hour " 
 
 " But the soldiers — where are they, and in what place ?" 
 
 "There's two troops of horse about a mile below Mary's in the glen, 
 waiting for Hemsworth's orders to advance." 
 
 "Go on," said Mark, with a stern smile ; "they're not likely to move 
 for some time.'* 
 
 "I do not know that, then," said Kerry, "for I saw Hemsworth pass 
 up the road, with two men holding him on his horse ; he seemed to 
 have got a bad fall, for the blood was running down his face, and his 
 cheeks was as pale as a corpse." 
 
 " You saw Hemsworth, and he was living !" 
 
 " Faix he was, and no doubt of it ; there never was the man in these 
 parts could curse and swear the way he does, barrin' himself, and I 
 heerd him blasphaming away as he went along what he wouldn't do 
 down here." 
 
 " Oh, fly, Mark ; don't lose a second, for heaven's sake " 
 
 ** And leave you here to the mercy of this scoundrel and his blood- 
 hounds." 
 
 " No, no ; we are safe here ; he dare not wreak his vengeance on us ; 
 but you are his greatest enemy." 
 
 " 'Tis thrue she's sayin'," cried Kerry, eagerly ; " I heerd Hems- 
 worth say to Sam Wylie, that Captain Travers is up at Macroom vdth 
 his regiment, and was coming down to guard the castle here ; but that 
 there was plenty of time to take you before he came, and there was a 
 tree standing to hang you, besides." 
 
 " I leave you, then, in safe keeping," said Mark, with a touch of 
 sarcasm in his voice ; " one word of good-bye to my father, and I am 
 gone." 
 
 It was some moments before the O'Donoghue could rally from the 
 deep stupor grief and anxiety induced, and recognize Mark as he 
 leaned over his chair ; and then as he felt his hands and clutched his 
 arms, he seemed endeavouring to persuade himself that it was not some 
 passing dream he laboured under. 
 
 " The pursuit is too hot, father," said Mark, after two or three 
 
388 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 eflforts to arouse his mind to what was going forward, " and I must be 
 off. Hemsworth has a strong party in the glen ; but fear nothing ; he 
 tannot molest you ; and, besides, his time is brief now." 
 
 " And will you leave me, Mark ; will you desert me now V* said the 
 old man, with all the selfishness of age, forgetting every thing, save his 
 own feelings. 
 
 ** Not if you wish me to remain ; if you think there is more honour 
 in my being taken prisoner under your own roof, Fm just as willing." 
 
 " Oh, no, uncle," cried Kate, rushing forward ; " do not keep him ; 
 say good-bye, and speedily ; the dragoons are advancing already." 
 
 *' There goes a shot ! that was a cannon," cried Mark, in ecstasy, as 
 he lifted his hand to catch the sound — "another! another! they're 
 landing — they're coming — you'll see me again before day-break, father," 
 said he, embracing the old man tenderly, while he turned to bid Kate 
 adieu. She stood with her hands before her eyes, her bosom heaving 
 violently. Mark gazed at her for a moment, and pressing his lips to her 
 cheek, merely whispered one word, and was gone. 
 
 Hemsworth's horse, which Kerry had found in the stable, stood 
 ready awaiting Mark, and without a moment's loss of time, he sprung 
 on the animal's back, and dashed down the road at full speed. Mean- 
 while the loud firing of cannon continued at intervals towards the Bay, 
 and more than one rocket was seen to throw its bright glare through 
 the blackness of the night. 
 
 " They're landing at last," cried Mark, as every report set his heart 
 oounding with eager hope, and forward he rode through the storm. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE GLEN AND THE BAT. 
 
 LRY O'Leary's intelHgence was correct in every particular. Hems- 
 »rorth was not only living, but, save some bruises, and a cut upon his 
 forehead, was httle the worse for his adventure. The brushwood had 
 caught him in his descent, and broken the fall ; and although the height 
 was considerable, when he reached the ground he was merely stunneci 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE, 389 
 
 and not seriously injured. After a little time he was able to walk, and 
 had succeeded in advancing about half a mile up the glen, when he was 
 met by Wylie and a party of his followers, returning after escorting the 
 chaise some miles on the road. 
 
 Neither our space nor our inclination permit us to dwell on the scene 
 that followed, where Hemsworth, outwitted and duped as he believed 
 himself, gave way to the most violent passion, accusing every one in 
 turn of treachery, and vowing a deep and bloody vengeance on the 
 whole House of O'Donoghue. 
 
 Seated on Wylie' s horse, and supported on each side by two men — 
 for at first his weakness increased, as he found himself in the saddle — 
 he went along at a foot's pace. He would not listen to Wylie' s proposal 
 of returning to the " Lodge," but constantly called out — " To Keim- 
 an-eigh as fast as possible — to the dragoons !" and at last passion had 
 so far supplied energy, that he was able to press on faster, when sud- 
 denly a twinkling light through the gloom apprised him that he was 
 near the little way-side inn. 
 
 " Get me some wine, Wylie, and be quick !" cried he, as they reached 
 the door. 
 
 *' You had better get off, and rest a few moments, sir," said the 
 other. 
 
 " Rest ! — I'll never rest," shouted he, with an infamous oath, " till 
 I see that fellow waving from the gallows ! Some wine this instant !" 
 
 To the loud summons of Wylie no answer was returned, and the 
 light that shone so brightly a moment before was now extinguished. 
 
 ** Break open the door ! B — t you ! what do you delay about ?" 
 shouted Hemsworth. "There are some rebel tricks at work here." 
 
 At the same instant the light re-appeared, and Mary's voice was 
 heard from within — 
 
 "Who's that, at this hour of the night, making such a noise?" 
 
 " Open the door, and be d d to you !" cried Hemsworth, who, hav- 
 ing got off his horse, was now endeavouring with his foot to force the 
 Strong door. 
 
 *' It will take a better man than you to stave that pannel in," said 
 Mary, who, although recognizing the voice, affected not to know the 
 speaker. And she said truly, the door once made part of the ruddei 
 of an Indiaman, and was strong oak belted with iron. 
 
 " Put a light in the thatch ! Snap your pistol, Wylie, and set fire to 
 ft!" cried Hemsworth, savagely; for any opposition to him at this 
 tioment called forth all ^^ malignity of his nature. 
 
390 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 ** Oh, is it you, captain?" said Mary, with a Toice of well-affected 
 respect ; " the Lord pardon me for keeping you out in the cold !" and 
 with that she opened the door, and with many a low curtsey saluted 
 her guest. 
 
 Rudely pushing her aside, and muttering an oath, Hemsworth 
 entered the cahin, followed by the others. 
 
 " Why was the light put out," said he, " when you heard us knock- 
 iDg at the door?" 
 
 "I did not hear the knocking," said Mary. " I was in the Httle 
 room there, and goin' to bed. The saints be good to me! — since 
 the soldiers were here, the hearing is knocked oiit of me — the 
 noise and the ballyragging they went on with, from momin' till night ! — 
 and now that they are gone — thanks to your honour, that ordered them 
 away two days ago up to *the Lodge' — I do be thinking, they are here 
 still." 
 
