tnutlilit!iii!<iii{ 
 
LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 University of California. 
 
 Class 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
€/ J^^/^6^^/l 
 
THE O'DONOGHUE; 
 
 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHAELES LEVER. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1907. 
 

 Copt/right, 1894, 
 By Little, Brown, and Company. 
 
 Mnibersitp tresis t 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. U.S.A. 
 
To JOHIT WILSON, Esq., 
 
 PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF EDINBURGH, ETC. 
 
 Dear Sir, — It is but seldom that the few lines of a dedi- 
 cation can give the 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 denouncing 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. 
 
 Carlsbuhe, October 18, 1845. 
 
 Oil 
 
 193076 
 
THE 
 
 'JNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 ORNVhs 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It was in wandering through the south of Ireland 
 1 came to visit the wild valley of Glenflesk, — a scene 
 of loneliness and desolation, with picturesque beauty 
 I have never seen surpassed. The only living creature 
 I met for miles of the way was a very old man, whose 
 dress and look bespoke extreme poverty, but who, on 
 talking with him, I discovered to be the owner of four 
 cows that were grazing on the rocky sides of the cliff. 
 He had come some miles, he told me, to give the cows 
 the spare herbage that cropped up amidst the granite 
 bowlders. As I had seen no house nor trace of habita- 
 tion as I came along, I was curious to know where he 
 lived ; but his answer, as he pointed to the mountain, 
 was, '' There, alone," and this with evident unwilling- 
 ness to be more freely communicative. 
 
 Though not caring to be interrogated, nor, like most 
 Irish peasants, much disposed to have a talk with a 
 stranger, he made no scruple to ask for alms, and 
 pleaded his wretched rags — and they were very miser- 
 able — as a proof of his poverty. I did not think that 
 the pittance I gave him exactly warranted me in ask- 
 ing how the owner of the cows we saw near us could 
 be in that condition of want he represented ; at all 
 
Viil PREFACE. 
 
 events, I preferred not to dash the pleasure I was giv- 
 ing him by the question. We parted, therefore, on good 
 terms; but some miles farther on in the Glen I learned 
 from a woman who was " beelling " her clothes in the 
 river that " ould Mat," as she called him, was one of 
 the most well-to-do farmers in that part of the county, 
 that he had given his daughters, of whom he had sev- 
 eral, good marriage portions, and that his son was a 
 thriving attorney in the town of Tralee. " Maybe, 
 yer honer's heard of him," said the woman, — "Tim 
 O'Donoghue." 
 
 It was no new thing to me to know the Irish peasant 
 in his character of a hoarder and a saver. There is 
 no one trait so indicative of the Celt as acquisitiveness, 
 nor does Eastern story contain a man more given to the 
 castle-building that grows out of some secret hoard — 
 however small — than Paddy. He is to add half an 
 acre to his potato garden, or to buy another pig, or to 
 send the " gossoon " to a school in the town, or to pay his 
 passage to New York. This tendency to construct a 
 future, so strong in the Irish nature, has its rise in a 
 great reliance on what he feels to be the goodness of 
 God ; a firm conviction that all his struggles are watched 
 and cared for, and that every little turn of good fortune 
 has been given him by some especial favor, lies deep 
 in his nature, and suggests an amount of hope to him 
 which a less sanguine spirit could never have conceived. 
 
 While I thought over the endless contrarieties of this 
 mysterious national character, where good and evil eter- 
 nally lay side by side, I wondered within myself whether 
 the new civilization of later years was likely to be suc- 
 cessful in dealing with men whose temperaments and 
 manners were so unlike the English, or were we right 
 in extin<ruishing the old feudalism that bound the peas« 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 ant to the landlord before we had prepared each for 
 the new relations of mere gain and loss that were in 
 future to subsist between them ? 
 
 Between the great families — the old houses of the 
 land and the present race of proprietors — there lay a 
 couple of generations of men who, with all the tradi- 
 tions and many of the pretensions of birth and fortune, 
 had really become in ideas, modes of life, and habits, 
 very little above the peasantry around them. They in- 
 habited, it is true, the " great house," and they were in 
 name the owners of the soil ; but, crippled by debt and 
 overborne by mortgages, they subsisted in a shifty con- 
 flict with their creditors, rack-renting their miserable 
 tenants to maintain it. Survivors of everything but 
 pride of family, they stood there like the stumps, black- 
 ened and charred, the last remnants of a burnt forest, 
 their proportions attesting the noble growth that had 
 preceded them. 
 
 What would the descendants of these men prove 
 when, destitute of fortune and helpless, they were 
 thrown upon a world that actually regarded them as 
 blamable for the unhappy condition of Ireland ? Would 
 they stand by " their order " in so far as to adhere to 
 the cause of the gentry ? or would they share the feel- 
 ings of the peasant to whose lot they had been reduced, 
 and charging on the Saxon the reverses of their for- 
 tune, stand forth as rebels to England ? 
 
 Here was much for speculation, and something for 
 story. For an opening scene what could I desire finer 
 than the gloomy grandeur and the rugged desolation 
 of Glenflesk ; and if some patches of bright verdure here 
 and there gleamed amidst the barrenness, — if a stray 
 sunlight lit up the granite cliffs and made the heather 
 glow, — might there not be certain reliefs of human ten- 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 derness and love to show that no scene in which man 
 has a part is utterly destitute of those affections whose 
 home is the heart ? I had now got my theme and my 
 locality. For my name I took the O'Donoghue : it had 
 become associated in my mind with Glenflesk, and would 
 not be separated from it. 
 
 Here, then, in one word, is the history of this book. 
 If the performance bears but slight relation to the in- 
 tention, — if, indeed, my story seems to have little refer- 
 ence to what suggested it, — it will be only another 
 instance of a waywardness which has beset me through 
 life, and left me never sure when I started for Xorwaj 
 that I might not find myself in Naples. 
 
 It is not necessary, perhaps, for me to say that no 
 character in this tale was drawn from a model. I be- 
 gan the story, in so far as a few pages went, at a little 
 inn at Killarney, and I believe I stole the name of Kerry 
 O'Leary from one of the boatmen on the lake ; but, so 
 far as I am aware, it is the only theft in the book. I 
 believe that the very crude notions of an English tour- 
 ist for the betterment of Ireland, and some exceedingly 
 absurd comments he made me on the habits of people 
 which an acquaintanceship of three weeks enabled him 
 to pronounce on, provoked me to draw the character 
 of Sir Marmaduke ; but I can declare that the traveller 
 aforesaid only acted as tinder to a mine long pre- 
 pared, and afforded me a long-sought-for opportunity, 
 not for exposing, for I did not go that far, but for 
 touching on the consummate effrontery with which a 
 mere passing stranger can settle the difficulties and de- 
 termine the remedies for a country in which the resi- 
 dent sits down overwhelmed by the amount, and utterly 
 despairing of a solution. 
 
 I have elsewhere recorded that I have been blamed 
 
PREFACE. Xi 
 
 for the fate I reserved for Kate O'Donoghue, and that she 
 deserved something better than to have her future 
 Hnked to one who was so unworthy of her in many 
 ways. Till I re-read the story after a long lapse of 
 years, I had believed that this charge was better founded 
 than I am now disposed to think it. First of all, judging 
 from an Irish point of view, I do not consent to regard 
 Mark O'Donoghue as a bad fellow. The greater num- 
 ber of his faults were the results of neglected training, 
 irregular — almost utter want of — education, and the 
 false position of an heir to a property so swamped by 
 debt as to be valueless. I will not say these are the in- 
 gredients which go to the formation of a very regular 
 life or a very perfect husband, but they might all of 
 them have made a worse character than Mark's if he 
 had not possessed some very sterling qualities as a 
 counterbalance. Secondly, I am not of those who think 
 that the married life of a man is but the second volume 
 of his bachelor existence. I rather incline to believe 
 that he starts afresh in life under circumstances very 
 favorable to the development of whatever is best, and 
 to the extinguishment of what is worst, in him. That 
 is, of course, where he marries well, and where he allies 
 himself to qualities of temper and tastes which will 
 serve as the complement or, at times, the correctives 
 of his own. Now, Kate O'Donoghue would instance what 
 I mean in this case. 
 
 Then I keep my best reason for the last, — they liked 
 each other : this, if not a guarantee for their future 
 happiness, is still the best '^ martingale" the game of 
 marriage admits of. 
 
 I am free to own that the book I had in my head to 
 write was a far better one than I have committed to 
 paper ; but as that is a sort of event that has happened 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 to better men than myself, I bear it as one of the acci- 
 dents that authorship is heir to. At all events, my 
 Public received it with favor, and I can now — aftei 
 an interval of close on thirty years — recall with warm 
 gratitude the reception it met with. 
 
 A French critic — one far too able to have his dicta 
 lightly despised — has sneered at my making a poor 
 ignorant peasant child find pleasure in the resonance of 
 a Homeric verse ; but I could tell him of barefooted boys 
 in the south, running errands for a scanty subsistence, 
 with a knowledge of classical literature which would 
 puzzle many a gowned student to cope with. If the 
 improbabilities of this volume went no further than 
 this, it would have been worthy of the reader's atten- 
 tion, and far more grateful to the conscience of the 
 author. 
 
 CHARLES LEVER. 
 
 Tbieste, 1872. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Chaptss Pags 
 
 I. Glenflesk 1 
 
 II. The Wayside Inn 7 
 
 III. The " Cottage and the Castle " 15 
 
 rV. Kerry O'Leary 31 
 
 V. Impressions of Ireland 41 
 
 VI. "The Black Valley" 51 
 
 VII. Sir Archy's Temper Tried 63 
 
 VIII. The House of Sickness 75 
 
 IX. A Doctor's Visit 83 
 
 X. An Evening at "Mary" M'Kelly's .... 92 
 
 XI. Mistakes on All Sides Ill 
 
 XII. The Glen at Midnight 124 
 
 XIII. "The Guardsman*' 135 
 
 XIV. The Comments on a Hurried Departure . 145 
 XV. Some of the Pleasures of Property . . . 153 
 
 XVI. The Foreign Letter 166 
 
 XVII. Kate O'Donoghue . . 177 
 
 XVin. A Hasty Pledge 186 
 
 XIX. A Diplomatist Defeated 192 
 
 XX. Temptation in a Weak Hour 206 
 
 XXI, The Return of the Envoy 216 
 
 XXII. A Morning Visit 222 
 
 XXIII. Some Opposite Traits of Character . . . 230 
 
 XXIV. A Walk by Moonlight 246 
 
 XXV. A Day of Difficult Negotiations .... 251 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chaptee Page 
 
 XXVI. A Last Evening at Home 262 
 
 XXVII. A Supper Party 272 
 
 XXVIII. The Capital and its Pleasures 286 
 
 XXIX. First Impressions 300 
 
 XXX. Old Characters with New Faces . . . 308 
 
 XXXI. Some Hints about Harry Talbot .... 316 
 
 XXXII. A Presage of Danger 327 
 
 XXXIII. The St. Patrick's Ball 333 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 Volume One. 
 
 3£tcf)mg0. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The Reckoning Frontispiece 
 
 Roach's Conveniency 148 
 
 Good Night! 270 
 
 Illustrations in t^e Eeit. 
 
 A Fireside Group 21 
 
 Sir Archy and the Beggars 67 
 
 Kenny O'Leary reading the News by Deputy ... 77 
 
 Terry, Sir Marmaduke, and Sybella 114 
 
 Sir Archy in a Dilemma 125 
 
 Frederick and Mark 197 
 
 The Cavern 213 
 
 ]\Iark drawing a Cork 276 
 
 The Student 297 
 
 Mark's Exit from the Ball 343 
 
 The Paper 350 
 
'^ OF THE 
 
 JNIVERSITY 
 
 THE O'DONOGHUE: 
 
 A TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GLENFLESK. 
 
 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 per- 
 haps 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, fed by a thousand rills 
 that come tumbling and foaming down the mountain-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 desolation. 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 down the valley in 
 
 VOL. I. — 1 
 
2 THE O'DOXOGmjE. 
 
 one troubled sea of foam and spray : its dull roar the only 
 voice that echoes in the mountain gorge. 
 
 Even where the humble roof of a solitary cabin can be 
 seen, the aspect of habitation rather heightens than dimin- 
 ishes the feeling of loneliness and desolation around. The 
 thought of poverty enduring its privations unseen and un- 
 known, without an eye to mark its struggles, 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 cliff, 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 
 melancholy thoughts must be his companions, who spends 
 the livelong 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 imagination, 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 paddling in the running stream, that steals 
 along bright and glittering, like happy infancy — no budding 
 sense of a fair world, opening in gladness, 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 roadside ; divesting 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 powerfully built man, whose well- 
 knit frame and muscular limbs showed how much habitual 
 exercise had contributed 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 
 
GLENFLESK. 3 
 
 that squareness of proportion which indicates considerable 
 physical strength ; his countenance, except for a look of 
 utter listlessness and vacuity, had been pleasing ; the eyes 
 were large and full, and of the deep gray which simulates 
 blue ; the nose large and well formed ; the mouth alone was 
 unprepossessing — the expression it wore was of ill-humor 
 and discontent ; and this character seemed so habitual that 
 even as he sat thus alone and in solitude the curl of the upper 
 lip betrayed his nature. 
 
 His dress was a shooting-jacket of some coarse stuff, 
 stained and washed by many a mountain streamlet; loose 
 trousers of gray cloth, and heavy shoes, — 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, al- 
 though certain traits bespoke the person of a respectable 
 rank, there was a general air of neglect about him that 
 half contradicted the supposition. 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 valley, 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 concealed 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 moment 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 hand- 
 some, wore an air of mingled frankness and haughtiness; 
 there was in their expression the habitual character of one 
 accustomed to exert a degree of command and influence 
 over others, — a look which, of all the characteristics of 
 temper, is least easily mistaken. 
 
4 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 At his side walked one who, even at a passing glance, 
 might be pronounced his daughter, so striking the resem- 
 blance 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 tender beauty, which at that age blends 
 the loveliness of the girl with the graces of womanhood. 
 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 gray gloom of twilight threw its sombre shadows over 
 the valley, but the mountain peaks were tipped with the set- 
 ting sun, and shone in those rich violet and purple hues the 
 autumn heath displays so beautifully. The dark-leaved holly 
 and the bright arbutus blossom lent their color to every jut- 
 ting cliff and promontory, which, to eyes unacquainted with 
 the scenery, 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 ex- 
 pression of the young girl's features, " or would you desire 
 something still more dreary?" 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, cov- 
 ered with sods of earth, grass-grown and still green, were 
 heaped up together, and through these the vapor 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 main- 
 tained 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 sprang to his feet with a bound that almost 
 
GLENFLESK. 5 
 
 startled his questioner, so sudden and abrupt tlie motion; 
 his features, inactive and colorless the moment before, 
 seemed almost convulsed now, while they became dark 
 with blood. 
 
 " Was it to me you spoke?" said he, in a low, guttural 
 tone, which his 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, sir; 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 pallor spread itself 
 across her cheeks. 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," replied the youth; "they have no 
 better hereabouts." 
 
 ' ' 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?" 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 Englishman, — a certain Sir Marma- 
 duke Travers : it is the estate of O'Donoghue." 
 
 " Was, you mean, once," answered the old man, quickly. 
 