 "Bring us some wine," said Hemsworth, "and the best in your 
 house. You need not spare the tap to-night, for it's the last you will 
 ever draw beneath this roof. There ; — don't look surprised and inno- 
 cent ; — ^you know well what I mean. This is a rebel den, but I will 
 leave it a heap of ashes before I quit the spot." 
 
 " You'll not bum my Httle place down, captain ?" said Mary, with a 
 look, in which a shrewd observer might have read a very different ex- 
 pression than that of fear. "You'll not take away the means I have of 
 earning my bread ?" 
 
 " Bring the wine, woman ; and if you don't wish to wait for the bon- 
 fire, be off with you up the glen. I'll leave a mark on this spot as a 
 good warning to traitors. People shall talk of it hereafter, and point 
 to it as the place where rebelUon met its first lesson." 
 
 *' And who dares to say that there was any treason in this house V* 
 
 " If my oath," said WyHe, " won't satisfy you, Mrs. M*Kelly -" 
 
 "Yours!" interrupted Mary; — "yours! — a transported felon's 
 oath !" 
 
 " What do you think of your old sweetheart, Lanty Lawler ?" said 
 Hemsworth, as he drank off goblet after goblet of the strong wine. 
 " Wouldn't you think twice about refusing him now, if you knew the 
 price it was to cost you ?" 
 
 " I would rather see my bones as black as his own traitor's heart," 
 cried Mary, with flashing eyes, "than I would take a villain like that! 
 There, captain, there's the best of the cellar, and there's the house for 
 you, and there," said she, throwing herself on her knees, " and there'i 
 
THE o'donoghue. 391 
 
 the curse of the lone woman that you turn out this night upon the road 
 without a roof to shelter her, and may it light on you now, and follow 
 you hereafter !" 
 
 " Clear your throat, and cool it, after your hot wishes," said Hems- 
 worth, with a brutal laugh ; for in this ebullition of the woman's pas- 
 sion was the first moment of his enjoyment. 
 
 With a gesture of menace, and a denunciation uttered in Irish, with 
 all the energy the native language possesses, Mary turned into the road, 
 and left her home for ever. 
 
 " What was that she said ?" said Hemsworth, turning to one of the 
 men that stood behind the chair. 
 
 " It was a saying they do have in Irish, sir," said the fellow, with a 
 simper, " and the meaning of it is, that it isn't them that lights a bon- 
 fire, that waits to dance round the ashes." 
 
 " Ha ! that was a threat, then ! She will bring the rebels on us ; — 
 but I have taken good care for that. I have sent a strong party by 
 the other road, to cut off their advance from the Bay, and we'll hear 
 the firing time enough to warn us ; and that party," said Hemsworth, 
 muttering to himself, " should be at their post by this time ;" here he 
 looked at his watch : "it is now eleven o'clock; you took the order, 
 Wylie, for Captain Travers to go round by Googawn Barra, and occupy 
 the pass between Carrig-na-curra aad Bantry Bay ?" 
 
 " I did, sir, and he set off the moment I gave the letter." 
 
 **Then the fellow, Mark, cannot escape me," said Hemsworth. 
 " If he leave the castle before I come, he falls into the hands of the 
 others. Still, I would rather be judge and jury myself, and you shall 
 be the hangman, Sam. There's little love between you : it is an office 
 you'll like well." 
 
 " If I don't do it nate," said Wylie, " the young gentleman must 
 forgive me, as it is my first time ;" and they both laughed heartily at 
 the ruffian jest. 
 
 " But what are we staying for ?" said Hemsworth, while he drained his 
 glass. " Let us get up the dragoons, and make sure of him at once. 
 I am strong now, and ready for any exertion." 
 
 " 'Tis a pity to burn the little place, captain," said one of the fellows 
 of the party. "There's many a dacent boy would think himself well 
 off, to get the likes of it for his reward." 
 
 "Make yourself at home," said Hemsworth, "for I'll give you a 
 lease for three lives of it — yours, Wylie's, and mine own — will that 
 satisfy*you ?" 
 
392 THE O DONOGHUE. 
 
 The fellow stared at the speaker, and then looked at "Wylie, as if not 
 knowing whether to place any faith in the words he heard. 
 
 " I didn't say you were to get the premises in good repair, how. 
 ever,** said Hemsworth, with a hitter laugh, "I didn't boast much 
 about the roof," and at the same moment he took a lighted turf from 
 the hearth, and thrust it into the thatch, while "Wyhe, to curry favour 
 with his patron, imitated his example." 
 
 *• Where does that door lead to ?" said Hemsworth, pointing to the 
 small portal, which led into the rock towards the stable. 
 
 " That's the way to the stable," said Wylie, as he opened it, and 
 looked down the passage ; "and here's another door, that I never saw 
 before." 
 
 *' That's where she do keep the spirits, sir," said one of the men; 
 " 'tis there she do have all the liquor.'* 
 
 " There's nothing like whiskey for a blaze," said Hemsworth, with 
 a half drunken laugh, ** Burst open that door !" — but all their efforts 
 were vain : it was made with every precaution of strength, and studded 
 over with strong nails. 
 
 " Stop !" said Hemsworth, as he pushed the others rudely away, 
 " there's a readier plan than yours to force it. I'll blow the lock to 
 pieces !" and, so saying, he took the pistol from Wylie's hand, and, 
 having leisurely examined the priming and the jflint, placed the muzzle 
 in the lock. 
 
 *' Be quick, sir, be quick !" said Wylie ; " the place is filling with 
 smoke !" 
 
 And so it was : the crackling of the thatch, and the dense masses o\ 
 black smoke that filled the cabin, showed that the work of destruction 
 was begun. 
 
 " Here, then : this is to put the seal to your lease, Peter," said 
 Hemsworth, as he pulled the trigger. 
 
 A quick report followed, and then a crashing sound, as of splintered 
 timber, and, sudden as the hghtning flash itself, a noise burst forth 
 ouder than thunder, and at the same moment the house, and all that 
 Irere in it, were blown into the air, while the massive rock was shattered 
 from its base, full fifty feet up above the road. Report after report 
 followed, each accompanied by some new and fearful explosion, until at 
 fength a great portion of the cHff was rent asunder, and scattered in 
 Huge fragments across the road, where, amid the crumbUng masonry 
 and the charred rafters, lay four black and lifeless bodies, without a 
 trait which should distinguish one from the other. 
 
THE O DONOGHTJE. 393 
 
 All was silent on the spot, but through every glen in the mountains 
 the echoing sounds sent back in redoubled peals the thunder of that 
 dreadful explosion, and through many a far-off valley rung out that last 
 requiem over the dead. 
 
 For some time the timbers and the thatch continued to burn, emit- 
 ting at intervals lurid bursts of flame, as more combustible matter met 
 the fire, while now and then a great report, and a sudden explosion, 
 would announce that some hitherto untouched store of powder became 
 ignited, until, as day was breaking, the flames waned and died out, 
 leaving the rent rocks and the ruined cabin the sad memorials of the 
 event. 
 
 Nor were these the only occurrences of which the glen was that night 
 the witness. Mark, his brain burning for the moment when the fray 
 should commence, rode on amid the storm, the crashing branches and 
 the loud brawling torrents seeming to arouse the wild spirit within him, 
 and lash his enthusiasm even to madness. The deafening clamour of 
 the hurricane increased, as he came nearer the Bay, where the sea, 
 storm-lashed and swollen, beat on the rocks with a din like artillery. 
 
 But louder far than all other sounds were the minute peals of cannon 
 from the Bay, making the deep valleys ring with their clangour, and 
 sending their solemn din into many a far-off glen. 
 
 " They are coming ! they are coming !" cried Mark, as he bounded 
 madly in his saddle. ** What glorious music have they for their 
 march !" 
 
 " Stop ! — pull in ! — ^hould hard, Master Mark !" screamed a voice 
 from the side of the road, as a fellow jumped from a cliff, and made 
 towards the rider. 
 
 " Don't delay me now, Terry ; I cannot stay," said Mark, as he re- 
 cognised the youth, " the French are landing !" 
 
 ''They are not!" cried Terry, with a yell of despair; "they are 
 going off, leaving us for ever, and the glen is full of soldiers. The dra- 
 goons is there ; ay, not half a mile from you," as he pointed through 
 the gloom in the direction of the glen. 
 
 " The dragoons there ! — what treachery is this ?" 
 
 " I saw them coming round the head of the lake this evening, and 1 
 ihought it was after me they were coming ; but they never turned off 
 ihe road, but went on to the gap of the glen, and there they are now, 
 waiting, I suppose, for the French to go." 
 
 " The French are not going, fool! — they are landing ! Don't you hear 
 the guns — there ! and there again ! There is but one way now, but a 
 bold heart needs no more. Let go the bridle, Terry." 
 
394 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 *' I can't, I won't let go. 'Tis cut to pieces you'll be. I seen them 
 looking at their swords a while ago. Och, don't twist my hand that 
 way!" 
 
 ** Leave me free ! There is no such armour of proof as reck- 
 lessness !" 
 
 As he spake, he reined in his horse, and, dashing the spurs into his 
 flanks, sprang beyond Terry, and the next moment was out of sight. A 
 very few minutes showed that Terry was but too accurate. Around a 
 blazin*;' fire, beneath the rock, a party of dragoons were dismounted, 
 vainly seeking to dry their soaked clothes, while in front two mounted 
 men could be seen with their carbines unslung, ready for action. 
 
 A bold dash to force his way through was the only chance remaining. 
 To depend on his horse's speed, and his own dexterous hand to guide 
 him, was all his hope. He resolved, therefore, neither to draw sword 
 nor pistol, but attempt to pass by sheer horsemanship. Few men were 
 either better suited for a venture so daring, or better equipped at the 
 moment. The animal he rode was a powerful thoroughbred, trained and 
 managed to perfection. 
 
 Without the slightest noise Mark dismounted, and, ungirthing his 
 saddle, re-adjusted and fastened it further back. He then looked care- 
 fully to his bridle, to see all was safe there, and loosened the curb, to 
 give the horse free play of his head. This done, and with his cap 
 pressed firmly down upon his brow, he sprang into his saddle once 
 more. 
 
 The bright blaze enabled him to see the party in front, and, while he 
 himself escaped all observation, to devise his plans at leisure. He ad- 
 vanced, therefore, at a slow walk, keeping the horse's feet in the deep 
 ground, where no noise was made. He counted seven figures around 
 the fire, and two as sentinels, and suspected at once that the whole party 
 was not there. Still there was no other chance. To attempt the moun- 
 tain would delay him a day at least, and a day now was a life-time. 
 Creeping noiselessly forward, he came within a few yards of the out- 
 posts, and could distinctly hear the voices as they talked together. He 
 halted for a second or two, and looked back down the glen. It was an 
 involuntary action, for even had all not been dark around him, his home, 
 to which he wished to bid a last adieu, was out of sight. 
 
 A cannon-shot rung out at the instant, and, taking it for a signal, 
 Mark reined in his horse sharply, and then, dashing the spurs to his 
 sides, Aiade him plunge* madly forward, and, with the bound, shot 
 through the space between the two sentinels, each of whom presented, 
 but feared to fire, lest hp should injure his comrade. 
 
V ■ ,» 
 
 ^.f,.^. 
 
 .^y^A/y^/ri^Z/6'J^z ^j^^^-^y^^y> ■ %^^-^yU 
 
THE o'donoghue. 395 
 
 ** Come on — follow me !" cried Mark, waving his hand as if encou- 
 raging others on, and the action turned every look down the glen, in the 
 direction from whence he came, and whence now came a wild, shrill 
 yell, the most savage and appalling. 
 
 " Fire ! — down with him ! — fire !" shouted the soldiers to one an- 
 other, as Mark, leaning flat on his horse's main, rode on ; and the 
 balls whistled quick, above and around, but not one struck him. " After 
 him. Jack — after him !" cried one of the sentinels, who, perceiving that 
 Mark was not followed, turned his horse to the pursuit ; but another 
 yell, wilder than the first, arrested him, and he heard a voice screaming, 
 *' This way, boys, this way — we have them here !" and Terry, waving 
 his cap, bounded forward, and called out unceasingly for others to come 
 on. In an instant the whole attention was turned to the front, while 
 with the stroke of a sabre poor Terry was stretched upon the ground, 
 bleeding and senseless. 
 
 " It is only that cursed fool we used to see at Macroom, about the 
 barrack gates," said one of the dragoons, as he held a piece of lighted 
 wood beside his face, " and the other fellow cannot have had much 
 more sense, or he would never have tried to ride through a squadron of 
 horse. But there ! — he's down now ! Did you hear that crash? — that 
 was a horse that fell !" 
 
 So it was ; Mark had but passed the first party to fall on a much 
 more formidable body further on, and his horse, twice wounded, was 
 at last struck in the shoulder, and fell headlong to the ground pinioning 
 the rider beneath him. With a dexterity that seemed magical, Mark 
 disengaged himself from the wounded animal, and drawing his pistols, 
 prepared to sell his hfe dearly. 
 
 " You are a prisoner, sir," called out the sergeant, as with fearless 
 step he marched towards him. 
 
 " Another pace nearer, and I'll send a bullet through you," said 
 Mark ; you may have my corpse for your booty, but you'll never lay 
 hands on me living.'* 
 
 " Don't fire, don't fire, men," cried a voice, as the officer rode up 
 at the speed of his horse, and then throwing himself from the saddle^ 
 commanded the men to fall back. With looks of astonishment and 
 even of anger, the dragoons retired, while the captain sheathing his 
 sword, approached Mark. 
 
 " Thank heaven, Mr. O'Donoghue, you have not fired at my men." 
 