 " I mean what I say," replied the other, rudely. " Con- 
 fiscation cannot take away a right ; it can at most — " 
 
 This speech was fortunately not destined to be finished, 
 for while he was speaking, his quick glance detected a dark 
 
6 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 object soaring above his head. In a second he had seized 
 his gun, and taking a steady aim, he fired. The loud re- 
 port 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 lifted the body of a 
 large black eagle from the ground — ' ' this fellow 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 postilions had reached the place, the four 
 post-horses laboring under the heavy laden travelling car- 
 riage, with its innumerable boxes and imperials. 
 
 The postboys saluted the young man with marked defer- 
 ence, 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 carriage, and was about to follow, when he turned 
 around suddenly and said, — 
 
 " If your road lies this way, may I offer you a seat with 
 us?" 
 
 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 offered present. The 
 horses sprang forward the next instant, and a few minutes 
 after the road was as silent and deserted 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 or refreshment could be obtained 
 for miles on either side. An humble thatched cabin abut- 
 ting against the granite rock of the glen, and decorated with 
 an almost effaced sign of &t. Finbar converting a very un- 
 prepossessing heathen, over the door, showed where Mary 
 M'Kelly dispensed " enthertainment for man and baste." 
 
 A chance traveller, bestowing a passing glance upon this 
 modest edifice, 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, however, 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 smug- 
 glers of the coast, and the market where the shopkeepers 
 of the interior repaired in secret to purchase the contraband 
 wares and " run goods" which poured into the country from 
 the shores of France and Holland. 
 
 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 
 
S THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 that the cargo of au Incliaman 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 w^ould now conduct our reader, but into a far more cheer- 
 ful and more comfortable locality — the spacious kitchen of 
 the cabin, or, in fact, the apartment which served for the 
 double purpose of cooking and eating — the common 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 herself, 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 mellifluous intonation of a Kerry accent. Opposite 
 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 weatherbeaten, 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 postilions. 
 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 postilions 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 compound the 
 hostess had just mixed — "a hard gallop every step of the 
 way, barrin' the bit of a hill at Carrignacurra." 
 
THE WAYSIDE INN. 9 
 
 '^ Well, I hope ye had the decent hansel for it, an^^how, 
 Jim?" 
 
 "I'm Joe, ma'am, av it's 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 denying it. Begorra, it was all natural, them 's 
 as rich as Crasis ; sure did n't I see the young lady herself 
 throwing out the tenpenny bits to the gossoons, as we M'ent 
 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 
 devil we bought from the bishop, and called him after him ; 
 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 is n'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 imposition of people so comfortably endowed affecting 
 to feel any pressure of 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 encouragement to the 
 branch of traflSc 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 himself he has come." 
 
 "Improve, indeed!" echoed the hostess. "Much we 
 want their improving ! Why did n't they leave us the ould 
 families of the countr}^? It's little we used to hear of 
 
10 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 im- 
 provement. Ayeh ! sure I mind the time a hogshead of 
 claret did n't do the fortnight. 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 improvements ! " 
 
 " '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 gossoons about the place ; the best of enthertainment 
 upstairs and down." 
 
 " Musha ! that was grand." 
 
 "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 dare n't come up to table without an 
 elegant pudding in his belly that cost five pounds ! " 
 
 " 'T is the fish has their own luck always," was the pro- 
 found meditation 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 '11 be making me take out 
 a license, I suppose," said she, in a voice of half contemp- 
 tuous 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 anything 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 WAYSIDE INN. 11 
 
 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 of the door — "'tis in bed we are, 
 and late enough too." 
 
 " Open the door, Mary, it's me," said a somewhat con- 
 fident voice. " I saw the fire burning brightly, and there's 
 no use hiding it." 
 
 " Oh, troth, Mr. Mark, I '11 not keep ye out in the 
 cowld," said the hostess, as, unbarring the door, she ad- 
 mitted the guest whom we had seen some time since in the 
 glen. " Sure enough, 'tis n't an O'Donoghue we'd shut the 
 door agin, anyhow." 
 
 " Thank ye, Mary," said the young man ; "I've been all 
 day in the mountains, and had no sport ; and as that pleas- 
 ant 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 honor's 
 providin'." 
 
 " Mine — how is that? " 
 
 "The hare ye shot afore the door yesterday morning; 
 sure it's raal luck we have it for you now." And while 
 Mary employed herself in the pleasant bustle of preparing 
 the supper, the young man drew near to the fire, and 
 engaged the others in conversation. 
 
 " That travelling carriage was going on to Bantry, Joe, I 
 suppose? " said the youth, in a tone of easy indifference. 
 
 " No, sir; they stopped at the lodge above." 
 
 "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, 
 
12 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 the agent, is n't at home ; and they say there 's no servants 
 at the lodge, nor nothin' ready for the quality 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 muttering voice, " Rich enough 
 to buy the inheritance of those who have blood in their 
 veins." 
 
 The tone of voice in which the young man spoke, and 
 the angry look 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 complain- 
 ing ; learning is a fine thing for the hunger — " 
 
 Her irony was too delicate for the quick 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 eager- 
 ness to resume 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 English," interrupted 
 Jim, who felt jealous of his companion being always referred 
 to, " for whenever we passed a little potato 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 ! 
 
THE WAYSIDE INN. 13 
 
 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 
 cliffs over our heads." 
 
 " I showed them your honor's father's place on the moun- 
 tains," said Joe. 
 
 "Yes, faith," broke in Jim; "and the young lady 
 laughed, and said, ' You see, father, we have a neighbor 
 after all.'" 
 
 The blood mounted to the youth's cheek, till it became 
 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. 
 'T was 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, 
 endeavoring 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 honor, and says he, 
 ' We must pay our respects at Coort,' sa3's he ; ' and I 'm 
 sure we '11 be well received, for we know his Royal Highness 
 already' — that's what he called yer honor." 
 
 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, convar- 
 sing the whole way with him. Sure was n'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 
 
14 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Mary, as she helped the smoking and savory mess around 
 the table. 
 
 Jim looked down abashed and ashamed ; his testimony 
 was discredited ; and without knowing why or wherefore, 
 he yet had an indistinct glimmering that any effort to vindi- 
 cate his character would be ill received; he therefore said 
 nothing more. His silence was contagious, and the meal 
 which a few moments before promised so pleasantly, passed 
 off 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 flavor, — failed to recall the 
 young man's good-humor : he sat in gloomy silence, only 
 broken at intervals by sounds of some low muttering to 
 himself. Mary, at length having arranged the little room 
 for his reception, bade him good-night, and retired to rest. 
 The postilions 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 sank to sleep where he 
 was, by the chimney corner. 
 
CHAPTER in. 
 
 THE " COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 
 
 Of Sir Marmaduke Travers there is little 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. Originally 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 nature to him — rendered him both unfit to enter 
 upon the less exciting duties of a country gentleman's exist- 
 ence, 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 companion- 
 ship and mutual feeling had rendered agreeable, and he re- 
 solved 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 life 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 successful 
 here than 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 neigh- 
 bors; 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 
 
16 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 Ireland, where he 
 possessed a large estate which he had never seen. The 
 property, originally mortgaged to his father, was repre- 
 sented 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 advan- 
 tages and capabilities of the property, and never ceased to 
 implore him to pay a visit, if even for a week or two, sin- 
 cerely 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 
 Sir Marmaduke 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 considera- 
 tions. 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 opposite 
 causes — was a constant theme of discussion and conversa- 
 tion. 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 condi- 
 tion, which, unhappily, the experience of an additional 
 half-century has not succeeded in solving. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke was well versed in these popular writ- 
 ings. He had the "Whole State of Ireland " by heart; and 
 so firmly was he persuaded that his knowledge of the sub- 
 ject was perfect, that he became actually impatient until he 
 
THE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 17 
 
 had reached the country, and commenced the great sclieme 
 of regeneration and civilization, by which Ireland and her 
 people were to be placed among the most favored nations. 
 He had heard much of Irish indolence and superstition; 
 Irish bigotry and intolerance; the indifference to comfort; 
 the indisposition to exertion ; the recklessness of the pres- 
 ent; the improvidence of the future. He had been told 
 that saint-days and holidays mulcted labor 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 industry distasteful, and all exer- 
 tion, save what was actually indispensable, a thing to be 
 avoided. 
 