 " Am I your prisoner, Captain Travers," said Mark , replacing his 
 weapon. 
 
 " No, far from it ; it was to serve you I accepted the command of 
 
396 THE o'bonoghue. 
 
 this party. I knew of the plot by which you were threatened — Hema^ 
 worth " 
 
 " He is gone to his reckoning now," said Mark, who never gave 
 credit to Kerry's story. 
 
 ** Not dead — you do not mean that V 
 
 " Even so, sir, but not as I see you suspect." 
 
 " No matter now," cried Travers, wildly, for a thousand dreadful 
 fears came crowding on his mind ; "you must escape at once; this 
 will be worse than the charge of treason itself. Was there any witness 
 to his death ?" 
 
 " None," said Mark, for he remembered that Kate was still fainting 
 during the struggle he believed fatal. 
 
 *' You must escape at once," repeated Travers, for without directly 
 attributing guilt to Mark, he feared the consequence of this dreadful 
 event. " Keep in the rnountain for some little time, and when this 
 mad enterprise has blown over " 
 
 " The country then sviii be in other hands," interrupted Mark ; — 
 " aye, sir, yo-.i may look and feel incredulous, but the time is perhaps not 
 distant whcr I may be vh]c to return your present courtesy. The 
 French are landing " 
 
 " They are putting out to sea — ^flying — ^not advancing," said Travers, 
 proudly. 
 
 *' No, no, you mistake them," said Mark, with a smile of incredulity. 
 ** I heard the guns not a quarter of an hour since — would I had never 
 left them." 
 
 *' There, take my horse, mount quickly, and make for the Bay, and 
 turn him loose on the shore — reach the fleet if you can — in any case, 
 escape ; there is no time to lose." 
 
 " And you — how are you to account for this ?" said Mark. '* Will 
 your loyalty stand so severe a trial as that of having assisted a rebel's 
 escape ?" 
 
 " Leave me to meet my difficulties my own way ; turn your thoughts 
 V) your own — heaven knows, they are enough." 
 
 The tone he spoke in appealed to Mark's feelings more strongly than 
 4II he said before, and grasping Travers' hand, he said — 
 
 " Oh, if I had but had your friendship once, how diff'erent I might 
 «e this day ; and my father too — what is to become of him ?" 
 
 '* Spare him at least the sorrow of seeing his son arraigned on a 
 .iiarge of treason, if not of worse." 
 
 Fortunately Mark heard not the last few words, which rather fell 
 iiom Travers inadvertently, and were uttered in a low voice. 
 
1 
 
 t^% 
 
 'M^ 
 
%'■ 
 
THE o'donoghue. 397 
 
 " There," cried Mark, as the loud report of several guns pealed 
 forth — "they have landed — they will soon be here." 
 
 As he spoke, a mounted dragoon rode up to Travers, and whispered 
 a few words in his ear. Frederick motioned the man to fall back, and 
 then approaching Mark, said — 
 
 " I was correct, sir — the French fleet is under weigh — the expedition 
 IS abandoned ; away then before your chance is lost — down to the Bay 
 and get on board ; you will at least find a path where there is glory as 
 well as peril ; there — away." 
 
 " They cannot have done this," cried Mark, in an agony of passion ; 
 " they would not desert the cause they have fostered, and leave us to 
 our fate here." 
 
 Mark vaulted on Travers' horse as he said this, all feeling for his 
 own safety merged in his anxiety for the issue of the plot. 
 
 " Treachery we have had enough of — we may be well spared the 
 curse of cowardice. Good-bye, farewell — few, either friends or foes, 
 have done me the services that you have. If we are to meet again, 
 Travers " 
 
 "Farewell, farewell," cried Travers; "we shall never meet as 
 enemies," and he hastened from the spot, while Mark bending forward 
 a the saddle, pressed the spurs to his horse, and started. 
 
 With the speed of one who cared for nothing less than his own safety, 
 Mark urged his horse onward, and deserting the ordinary road, he 
 directed his course to the shore along the base of the mountain — a 
 rough and dangerous path beset with obstacles, and frequently on the 
 very edge of the cliff ; at last he reached the Bay, over which the dark 
 storm was raging in all its violence ; the wind blowing with short and 
 sudden gusts sent the great waves thundering against the rocks, and 
 with fearful roar through the caves and crevices of the coast. Biding 
 madly on till the white foam dashed over him, he turned on every 
 side, expecting to see the boats of the fleet making for the land, but all 
 was dreary and desolate ; he shouted aloud, but his voice was drowned 
 in the uproar of the elements ; and then, but not till then, came over 
 him the aflSiicting dread of desertion. The vivid lightning shot to and 
 fro over the bleak expanse of sea, but not a sail was there — all, all were 
 gone. 
 
 There was a projecting promontory of rock which, running out to a 
 considerable distance in the Bay, shut out all view beyond it ; the last 
 hope he cherished was, that they might have sought shelter in the bay 
 beneath this, and plunging into the boiling surf, he urged his horse 
 forward — now madly rearing as the strong sea struck him — now buffet- 
 ing the white waves *ith vigorous chest — the noble beast braved the 
 
398 THE 0*DONOGHUE. 
 
 storm-lashed water, and bore him alternately bounding and swimming, 
 as the tide advanced or receded. 
 
 The struggle, with all its peril to life, brought back the failing courage 
 to Mark's heart, and he cheered his horse with a cry of triumphant 
 delight, as each great wave passed over them, and still they went on 
 undaunted. It was a short but desperate achievement to round the 
 point of the promontory, where the sea beat with redoubled fury ; 
 but the same daring intrepidity seemed to animate both horse and 
 rider, and after a moment of extreme danger, both gained the beach 
 in safety. At the very same instant that the animal touched the strand, 
 a quick flash broke over the sea, and then came the thundering report 
 of a cannon. This was answered by another further out to sea, and 
 then, a blue light burst forth on high, and threw its lurid glare over 
 the spars and canvas of a large ship — every rope and block, every man 
 and every gun were displayed in the spectral light. It was a grand, 
 but still an appalling sight, to see the huge mass labouring in the sea, 
 and then the next moment to strain the eyes through the black canopy 
 of cloud that closed around her ; for so it was, as the light went out, 
 no trace of the vessel remained, nor \yas there aught to mark the spot 
 she had occupied. 
 
 From time to time the flash and the report of a gun would show 
 where some ship struggled with the raging sea ; but to Mark all was 
 mystery. He knew not what it might portend, and hesitated between 
 hope and despair, whether these might prove the preparations for dis- 
 embarking, or the last signal before sailing. 
 
 In the low hut of a fisherman, not far from where he was, a light still 
 twinkled, and thither he hastened : it belonged to the man who had 
 rowed him on board of the frigate, and with whom Kate had spoken 
 in the kitchen. As Mark reached the door, he heard the sound of 
 several voices talking in a low, half-suppressed tone ; pushing open the 
 door, he entered, and found about a dozen fishermen standing over the 
 lifeless body of a man in a French uniform. 
 