 "Why should these things be, when they were not so in 
 Norfolk nor in 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 labor. 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 misconduct, and certainly was 
 deemed a reproach. Why, then, not propagate 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 dis- 
 like to the practical; the generous emotions appear shorn 
 of their freedom when trammelled with the fruit of experi- 
 ence or reflection. So aertainly 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, apparently, occurred to 
 him that men are not everywhere 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. He was also, however, hot-tempered 
 
 VOL. I. — 2 
 
18 THE O'DOXOGKCE. 
 
 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. Origi- 
 nally 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 com- 
 fort within doors. It occupied an indenture of the glen of 
 Keim-an-eigh, and stood on the borders of a small moun- 
 tain lake, the surface of which was dotted with wooded 
 islands. Behind the cottage, and favored by the shelter of 
 the ravine, the native oaks grew to a great size, and con- 
 trasted by the rich foliage waving in the breeze with the 
 dark sides of the cliff opposite, rugged, barren, and 
 immutable. 
 
 In all the luxuriance of this mild climate, shrubs attained 
 the height of trees; and flowers, rare enough elsewhere to 
 demand the most watchful care, grew here, unattended and 
 unregarded. 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 causeway cut in the rock, and protected by a 
 
CF 
 
 jC^LIFOTHE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 19 
 
 square keep, through whose deep arch the road penetrated, 
 flanked on either hand by a low battlemented wall; along 
 these, two rows of lime-trees grew, stately and beautiful 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 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 outworks 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 
 aspect 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 air with their 
 odor, 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 corri- 
 dors, 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 look- 
 ing-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-disfigured 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 ordi- 
 nary resort of the family, serving the purposes of drawing 
 and dining-room. This was somewhat better in appear- 
 
20 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ance. 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 millepedes, and fat old foot-stools, the pious 
 work of long-forgotten grandmothers. A huge screen, 
 covered with a motley array of prints and caricatures, cut 
 off the group around the ample fireplace from the remainder 
 of the apartment; and it is within this charmed circle we 
 would now conduct our reader. 
 
 In the great arm-chair to the right of the ample fireplace, 
 sat a 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 extreme 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 expres- 
 sion of firmness was strongly displayed. His dress was a 
 strange mixture of the costume 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 gray lamb's-wool stockings, wrinkled along the legs, 
 were no better than those worn by the poorer farmers of the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 This was the O'Donoghue himself. Opposite to him sat 
 one as unlike him in every respect as it was possible to 
 conceive. He was a tall, spare, raw-boned figure, whose 
 gray eyes and high cheek-bones bore traces of a different 
 race to that of the aged chieftain. An expression 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 gray 
 hair was brushed rigidly back from his bony temples, and 
 fastened into a short cue behind, thus giving greater appar- 
 ent length to his naturally long and narrow face. His 
 dress was that of a gentleman of the time, — a full-skirted 
 
THE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 
 
 21 
 
 coat of a dark brown, with a long vest descending below 
 the hips; breeches somewhat a deeper shade of the same 
 color, and silk stockings, with silver-buckled shoes, com- 
 pleted an attire, which, if plain, was yet scrupulously neat 
 and respectable. As he sat, almost bolt upright in his 
 chair, there was a look of vigilance and alertness about him 
 very opposite to the careless, nearly drooping air of the 
 U'Donoghue. Such was Sir Archibald M'Nab, the brother 
 
 of the O'Donohgue'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. 
 
22 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 Never were two natures more dissimilar. The one, reck- 
 less, lavish, and improvident; the other, cautious, saving, 
 and full of forethought. O'Douoghue was frank and open, 
 — his opinions easily known, his resolutions hastil}^ formed. 
 M'Nab was close and secret, carefully weighing everything 
 before he made up his mind, and not much given to impart- 
 ing 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 com- 
 mon; 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 beside 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 rich auburn which hung in clusters over it; while 
 his face was strikingly like the old man's, the mildness of 
 its expression — partly the result of youth, partly the char- 
 acter imparted by his present 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 fi%'e-and-thirty 
 years of age, whose dress of green coat, short breeches, and 
 top-boots suggested at once the jockey, to which the min- 
 gled look of confidence and cunning bore ample corrobora- 
 tion. 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 advantages of a ready-money purchaser when- 
 ever 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 present- 
 ing himself. But, in addition to these qualities, Lanty 
 was rather a prize in remote and unvisited tracts such as 
 
THE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 23 
 
 the one we have been describing; his information being 
 both great and varied in everything going forward. He 
 had the latest news of the capital, — the fashions of hair 
 and toilet, the colors worn by the ladies in vogue, and the 
 newest rumors of any intended change. He knew well the 
 gossip of politics 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 thor- 
 oughly familiar, and had, besides, a world of stories and 
 small talk on every possible subject, which he brought 
 forth with the greatest tact as regarded the tastes and char- 
 acter 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 popularity; 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 presence 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 gray mare of 
 his." 
 
 " Sure enough, sir, there 's no denying it. I '11 have to 
 give him the forty pounds for her, though, as sure as I 'm 
 here, she 's not worth the money; but 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 '11 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 
 
24 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 humor for buying, just now," inter- 
 posed the O'Donoghue, with a voice to which some suddenly 
 awakened recollection 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 forthcoming, after a long pause he added, 
 "And haven't I the elegant pony for Master Herbert 
 there? a crame color — 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 ; 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 '11 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 genera- 
 tion 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 an- 
 other, or both causes were in operation together, for he 
 turned an angry look on Sir Archy, and said, — 
 
 "And why should n't the boy ride? was there ever one of 
 his name or family that did n't know how to cross a coun- 
 try? I don't intend him for a Highland pedler." 
 
 "He might be waur," retorted M'Nab, solemnly, — "he 
 might be an Irish beggar." 
 
THE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 25 
 
 "By my soul, sir — " broke in O'Donoghue. But fortu- 
 nately an interruption saved the speech from being con- 
 cluded; 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 glistened at 
 the appearance of his favorite son, "what sport, boy? " 
 
 "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, affecting 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, wind- 
 galled brutes, not fit for the kennel." 
 
 "That's it, Mark; give him a canter, lad," cried the old 
 man, joyfully. 
 
 "I know what you are at, well enough," resumed the 
 youth, encouraged by these tokens of approval ; " you want 
 that gray mare of mine. You have some fine English 
 oflScer ready to give you a hundred and fifty, or, maybe, 
 two hundred guineas for her, the moment you take 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 is n't for want of a sporting 
 offer if I don't — she '11 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 
 
26 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 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 '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 or leave it, just as you like; 
 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." 
 
 " What! " said the youth, as his brows met in passion, and 
 his heightened color 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 your- 
 self." 
 
 These words, uttered in such a tone as to be inaudible to 
 the rest, seemed to mollify 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 j^ou, sir, I *\\ take the spirits — it 's what I 'm most 
 used to." 
 
 "AYho 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. " 
 
THE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 27 
 
 "How was that? " 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. Maiaehi 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, down here — 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 would n'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 shillings in the 
 pound ? — when a lucky thought struck him. Troth, and 
 it 's what ye may call a grand thought too. He was walk- 
 ing about before the door, thinking and ruminating how to 
 raise the money, when he sees the sheep grazing on the 
 lawn foment him — not that he could sell one of them, for 
 there was a strap of a bond or mortgage on them a year 
 before. 'Faix,' and says he, 'when a man's hard up for 
 cash, he 's often obliged to wear a mighty threadbare coat, 
 and go cold enough in the winter season — and sure it 's 
 reason sheep isn't better than Christians; and begorra,* 
 says he, 'I '11 have the fleece off ye, if the weather was 
 twice as cowld.' No sooner said than done. They were 
 ordered into the haggard-yard the same evening, and, as 
 sure as ye 're there, they cut the wool off them three days 
 after Christmas. Musha! but it was a pitiful sight to see 
 them turned out shivering and shaking, with the snow on 
 the ground. And it did n'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 old 
 
28 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 petticoat on, another a flannel waiscoat, 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 old 
 spencer of the master's; and may I never live, if I did n't 
 roll down full length on the grass when I seen hiin." 
 
 For 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 light, he muttered to himself, — 
 
 ''They 're a' the same, — ne'er-do-well, reckless deevils." 
 
 One good result, at least, followed the anecdote: the 
 good-humor of 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 accommo- 
 dation, he muttered, as he went, his self-congratulations 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 chamber, so little like any 
 other in that dreary mansion. The walls were covered with 
 shelves, loaded with 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 fireplace a claymore of true Highland origin, and a 
 pair of silver-mounted pistols, were arranged like a trophy, 
 surmounted by aflat 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, — 
 
THE "COTTAGE AND THE CASTLE." 29 
 
 "Ye war speaking about a sma' powny for the laird's 
 son, Mister Lawler: may I ask ye the price?" 
 
 The words acted like a talisman; Lanty was himself in a 
 moment. The mere mention of horseflesh 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 " sweet- 
 est tool that ever travelled on four legs." 
 
 Sir Archy waited patiently till the eloquent eulogy was 
 over, and then dryly repeated his first demand. 
 
 "Is it her price? " 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 you; there's not 
 a man in Kerry could say what 's her price. Goold would n'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," replied 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 cabi- 
 net, he unlocked 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 with- 
 out 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 powny is worth 
 twenty guineas?" 
 
30 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 "As sure as I stand here. I would u't — " 
 
 "Weel, weel, I'm content. There's half the money; 
 tak' it, but never let 's hear anither word about her here. 
 Tak' 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 scullion 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 humiliating 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, anyhow," said Lanty, with a 
 slight 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 reflection, as he entered his own chamber. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 KERRY O'lEARY. 
 
 Lantt Lawler was stirring the first in the house. The 
 late sitting of the preceding evening, and the deep pota- 
 tions he had indulged in, left little trace of weariness on 
 his well-accustomed frame. Few contracts were ratified in 
 those days without the solemnity of a drinking bout, and 
 the habits of the O'Donoghue household were none of the 
 most abstemious. All was still and silent, then, as the 
 horse-dealer descended the stairs and took the path towards 
 the stable, where he had left his hackney the night before. 
 
 It was Lanty'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 occu- 
 pation 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. Beau- 
 tifully 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, 
 
32 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 rather than with any feeling 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 fox-hound, 
 so old and feeble that, even roused by the approach of a 
 stranger, he could not rise from the ground, but lay help- 
 lessly on the earth, and with uplifted throat sent forth a 
 long wailing note. Lanty leaned upon the wall, and looked 
 at him. The emotions which other objects failed to sug- 
 gest, 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 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 did n'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 protinided from a little oue- 
 paned window of a hayloft. '"Tis early you are to-day." 
 
 "Ah, Kerry, how are you, man? I was taking a look at 
 Rory, here." 
 
 "Faix, he's a poor sight now," responded the other, 
 with a sigh, "but he was n't so once. I mind the time he 
 could lead the pack over Cubber-na-creena mountain, and 
 not a dog but himself catch the scent, after a hard frost 
 and a north wind. I never knew him wrong. His tongue 
 was as true as the priest's, — sorrow lie in it." 
 
 A low whine from the poor old beast seemed to acknow- 
 ledge the praise bestowed upon him; and Kerry con- 
 tinued, — 
 
 "It's truth, I'm telling; and if it wasn't, it. 's just 
 
KERRY O'LEARY. 33 
 
 himself would contradict me. Tally-ho! Rory — tally-ho! 
 my ould boy ; " and both man and dog joined in a deep- 
 toned cry together. 
 
 The old walls sent back the echoes, 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 chords of his 
 heart, and then suddenly, 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 remarkable or strik- 
 ing; but when animated and excited, displayed the stran- 
 gest possible union of deep cunning and simplicity, intense 
 curiosity and apathetic indolence. His figure was short, 
 almost to dwarfishness; and as his arms were enormously 
 long, they contributed to give that air to his appearance. 
 His legs were widely bowed, and his gait had that slouch- 
 ing, shambling motion so indicative of an education culti- 
 vated among horses and stable-men. So it was, in fact; 
 Kerry had begun life as a jockey. At thirteen he rode a 
 
 VOL. I. — 3 
 
34 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 winning race at the Curragh, and came in first on the back 
 of Blue Blazes, the wickedest horse of the day in Ireland. 
 From that hour he became a celebrity, and, until 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; 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 house- 
 hold that once filled the castle, a few were now retained; 
 but among these was Kerry. It was not that he was use- 
 ful, or that his services could minister to the comfort or 
 convenience of the family ; far from it, — the commonest 
 offices of in-door life 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 anything 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 splendor 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 dishabille 
 described, descended into the court-yard with a bunch of 
 keys in his hand, and led the way towards the stable. 
 
KERRY O'LEARY. 35 
 
 "I put the little mare into the hack-stable, Mr. Lawler," 
 said he, "because the hunters is in training, and I did n't 
 like to disturb them with a strange beast." 
 
 "Hunters in training!" replied Lanty, in astonishment. 
 "Why, I thought he had nothing but the gray mare with 
 the black legs." 
 
 "And sure, if he hasn't," responded Kerry, crankily, 
 "could n't he buy them when he wants them? " 
 
 "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 of 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 everything there was. See, now! if the horses could eat 
 peas-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 need n'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 telling you anything 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 gray mare, Master Kerry," said Lanty, 
 in a tone of easy insolence, purposely assumed to provoke 
 the old huntsman's anger, — "bring her out here." 
 
36 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "And what for would I bring her out? " 
 
 "Maybe I '11 tell you afterwards," was the reply. "Just 
 do as I sa}^, now." 
 
 "The devil a one o' me will touch the beast at your bid- 
 ding; and, what 's more, I '11 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 night's excess. "Be quiet, I say. 
 The mare is his, — let him have her." 
 
 "Blessed Virgin! " exclaimed Kerrj^, "here 's the hunting 
 season beginning, and sorrow thing you '11 have to put a 
 saddle on, barrin' — barrin' — " 
 
 "Barring what? " interposed Lanty, with an insolent 
 grin. 
 
 The young man flushed at the impertinence of the insin- 
 uation, but said not a word for a few minutes ; then sud- 
 denly exclaimed, — 
 
 "Lanty, I have changed my mind; I '11 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 '11 
 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 ! " replied 
 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 Munster. No, Mr. 
 Mark, it is not that; but I '11 just tell you the truth. The 
 mare is all as one as sold already; 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 
 
KERRY O'LEARY. 37 
 
 of easy assurance 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 knowing 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?''' 
 
 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 lament- 
 able figure of his late antagonist. 
 
 "Let me say one word. Master Mark," said Lanty, at 
 length, and in a voice subdued to its very softest key, — 
 "just a single word in your 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 Kerr}^, " 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 the 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 courtyard, with his arms folded, 
 and his head sunk upon his breast; nor was he aroused 
 
38 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 from his revery 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 '11 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 
 temper 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 '11 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 sur- 
 veyed 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 flash- 
 ing eye and quivering lip, while the mare, catching excite- 
 ment 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 
 sprang into the saddle, and with a wild cheer dashed for- 
 ward. With 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 hare-brained boy, 
 turned everywhere 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 
 
KERRY O'LEARY. 39 
 
 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," mut- 
 tered Lauty. 
 