 ** Who is this ? What has happened ?" said Mark, hurriedly. 
 
 " It's one of the French officers, sir," said Tom McCarthy ; " he 
 came ashore vdth us this morning, and to-night, when it came on to 
 blow, and he saw the signals to sail, he insisted on going on board 
 again, and we did our best for him ; we twice put out, and twice were 
 sent back again ; but the last time we tried, the craft was upset, and 
 the poor fellow could not swim, and we never saw him more, till we 
 found his body on the strand about an hour ago." 
 
 Mark held the light beside the pale features, and saw that he was a 
 
THE o'donoghue. 399 
 
 youtli of not more than eighteen years ; there was no distortion what- 
 ever, and the features were calm and tranquil, as if in sleep. 
 
 " Let us lay him in the earth, boys," said Mark, as his voice trem- 
 bled with emotion ; it is the least we can do to let him sleep in the land 
 he came to save." 
 
 The men Hfted the body without a word, and, preceded by Mark, 
 who carried a lantern, issued from the hut. A few paces brought them 
 to a little grassy mound, where the cliff, descending between the rocks, 
 preserved its rich verdure untrodden and untouched. 
 
 *' Here, this will do, boys," said Mark ; " this rock will mark th« 
 spot." 
 
 The work was soon over, and as the last turf was laid over him, a 
 deafening peal of artillery thundered over the sea, and suddenly, lights 
 shone here and there, through the dark atmosphere. 
 
 "He has had a soldier's burial,*' said Mark; "may his rest be tranquil. 
 And now" — and his voice assumed a firm and determined tone at th« 
 moment — " and now, who will put me on board of any ship in that 
 fleet ? I have neither gold to offer, nor silver to bribe you. I am poor 
 and powerless, but if the broad lands that were once our own, were mine 
 now, I'd give them all for that one service." 
 
 "No boat could live ten minutes in that surf; there's a sea running 
 there would swamp a schooner," said an old man, with white hair. 
 
 "We'd never get outside the breakers yonder," said another. 
 
 " I think we've had enough of it for one night," muttered a third, 
 with a side-long glance towards the recent grave. 
 
 " And you," said Mark, turning fixedly round to Tom McCarthy, 
 " what words of comfort have you for me ?" 
 
 " Faix, that I'm ready and willin' to go with you, divil may care who 
 the other is," said the stout-hearted fellow. " I seen the day you 
 jumped into a boat yourself to take the crew off a wreck below the point 
 there, and I took an oath that night I'd never see you wanting for two 
 hands at an oar as long as I could pull one. The waves that isn't too 
 high for you is not a bit too big for me either." 
 
 " Well done, Tom," said a powerful looking young fellow beside him, 
 "and I'll be the bow oar for you, an' youll take me." 
 
 " And here's two more of us," said another, as he held a comrade 
 by the hand, " that will never see ^his honour at a loss, no matter how 
 it blows." 
 
 The doubt and hesitation which prevailed but a moment before, were 
 at once changed for confidence and resolution, and eight men now hur- 
 ried to the beach to launch the boat, and make ready for the enterprize. 
 
400 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 " If we could only see a flash, or hear a shot now, we'd know which 
 way to bear down,'* said Tom, as he stood on the shore, with his eyes 
 turned seaward. 
 
 " There — there goes one !" cried Mark, as a red flame shot forth 
 and glittered for a second over the dark water. 
 
 "That's the frigate ; she's holding on still by her anchors." 
 
 " I knew they would not desert us, boys," cried Mark, with wild 
 enthusiasm, for hope gained on him every moment as peril increased. 
 
 ** Now for it, and all together," said Tom, as he bent forward against 
 the whistling storm, and the craft, as if instinct with life, bounded over 
 the wave, and cleft her way through the boiling surf, while the hardy 
 fishermen strained every nerve, and toiled with all their energy. Mark 
 kneeling in the bow, his eyes strained to catch any signal, seemed per- 
 fectly delirious in the transport of his joy. 
 
 " Luif her, luff her — here comes a large wave — nobly done, lads — 
 how she mounts the sea — here's another;" but the warning was this 
 time too late, for the wave broke over the boat, and fell in torrents over 
 the crew. With redoubled vigour the stout fellows bent to their work, 
 and once more the boat sped on her course ; while Mark cheered tfeem 
 with a shout heard even above the storm, and with a deep, mellow 
 voice chanted out the rude verses of a song — 
 
 " The fisherman loves the rippled stream, 
 And the lover the moon-lit sea, 
 But the darkening squall 
 And the sea birds call 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 " To see on the white and crest'd wave 
 The stormy petrel float, 
 And then to look back 
 On the stormy track 
 That glitters behind our boat." 
 
 ** Avast there. Master Mark, there's wind enough without singing 
 for more," cried one of the fishermen, who, with the superstition of 
 his craft, felt by no means pleased at Mark's ditty ; " and there comes 
 a sea to poop a line of battle-ship," and as he said the words, a wave 
 mountains high rolled past, and left them labouring in the deep trough 
 of the sea ; while the lurid glare of sheet lightning showed all the 
 ships of the fleet, as, with top-sails bent, they stood out to sea. 
 
 " There they go," said one of the fishermen, " and that's all the 
 good they've done us." 
 
THE 0*DONOGHUE. 401 
 
 *' Pull hard, boys," cried Mark, passionately, " it may not be yet 
 too late, strain every arm — the fate of our country may rest upon 
 those bending spars — together, men, together ; it is not for life now, 
 it is Ireland is on the struggle :" thus cheering the drooping courage 
 of the men, and eagerly bending his glance towards the sea, his own 
 heart glowed with enthusiasm that made every danger forgotten ; and 
 at last, after an hour of desperate exertion, with strength all but 
 exhausted, and nearly overcome by fatigue, they beheld the dark hull 
 of a large ship looming above them. By firing his pistol, Mark 
 attracted the notice of the watch on deck ; his signal was replied to, and 
 the next moment the boat was alongside, and Mark clambering up the 
 steep side, stood on the quarter-deck. 
 
 " Will the troops not land," said Mark, as the officers crowded eagerly 
 around him — " is the expedition abandoned V 
 
 " Don't you think the hurricane might answer the question, young 
 man ?" said a weather-beaten officer, who appeared in command — " or 
 are you so ignorant in naval matters as to suppose that a force could 
 disembark in a gale like this ?" 
 
 " It might scare a pleasure party," said Mark, rudely, " but for 
 men who have come to give and get hard knocks, methinks this need 
 not disconcert them.'* 
 
 " And who is to aid us if we land ?" said the first speaker — " what 
 forces are in arms to join us ? — what preparations for ourselves ? — have 
 you a musket, have you a horse, or do you yourself, in your own per- 
 son, represent the alliance we seek for ?" 
 
 Mark hung down his head abashed and ashamed : too well he knew 
 how treachery had sapped the foundation of the plot ; that, betrayed 
 and abandoned by their chiefs, the people had become either apathetic 
 or terror-stricken, and that, if a blow were to be struck for Irish inde- 
 pendence, it must be by the arm of the stranger. 
 