 "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 aud 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?" called out Kerry. "Why, then, as 
 sure as my name 's Kerry O'Leary, if there 's a hair of his 
 head hurted, I '11 — " 
 
 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 darling; 'twas myself 
 taught you to have a light 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 pre- 
 paring 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. 
 
 ' OF THE 1 
 
 UNIVERSITY J 
 
40 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "There! " said Mark, as he flung himself from the sad- 
 dle, — "there, Kittane, it's the last time you're likely to 
 have a bold burst of it, or myself either, perhaps. She 
 touched her counter on that gate, Lanty; but she 's nothing 
 the worse of it." 
 
 Lanty grumbled some indistinct mutterings 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, anyhow," 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 did n'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-bye, Lanty," he sauntered 
 slowly towards the house. 
 
 "Well, Mr. O'Leary," said Lanty, in a voice of affected 
 politeness Irishmen are occasionally very fond of employ- 
 ing when they intend great self-respect, " may I trouble you 
 to bring out that hack of mine?" 
 
 " 'T is a pleasure, Mr. Lawler, and no trouble in life, 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 un- 
 equal; perhaps he despised his antagonist. In any case, ■ 
 he waited patiently for Kerry's appearance, and then, pass- 
 ing his arm within the bridle of each horse, he slowly 
 descended the avenue towards the high road. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND. 
 
 It was not without a feeling closely allied to disappoint- 
 ment that Sir Marmaduke Travers found the advent to his 
 Irish estates uncelebrated b}" any of those testimonies on 
 the part of his tenantry his agent, Captain Hemsworth, had 
 often so graphically pictured before him. The post-horses 
 were suffered to drag his carriage unmolested to its desti- 
 nation ; 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 para- 
 graphs, and all the innumerable but well-known accompa- 
 niments of those patronizing acts of condescension 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 appearance of increased 
 bustle, and an air of movement and stir around the lodge 
 itself, there was nothing to mark his coming. There, in- 
 deed, servants were seen to pass and repass ; 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. Beyond these precincts, 
 however, all was still and solitary as before. For miles 
 
42 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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, increased the sense of loneli- 
 ness, and Sir Marmaduke already began to suspect that this 
 last trial of a residence would scarcely prove more fortu- 
 nate than the previous ones. 
 
 Age and wealth are uncomplying task-masters — habit and 
 power endure 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 w^hich 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 ears ; and yet, he knew not how it was, nothing re- 
 vealed itself before him. The very laborers who worked 
 in the garden seemed uncommunicative 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 ex- 
 plain 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 romance. 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 splendor save themselves. Not these 
 thoughts alone filled her mind. Already liad 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 
 
IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND. 43 
 
 imagery she never heard before. All appealed to her mind 
 with a very different force from what they addressed them- 
 selves with to her father's. Already she felt attracted by 
 the figurative eloquence, so popular a gift among the people. 
 The warm fervor of fancy she had believed the attribute 
 of highly wrought temperaments only she found here amid 
 poverty and privation ; flashes of bright wit broke from the 
 gloom of daily suffering, 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 dis- 
 trict, and day by day they fascinated 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 stern- 
 tempered man, whose severity towards his tenantry was, 
 happily, tempered by the personal kindness of the agent. 
 Captain Hemsworth constantly impressed them with a notion 
 that all harsh measures originated with his principal — the 
 favors came from himself only. The exactions of high 
 rents, the rigorous prosecutions of the law, he ever asserted 
 were acts compulsory with him, but always repugnant 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 acquaintance- 
 ship, it could not be supposed, should dispel the illusion. 
 The peasantry, however, were the first to discover the error. 
 Long before Sir Marmaduke had made any progress in de- 
 ciphering 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 
 suffering, 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. 
 
44 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 They listened with sincere pleasure — for they love any 
 appeal to themselves — to the precepts he so liberally be- 
 stowed 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 
 frugality be pushed beyond the very borders of starvation. 
 No; they answered with a semblance of concurrence, ''True 
 for you, sir; the devil a lie in it — your honor knows it 
 well." Or, when pushed home by any argument against 
 their improvidence or recklessness, the ever-pleasant 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 parlor of the lodge 
 which looked out upon the glen — "very ignorant, very bar- 
 barous, but easily led — I see through them clearly." 
 
 "I like them greatly," said his daughter; "their grati- 
 tude knows no bounds for the slightest services; they have 
 a kind of native courtesy, so rare to find amongst a peas- 
 antry. How that poor fellow last night wished to climb the 
 cliff where the eagle's nest is, because I foolishly said I had 
 never seen a young eagle." 
 
 "They are totally misunderstood," said Sir Marmaduke, 
 sententiously, 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 families of 
 the country, is mere nonsense. You heard how Dan laughed 
 this morning when I joked with him about purgatory and 
 the saints ; 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 bigoted ; 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." 
 
IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND. 45 
 
 *'If you like, we '11 ride there; I have heard that the gleii 
 is beautiful higher up." 
 
 "I was just going to propose it. That juare seems quiet 
 enough — Lawler says that she has been carrying a lady 
 these two years — will you try her? " 
 
 "I am longing to do so. I am certain she is gentleness 
 itself." 
 
 ''Strange fellow that horse-dealer is, too," said the old 
 gentleman, in 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? " 
 cried he aloud, as he suddenly rose from the table, and 
 approached a sniall 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 awaiting 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 sadness; they 
 laughed and talked with all the seeming of light-heartedness ; 
 and many a droll and merry saying broke from that medley 
 mass of suffering and sorrow. The sudden appearance of 
 Sir Marmaduke at the door instantaneously checked all 
 merriment, and a solemn silence ensued as he walked forth 
 and stood in front of them. 
 
 "What do you want, my good people? " said he at length, 
 as none seemed disposed to open the proceedings. 
 
 Had their tongues been unlocked by the spell of a magi- 
 cian the effect could not have been more instantaneous; 
 a perfect volley of speech succeeded, in which Sir Marma- 
 duke in vain endeavored to follow the words of any single 
 speaker. Their rapid utterance, their vehement gesticula- 
 tion, and a certain guttural mode of pronunciation, quite 
 
46 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 new to him, made them totally unintelligible, and he stood 
 confused, perplexed, and confounded, for several minutes, 
 staring round 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 clamor ensued ; but this time it was 
 a general effort to enforce silence, — a process which even- 
 tuated 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 honor'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 honor's worship — 
 he has only Irish ; 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 honor, 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 life." 
 
 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 honor; 
 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 getting 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 
 
 
IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND. 47 
 
 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 of the 
 debt ; there was a failure in the potato crop, and a great 
 famine the consequence. Another was only recovering 
 from the " shaking ague," and begged for time, since if 
 he thrashed his oats now, they would bring nothing in 
 the market. A third entreated liberty 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 payment. 
 
 Every one had some favor 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 glimmering hope of succor the only 
 encouragement to the weary journey. 
 
 As Sir Marmaduke listened with a feigned composure to 
 narratives at w^hich 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 arms," 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 never known 
 suffering. 
 
 " Who is this fellow? " said Sir Marmaduke, half doubt- 
 ing how far he might relish the jest like the others. 
 
 " Terry the Woods, your honor," replied a score of voices 
 together. 
 
 " Terry the Woods ! " repeated he, " and is Terry a tenant 
 of mine?" 
 
48 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 " Faix, I am proud to say I am not," said Terry, groimd- 
 ing his weapon, 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 w^as only quelled by Sir 
 Marmaduke asking the reason of Terry's appearance there 
 that morning, if he had nothing to look for. 
 
 "I just come to pay my respects," said Terry, com- 
 posedly, "to wish you a welcome to the country. I thought 
 that as you might be lading the same kind of life as myself, 
 we would n't be bad companions, you see, neither of us 
 having much on our hands ; and then," continued he, 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 compliment from such a source — as her father said, 
 laughingly, — 
 
 " Well, Terry, and have they been deceiving you?" 
 
 " 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 suffering 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 ad- 
 dressing her in a low voice ; " I '11 tell you where the white 
 heath is growing, with big bells on it, like cups, to hould the 
 dew. Were you ever up over Keim-an-eigh ? " 
 
IMPRESSIONS OF IRELAND. 49 
 
 " Never," said she, smiling at the eagerness of her 
 questioner. 
 
 ''I'll take you, then, by a short cut, and you can ride 
 the whole way, and maybe we '11 shoot an eagle. Have you 
 a gun in the house ? " 
 
 " Yes, there are three or four," said she, humoring him. 
 
 "And if I shoot him I'll give you the w^ing-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 con- 
 straint 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 sliouldered 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 deadl}^ 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, — 
 
 " Whenever you want me, leave word at Mar}^ M'Kelly's, 
 in the glen below, and I '11 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 Travers, 
 " 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 whis- 
 pered 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." 
 
 VOL. I. — 4 
 
60 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *' Well, I believe I will," said he, after a pause ; "I may 
 go away when I like." 
 
 '' To be sure ; aucl 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 
 idiocy, entered into his daughter's schemes for poor Terry's 
 welfare. 
 
 A small cottage near the boat-house on the verge of the 
 lake, inhabited by a laborer and his children, offered the 
 wished-for asylum, and there Terry was at once installed, 
 and recognized as a member of the household. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 *' THE BLACK VALLEY." 
 
 Although deferred by the accidents of the morning. Sir 
 Marmaduke'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 pursuing 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, hung as it 
 were suspended over their heads, the tangled honeysuckle 
 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 coloring is 
 sobered down by massive shadows, — the impress of the 
 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 light 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 
 
52 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 respect from such. A few straggling patches of cultivation, 
 of the very rudest kind, were seen here and there, but all 
 without any eff©rt 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 sur- 
 mounted 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 of every color and 
 texture that human dress ever consisted of ; a sight new to 
 the eyes of the travellers, who knew not that the shrine w-as 
 deemed holy, and the tree the receptacle of the humble offer- 
 ing of those whose sorrows of mind and body came there 
 for alleviation and succor. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke dismounted and approached the door, 
 which lay wide open ; he knocked gently with his whip, and 
 as no answer to his summons 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 
 honeysuckle. "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 his desire to have a groom along 
 with them, — a want which now increased the inconvenience 
 of their position. She laughingly defended herself against 
 the charge, and at the same moment sprang down from her 
 saddle to assist in the search. 
 
 " I certainly perceived some smoke from the chimney 
 as we came up the glen, and there must have been some 
 one here lately, at least," said she, looking eagerly on every 
 side. 
 
 "This is indeed solitude," muttered her father, as he 
 listened for some minutes, during which the stillness had an 
 effect most appalling. 
 
"THE BLACK VALLEY." 53 
 
 While he was speaking, Miss Travers had drawn near 
 to a low latticed window 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 ex- 
 changed 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, light 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 by 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 little pyramid of turf right 
 opposite to him. 
 
 Well might Sir Marmaduke and his daughter feel sur- 
 prise ; 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 
 attention of the little fellow who listened. Astonishment, 
 awe, and eager curiosity blended together in that poor little 
 face, every lineament 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 
 
54 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 reflecting over 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 
 fervor. " 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 gaz- 
 ing before him. 
 
 "What does it mean. Master Herbert? — what is it?'* 
 said he, in panting eagerness. 
 
 "It's about a great hero, Mickey, that was preparing for 
 battle. He was putting on his armor, a coat and a cap of 
 steel, and he was belting on his sword." 
 
 "Yes, yes," broke in the little fellow, "and wasn't he 
 saying how he 'd murther and kill all before him ? " 
 
 " Right 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 several minutes without stopping. 
 
 " Oh, that's grand! " said the boy, in a burst of enthu- 
 siasm. " 'T is 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 goin' clap ! 
 clap! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he kill the 
 inimy, master dear?" 
 
 "No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over 
 the battle-field." 
 
 " Wirra, wirra, wirra ! " broke in the child, while he wrung 
 
"THE BLACK VALLEY." 55 
 
 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 Marma- 
 duke advancing a little farther, his shadow fell across the 
 chamber. The youth sprang up at once, and came towards 
 them. The jQush of surprise — it might be, too, of shame — 
 was on his features; but 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 
 Ballyvourney — " 
 
 " You are his relation, I presume? " said Sir Marmaduke, 
 without letting him finish his speech. 
 
 " I am his 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 respectful 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 unequivocal 
 expression of astonishment, the suddenly awakened sense of 
 admiration in one, on whom, till that very instant, beauty 
 had shed no fascination. His eyes were bent upon her, as 
 Sir Marmaduke thus finished speaking, and the old man 
 smiled as he saw the wonder-struck admiration of the 
 boy. 
 
 ''You wiU please to say Sir Marmaduke Travers," re- 
 peated 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," replied Sir Marmaduke, smiling. 
 " May I ask if there be no shorter road back to ' the Lodge* 
 
56 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 daylight. 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 after- 
 noon. See that waterfall yonder, I crossed it dryshod at 
 daybreak, and now it fs 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 then? " 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. 
 
 ' ' Keep the left of the valley till you reach the tall black 
 rock they call 'the Pulpit,' — you know it; at least you 
 must 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 Marmaduke, as he mounted his horse. 
 
 "Hark! there it comes!" cried the youth, pointing 
 upwards to the brow of a cliff, over which a leaping tor- 
 rent 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 
 
"THE BLACK VALLEY/* 57 
 
 along, murmuring over its gravelly bed, now rushed on- 
 ward with a yellow current streaked with white foam ; the 
 tiny rivulets that came in slender drops upon the roadside, 
 were now become continuous streams of water, hurrying on 
 to bear then- tribute to the river. The sky itself was black 
 and lowering, 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 ! " 
 
 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 communicating 
 fears that might not be real, neither told the other. 
 
 ' ' He said the left side of the valley ; but surely he mis- 
 took : see how the water has gained here, and the opposite 
 bank seems dry." 
 
 "Let us follow the advice, father," cried Sybella; "we 
 have no guidance save his ; he could not — would not 
 deceive us. Is it not grand ! With all its danger, I can 
 admire it." 
 
 As she spoke, a tremendous clap of thunder broke above 
 their heads, and made the valley tremble with the sound, 
 while, as if by the shock, the charged clouds were rent 
 open, and the rain descended in torrents. With the swoop- 
 ing 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 clamor. 
 
58 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Still they sped onward. The terrified horses strained 
 every limb, and dashed 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 ! " 
 
 Sybella strained her eye to see through the dense beat- 
 ing rain, and at last caught sight of the huge mass, around 
 whose summit the charged clouds w^ere flying. 
 
 " We must cross the river in this place," said the old 
 man, as he suddenly checked his horse, and looked with 
 terrified gaze on the swollen stream that came boiling and 
 foaming 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, resolute daring she had not used before; 
 "remember what he said; a minute may save or ruin us. 
 Great Heaven ! what is that ? " 
 
 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 cloud, and came with vi\id 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." 
 
 " O God, I thank thee! " said the terrified girl, as once 
 more her vision was restored, and, dimly, objects began 
 to form themselves before her. 
 
 With bare head and upturned eyes the aged man looked 
 up, and poured forth his prayer of thankfulness to Heaven. 
 