 " It is needless to waste words, sir," said the French captain, for 
 such he was ; " the admiral has twice made the signal to stand out to 
 sea. The French Republic will have suffered loss enough in some of 
 the finest ships of her navy, without hazarding fifteen thousand brave 
 fellows upon an exploit so hopeless." 
 
 " The Captain says truly," interposed another ; " Ireland is not ripe 
 for such an enterprize ; there may be courage enough among jour 
 countrymen, but they know not how to act together. There's no slavery 
 like dissension." 
 
 " That boat will be swamped," said the officer of the watch, as he 
 pointed to the fishing-craft, which still held on to the leeward of the 
 
 2 D 
 
402 THE O'DONOGHtFE. 
 
 ship J " if you are going back to shore, sir, let me advise you, for your 
 owu sake, and your comrades', too, to lose no time about it." 
 
 " Far better to come with us," said a powerful looking man in the 
 uniform of an infantry regiment; "the young gentleman seems 
 inclined to see service. ' Ma foi,* we seldom lack an opportunity of 
 showing it." 
 
 ** I'll never go back," said Mark ; " I have looked at my country for 
 the last time." 
 
 With many a welcome speech the officers pressed round and grasped 
 his liands, and for a moment all their misfortunes were forgotten in the 
 joy with which they received their new comrade. 
 
 " "Who will be my banker for some gold," said Mark ; '* those brave 
 fellows have risked their lives for me, and I have nothing but thanks to 
 give them." 
 
 " Let this go to the expenses of the expedition," said the captain, 
 laughing, as he threw his purse to Mark. The young man leaned over 
 the bulwark, and hailed the boat, and, after a moment of great diffi- 
 culty, one of the fishermen reached the deck. 
 
 " I wish to bid you good-bye, Tom," said Mark, as he grasped the 
 rough hand in his ; " you are the last thing I shall see of my country ; 
 farewell, then ; but remember, that however deeply wrongs may gall, 
 and injuries oppress you, the glory of resistance is too dearly bought 
 at the cost ' of companionship with the traitor and the coward — good- 
 bye for ever. He pressed the purse into the poor fellow's hand ; nor 
 was it without a struggle he could compel him. to accept it. A few 
 minutes after the boat was cleaving her way through the dark water, 
 her prow turned to the land which Mark had left for ever. 
 
 Seated on the deck, silent and thoughtful, Mark seemed indifferent to 
 the terrible storm, whose violence increased with every moment, and as 
 the vessel tacked beneath the tall cliffs, when every heart beat anxiously, 
 and every eye was fixed on the stem rocks above them, his glance was 
 calm, and his pulse was tranquil ; he felt as though fate had done her 
 worst, and that the future had no heavier blow in store for him. 
 
THE o'donoghue. 403 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 The storm of that eventful night is treasured among the memories of 
 the peasantry of the south. None Uving had ever witnessed a gale 
 of such violence — none since have seen a hurricane so dreadful and 
 enduring : for miles along the coast the scattered spars and massive 
 timbers told of shipwreck and disasters, while inland, uptorn trees and 
 fallen rocks attested its power. 
 
 The old castle of Carrig-na-curra did not escape the general calamity ; 
 the massive walls that had resisted for centuries the assaults of war and 
 time, were shaken to their foundations, and one strong, square tower, 
 the ancient keep, was rent by lightning from the battlements to the 
 base, while far and near might be seen fragments of timber, and even 
 of masonry, hurled from their places by the storm. For whole days 
 after the gale abated, the air resounded with an unceasing din — the 
 sound of the distant sea, and the roar of the mountain torrents, as 
 swollen and impetuous they tore along. 
 
 The devastation thus wide spread, seemed not to have been limited to 
 the mere material world, but to have extended its traces over man : the 
 hurricane was recognized as the interposition of heaven, and the dis- 
 aster of the French fleet looked on as the vengeance of the Almighty. 
 It did not need the superstitious character of the southern peasants' 
 mind to induce this belief : the circumstances in all their detail were too 
 strongly corroborative, not to enforce conviction on sterner imaginations; 
 and the very escape of the French ships from every portion of our 
 channel fleet, which at first was deemed a favour of fortune, was now 
 regarded as pointing out the more signal vengeance of Heaven. Dismay 
 and terror were depicted in every face ; the awful signs of the gale 
 which were seen on every side suggested gloom and dread, and each 
 speculated how far the anger of God might fall upon a guilty nation. 
 
 There is no reason to doubt the fact, that whatever the ultimate 
 issue of the struggle, the immediate fate of the country was decided on 
 that night. Had the French fleet arrived in full force, and landed the 
 troops, there was neither preparation for resistance, nor means of defence, 
 undertaken by the Government. 
 
404 THE o'donoghue. 
 
 How far the peasantry might or might not have associated themselves 
 with a cause to which the Romish clergy were then manifestly averse, may 
 be a matter of uncertainty ; hut there are a sufficient number in every land, 
 ?\nd every age, who will join the ranks of battle with no other prospect 
 than the day of pillage and rapine. Such would have flocked around 
 the tricolor in thousands, and meet companions such would have been 
 to that portion of the invading army called the ^'Legion des Francs" — a 
 battalion consisting of liberated felons and galley slaves — the murderers 
 and robbers of France, drilled, armed, and disciplined to carry liberty to 
 Ireland ! With this force, and a company of the " Artillerie Legere," 
 Wolfe Tone proposed to land; and as the expedition had manifestly 
 failed, any further loss would be inconsiderable; and as for the "Legion," 
 he naively remarked, '' the Republic would be well rid of them." 
 
 Let us, however, turn from this theme, to the characters of our tale, 
 of which a few words only remain to be told. By Terry, who made his 
 escape after being wounded by the dragoons, was the first news brought 
 to Carrig-na-curra of Mark's rencontre with the dragoons ; and while 
 the O'Donoghue and Kate were yet speculating in terror as to the 
 result, a small party of cavalry was seen coming up the causeway at a 
 brisk trot, among whom rode a person in coloured clothes. 
 
 "It is Mark — my boy is taken !" cried the old man in a burst of 
 agony, and he buried his head in his hands, and sobbed aloud. Kate 
 never spoke, but a sick, cold faintness crept over her, and she stood 
 almost breathless with anxiety. She heard the horses as they drew up 
 at the door, but had not strength to reach the window and look out. 
 The bell was rung violently — every clank sent a pang through her 
 bosom. The door was opened, and now she heard Kerry's voice, but 
 could not distinguish the words. Then there was a noise as of some 
 one dismounting, and the clatter of a sabre was heard along the flagged 
 hall. This ceased, and she could recognize Kerry's step as he came up 
 the corridor to the door of the tower. 
 
 " Come in," cried she to his summons, but her utmost effort could 
 not make the words audible. " Come in," said she again. 
 
 Kerry heard it not, but opening the door cautiously, he entered. 
 
 *''Tis the Captain, Miss Ejite, wants to know if he could see the 
 master." 
 
 "Yes," said she, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. " Who is with 
 him ? Is there a prisoner there ?" 
 
 " Faix, there is then ; but Captain Travers will tell you all himself." 
 
 ** Captain Travers !" cried Kate, a deep flush covering her face. 
 
 "Yes, madam," said Frederick, as he entered at the same moment, 
 
THE o'donoghue. 405 
 
 ** I am but too happy to bear pleasant tidings, to think of my want of 
 courtesy in intruding unannounced." 
 
 "Leave the room — shut the door, Kerry,'* said Kate, as with eyes 
 fixed on Travers she waited for him to continue. 
 
 " Your cousin is safe. Miss O'Donoghue — he has reached the fleet, 
 and is already on his way to France." 
 
 ''Thank God!" cried Kate fervently, as she fell upon her uncle's 
 shoulders, and whispered the tidings into his ear. 
 
 The old man looked up and stared wildly around him. 
 
 " Where's Mark, my love — where did you say he was ?" 
 
 "He's safe, uncle — he's on board of a French ship, and bound for 
 France, beyond the reach of danger." 
 
 " For France ! And has he left me — has he deserted his old father ?" 
 
 "His life was in peril, sir," whispered Kate, who, stung by the old 
 man's selfishness, spoke almost angrily. 
 
 " My boy has abandoned me," muttered the O'Donoghue, the one 
 idea, absorbing all others, occupied his mind, and left him deaf to every 
 explanation or remonstrance. 
 
 "You are right. Miss O'Donoghue," said Travers, gently, "his dan- 
 ger was most imminent — the evidence against him was conclusive and 
 complete ; and although one of the principal witnesses could not have 
 appeared, Lanty Lawler ** 
 
 "And was he an informer?" 
 
 " He was, madam ; but amid the mass of treachery he has met a just 
 fate. Barrington, determined to punish the fellow, has come forward, 
 and given himself up ; but with such evidence of the horse-dealer's 
 guilt, that his conviction is certain ; the sums he received from France 
 are all proved under his own hand, and now that Hemsworth is no 
 more, and Lawler's treachery has no patron, his case has little hope. 
 He is at this moment my prisoner ; we took him on the mountain where 
 he had gone with a party to secure Mr. Mark O'Donoghue, for whose 
 capture a large reward was offered." 
 
 As Kate listened to this recital, delivered in a tone which showed the 
 contempt the speaker entertained for an enterprise undertaken by such 
 actors, her own indignant pride revolted at the baseness of those with 
 whom her couisin was associated. 
 
 "Yes," said she at length, and speaking unconsciously aloud, "no 
 cause could prosper with supporters like these ; there must be rotten- 
 ness in the confederacy that links such agencies as these together. 
 And had my cousin not one friend ? — was there not one to wring his 
 hand at parting?" said she hurriedly, changing the theme of her thoughts. 
 
406 THE o'donoohue. 
 
 " There was one," said Travers, modestly ; Mr. O'Donoghue was 
 noble-hearted enough, even in the hour of calamity, to forget an ancient 
 grudge, and to call me his friend. He did more — he wished we had 
 been friends for many a day before." 
 
 " Would that you had," said Kate, as the tears burst forth, and ran 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 "And we might have been such," continued Travers, ''had not 
 deceit and malevolence sowed discord between our families. You know 
 not, Miss O'Donoghue, how deeply this treachery worked, and how 
 artfully its plans were conceived. The very hopes whose disappointment 
 has darkened my life, were fed and fostered by him, who knew how little 
 reason I had to indulge them ; forgive me, I pray, if I allude to a sub- 
 ject I ought never to recall. It was Hemsworth persuaded me that my 
 suit would not prove unsuccessful ; it Avas by his advice and counsel I 
 risked the avowal which has cost me the happiness of my future life. 
 1 will speak of this no more," said Travers, who saw in the deep blush 
 that covered Kate's features, the distress the theme occasioned her. 
 '* It was a selfish thought that prompted me to excuse my hardihood at 
 the cost of your feelings." 
 
 " I will not let you speak thus, sir," said Kate, in a voice faint from 
 excessive emotion, " there was no such hardihood in one favoured by 
 every gift of fortune stooping to one humble as I am ; but there were 
 disparities wider than those of rank between us, and if I can now see 
 how greatly these were exaggerated by the falsehood and treachery of 
 others, yet I know that our opinions are too wide apart, to make agree- 
 ment aught else than a compromise between us." 
 
 "Might not time soften, if not obliterate such differences," whis- 
 pered Travers, timidly. 
 
 " It could not with me," said Kate, resolutely ; " this is the losing 
 side ever, and my nature is a stubborn one — it has no sympathies save 
 with those in misfortune ; but we can be friends/' said she, extending 
 her hand frankly towards him — " friends firm and true, not the less 
 strong in regard, because our affections have not overcome our convic- 
 tions." 
 
 " Do not speak so decisively. Miss O'Donoghue," said Travers, as 
 his lip trembled with strong emotion ; " even at this moment how 
 much has misrepresentation clouded our knowledge of each other ; let 
 time, I entreat of you, dissipate these false impressions, or give me, at 
 least, the opportunity of becoming more worthy of your esteem." 
 
 ** While I should become less so," interrupted Kate, rapidly ; " no, 
 no ; my duties are here," and she pointed to the old man, who, with 
 
THE o'donoghtje. 407 
 
 an expression of stupid fatuity, sat with his hands clasped, and his 
 eyes fixed on vacancy. *' Do not not make me less equal to my task, 
 by calling on me for such a pledge. Besides," added she, with a smile, 
 *' you are too truly English, to suggest a divided allegiance ; we are 
 friends ; but we can never be more." 
 
 Travers pressed the white hand to his lips without a word, and the 
 moment after his horse was heard descending the causeway, as with 
 desperate speed he hurried from the spot so fatal to all his hopes. 
 
 Scarcely had Frederick left the castle, when a chaise and four, urged 
 to the utmost speed, dashed up to the door, and Sir Archy, followed by 
 Herbert, jumped out. The old man, travel-stained and splashed, held 
 an open paper in his hand, and cried aloud, as he entered the drawing- 
 room — 
 
 " He's pardoned, he's pardoned — a free pardon to Mark !" 
 
 " He's gone, he's away to France," said Kate, as fearing to awaken 
 the O'Donoghue to any exertion of intelHgence, she pointed cautiously 
 towards him. 
 
 "All the better, my sweet lassie," cried M'Nab, folding her in his 
 arms ; " his arm will not be ths less bold in battle, because no unforgiven 
 treason weighs upon his heart. But my brother, what ails him ? — he 
 does not seem to notice me." 
 
 "He is ill — my father is ill," said Herbert, with a terrified accent. 
 
 "He is worse," whispered M'Nab to himself, as passing his hand 
 within the waistcoat, he laid it on his heart. 
 
 It was so — the courage that withstood every assault of evil fortune — - 
 every calamity which poverty and distress can bring down — failed at 
 last ; — the strong heart was broken — the O'Donoghue was dead. 
 
 We will once more ask our readers to accompany us to the glen, 
 the scene of our story. It was of an evening, calm and tranquil as 
 that on which our tale opened, on a day in August, in the year 
 1815, that two travellers, leaving the postillion of their carriage to 
 refresh his horses, advanced alone and on foot for above a mile into 
 this tranquil valley ; the air had all that deathlike stillness so charac- 
 teristic of autumn, while over the mountains and the lake the same 
 rich mellow light was shed. As the travellers proceeded slowly, they 
 stopped from time to time, and gazed on the scene j and, although 
 their looks met, and glance seemed to answer glance, they neither of 
 them spoke : from their appearance, it might have been conjectured 
 
408 THL o'dONOGhTJB. 
 
 that they were foreigners. The man, bronzed by weather and expo- 
 sure, possessed features which, in all their sternness, were yet eminently 
 handsome : he wore a short thick moustache, but the armless sleeve 
 of his coat, fastened on the bosom, was a sign still more indisputable 
 than even his port and bearing, that he was a soldier. His companion 
 was a lady in the very pride and bloom of beauty, but her dress, more 
 remarkably than his, betrayed the foreigner ; in the rapid look she 
 turned from the bold scenery around them to the face of him at 
 whose side she walked, one might read either a direct appeal to 
 memory, or the expression of wonder and admiration of the spot. 
 Too much engrossed by his own thoughts, or too deeply occupied 
 by the scene before him, the man moved on, until at last he came 
 in front of a low ruined wall, beneath a tall and overhanging cliff. 
 He stopped for some seconds, and gazed at this with such intentness 
 as prevented him from noticing the figure of a beggar, who, in all 
 the semblance of extreme poverty, sat crouching among the ruins. 
 She was an old, or at least seemed a very old woman — her hair, un- 
 covered by cap or hood, was white as snow, but her features still 
 preserved an expression of quick intelligence, as, lifting her head 
 from the attitude of moping thought, she fixed her eyes stedfastly on 
 the travellers. 
 
 " Give her something, ' mon cher,' " said the lady to her companion 
 in French ; but the request was twice made before he seemed conscious 
 of it. The woman, meanwhile, sat still, and neither made any demand 
 for charity, or any appeal to their compassion. 
 
 "This is Glenflesk, my good woman," said he &t length, with the 
 intonation of a foreign accent on the words. 
 
 The woman nodded assentingly, but made no reply. 
 
 " Whose estate is all this here ?" said he, pointing with his hand to 
 either side of the valley. 
 
 " Sorra one o' me knows whose it is," said the woman, in a voice 
 of evident displeasure. " When I was a child it was the O'Donoghues', 
 but they are dead and gone now — I don't know whose it is." 
 
 " And the O'Donoghues are dead and gone, you say ? What became 
 of the last of them ? — what was his fate ?" 
 
 " Is it the one that turned Protestant you mean ?" said the woman, 
 as an expression of fiendish malignity shot beneath her dark brows : 
 ** he was the only one that ever prospered, because he was a heretic, 
 maybe." 
 
 " But how did he prosper ?" said the stranger. 
 
 •* Didn't he marry the daughter of the rich EngUshman, that lived 
 
^^^-y^^y^^^^yj^r^/y. ^./, 
 
 ryy> . M^6(/^//c __ ^^^/^^^/;::^y^/^^/^^//;^:. 
 
THE o'DONOGtIUE. 409 
 
 there beyant ? and wasn't he a member of ParUmint ? and sure they 
 tell me that he went out beyond the says to be a Judge somewhere in 
 foreign parts — in India, I believe." 
 
 " And who hves in the old castle of the family 1" 
 
 " The crows and the owls lives in it now," said the woman, with 
 grating laugh — " the same way as the weasels and the rats burrow in 
 my own little place here. Ay, you may stare and wonder, but here, 
 where you see me sit, among these old stones and black timbers, was 
 my own comfortable home — the house I was born and reared in — and 
 the hearth I sat by when I was a child." 
 
 The man whispered a few words to his companion in a deep, lo\» 
 voice — she started, and was about to speak, when he stopped her, 
 saying, "Nay, nay, it is better noti*' then, turning to the woman, 
 asked, "And were there, then, no others, whose fortunes you re- 
 member ?" 
 
 " It is httle worth while remembering them," said the crone, whose 
 own misfortunes shed bitterness over all the memory of others. " There 
 was an old Scotchman that lived there long after the others were gone, 
 and when the niece went back to the nunnery in France he staid there 
 still alone by himself. The people used to see him settling the room, 
 and putting books here, and papers there, and making all ready agin 
 she came back — and that's the way he spent his time to the day of his 
 death. Don't cry, my lady ; he was a hard-hearted old man, and it 
 isn't eyes like yours should ween tears for him ; if you want to pity 
 any one, ^pity the poor, that's nouseiess and friendless.' " 
 
 " And the Lodge," said the strang-er — »' is not that the name they 
 gave the pretty house beside the lake T" 
 
 "'Tisn't a pretty house now, then,'* said the hag, laughing. "It's 
 a ruin like the rest." 
 
 " How is that ? — does the EngUshman never 6ome to it ?" 
 
 "Why should he come to it? Sure it's in law ever since that 
 black-hearted villain Hemsworth was killed — nobody kno\fs who owns 
 it, and they say it will never be found out ; but," said she, rising, 
 and gathering her cloak around her as she prepared to move away — 
 "there's neither luck nor grace upon the spot. God Almighty made 
 it beautiful and lovely to look upon, but man and man's wickedness 
 brought a curse down upon it." 
 
 The man drew his purse forth, and, while endeavouring to take 
 some pieces of money from it by the aid of his single remaining 
 hand, she turned abruptly about, and, staring him stedfastly in the 
 face, said — 2 e 
 
410 THE o'dONOGHUE. 
 
 /I'll not take your money — ^"tisn't money will serve me idow— them 
 that's poor themselves will never see me in want." 
 
 ** Stop a moment/' said the stranger, " I have a claim on you." 
 
 "That you haven't," wid the woman, sternly — ** I know you well, 
 ^lark O'Donoghue — ay, and your wife. Miss Kate there ; but it isn't 
 fly a purse full of gold you'll ever make up for desarting the cause of 
 ould Ireland." 
 
 *' Don't be angry with her," whispered a low mild voice behind. 
 He turned, and saw a very old man dressed in black, and with all 
 the semblance of a priest. "Don't be angry with her, sir; poor 
 Mary's senses are often wandering ; and," added he with a sigh, 
 "she has met sore trials, and may well be pardoned, if, in the bitter- 
 ness of her grief, sit looks at the world with little favour or forgive- 
 ness. She has mistaken you for another, and hence the source of 
 her anger." 
 
 THE. END. 
 

m;:..> 
 
 
 xmdB 
 
 ■ .•