"THE BLACK VALLEY." 69 
 
 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 
 pealing 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 sprang 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 
 fervor; "let us onward." 
 
 Her streaming eyes turned on him one look of affection, 
 — the emblem 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 sprang 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 
 
60 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 father, as his horse dashed into the seething flood, and sank 
 above the crest beneath it. 
 
 " I cannot father — I cannot! " screamed the affrighted 
 girl, as, with a bound of terror, 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 rocks — 
 ''My child! my child!" the only accents heard above the 
 raging din. 
 
 Twice did the heroic gu'l try to face the current, but in 
 vam — the horse plunged wildly up, and threatened to fall 
 back, when suddenly through the white foam a figure strug- 
 gled 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 
 Bearing the cataract. 
 
 ''Cling to me, now!" cried the youth, as, with the 
 strength of desperation, 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 sup- 
 ported, breasted the stream and reached the bank. Ex- 
 hausted 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 fainting girl ; she half rose to her feet, 
 and called upon him. The next moment 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. 
 
"THE BLACK VALLEY." 61 
 
 '' Is she safe?" were the first words he said, as he stared 
 around him vaguely ; and then, as if overcome, he fell heav- 
 ily back upon the sward. 
 
 A joyous cheer broke forth from several voices near, and, 
 at the instant, several country people were seen coming for- 
 ward, 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 daugh- 
 ter were assisted towards the high road, while two others 
 carried the poor youth, by this time totally unable to make 
 the least exertion. 
 
 ''This brave boy — this noble fellow," said Sir Marma- 
 duke, as he stooped to kiss the pale high forehead, from 
 which the wet hair hung backwards — ' ' can no one tell me 
 who he is?" 
 
 ''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 
 endeavoring 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 figure rode up on a small mountain pony. " It 
 ought n't to be a strange name in these parts. Rouse your- 
 self. Master Herbert, rouse up, my child, — sure it is n'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 parlor fire, my darlin', where 
 his son ought to be, if he was n'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. 
 
62 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 '' Here 's the pony, Master Herbert, — get up on him, and 
 be off at once ; sure there is n't a blackguard there, with 
 lace on his coat, would n'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 giv- 
 ing directions for bestowing every care and attention on 
 one he deemed his guest. 
 
 The boy, ashamed and offended both, yielded to the coun- 
 sel, and suffered himself to be placed upon the saddle. 
 
 " Now then, hould fast, and I '11 guide him," said Kerry, 
 as, elbowing the crowd right and left, he sprang forward 
 at a run, and in less than a minute had disappeared in the 
 darkness. 
 
 Su' Marmaduke became distracted at the loss of his bene- 
 factor, and message after message was despatched to bring 
 him back; but all in vain. Kerry and his pony had al- 
 ah'eady 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 
 homeward. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SIR archy's temper tried. 
 
 It was strange that, although the old man and his 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 excite- 
 ment, conspiring with fatigue and exhaustion, 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 recognized 
 the commencement of severe and dangerous illness. 
 
 Vague and confused images of the previous night's adven- 
 ture, or visions of the dark valley and the tempest, occupied 
 all the boy's thoughts; and though he endeavored, when 
 spoken to, to preserve coherency and memory, the struggle 
 was unavailing, and the immediate impression of a question 
 past, his mind wandered back to the theme which filled his 
 brain. 
 
 "How was it, then?" said Sir Archy, who, as he sat 
 beside the sick-bed, questioned the youth about his adven- 
 ture. '-You said something of a horse?" 
 
64 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *'Yes; she was riding. Oh, how bravely she rode too! 
 It was fine to see her as the spray fell over her like a veil, 
 and she shook the drops from her hair." 
 
 " Whence came she? Who was the lady? " 
 
 "Take care — take care," said the youth, in a solemn 
 whisper, and with a steadfast look before him ; " Derrybahn 
 has given warning — the 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, repeat- 
 ing 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 sank 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 waking, 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 un- 
 expected sight. " Has Gubbins issued the distress? Are 
 the scoundrels going to sell us out? " 
 
 "No, no; it is another matter brings me here," replied 
 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 would n'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? " 
 
UNIVERSITY i 
 
 OF / 
 
 i^^ry^LlFOil'fi^^^^^ ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED. 65 
 
 " He 's in a fever ; his mind is wandering already." 
 
 '' Not a bit of it ; it 's a mere wetting, — a common cold : 
 the boy fell into the river last night at the old bridge there ; 
 Kerry told me something 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 otlier lad, wha may be dangerously ill, 
 if something be nae done quickly." 
 
 "Then send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a 
 horse and ride over to Killarney. Oh! I was forgetting; 
 let a fellow go off on foot, he '11 get there before evening. 
 It is confoundedly hatd to have nothing in the stables even 
 to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may be able to man- 
 age matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as 
 much as I do myself." 
 
 Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this ram- 
 bling reply. Long before it was over, he was halfway down 
 stairs in search of a safe messenger to despatch to Killarney 
 for Doctor Roach, muttering between his teeth as he 
 went, — 
 
 "We hae nae muckle chance of the doctor if we canna 
 send the siller to fetch him as well 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 gray light to fall on the youth's 
 features, "what is the matter? Your uncle 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 
 mutterinof to himself. 
 
66 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 ^' Poor fellow," said the father, "how dreadfull ill he 
 looks. Have you any pain, my bo}^?" 
 
 The boy knew the voice, and recognized the kindly ac- 
 cent, but could not hear or understand the words ; and, as 
 his eyes glistened with delight, he stole his burning hand 
 from beneath the bedclothes, and held it out, all trembling, 
 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 '11 put you to rights at once. I 
 hope Mark may reach home before the doctor goes. I'd 
 like to have 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 aris- 
 ing 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 con- 
 siderable crowd of beggars had assembled to collect the 
 alms 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 containing a suffi- 
 ciency 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 particular 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. 
 
 " 'T is 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 larsfe enoug-h to contain a child. 
 
SIR ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED. 
 
 67 
 
 " Eyah ! the Lord look down on the poor! " said a little 
 fat fellow, with a flannel nightcap and stockings without any 
 feet ; " there 's no pity now at all, at all." 
 
 " The heavens be your bed, anyway," said a hard-featured 
 little woman, with an accent that gave the blessing a very 
 different signification from the mere words. 
 
 '' Blessed Joseph I sure it is n'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 under-growl 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 black- 
 guards. 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 
 
68 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 garnished by a single tooth. "Them's the very words St 
 Peter will spake to yourself." 
 
 "Begorra! he'll not be strange in the other place, any- 
 how," muttered another. " 'T is there he'll meet most of 
 his countrymen." 
 
 This speech was the signal for a general outburst of 
 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 honor comes from." 
 
 Sir Archy's passion boiled over at this new indignity. 
 He stormed and swore, with all the impetuous rage of one 
 beside himself with passion; but the effect on his hearers 
 was totally lost. The onl}^ notice they took was an occa- 
 sional exclamation of — 
 
 "There it is, now!" "Oh, blessed Father! 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 of 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 minit, 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 ; 
 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, — 
 
 " 'T is the kind heart often has the hard word ; and sure 
 ye can see in his face he is n't cruel." 
 
 " Hear till me," cried Sir Archy, aloud, as he held up a 
 
SIR ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED. 69 
 
 shilling before their wistful eyes, "there's mou}^ a ane 
 among ye able to earn siller. Which o' ye, now, will step 
 down to Killarney, and tell the doctor 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 '11 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 unequivo- 
 cal expression of discontent broke forth. 
 
 " Down to Killarney ! " cried one. " Begorra ! I wonder 
 ye did n't say Kenmare, when ye war about it — the devil a 
 less than ten miles it is." 
 
 "Eyah! I'll like to see my own four bones going the 
 same road ; sorra a house the whole way where 's there 's a 
 drop of milk or a pratie." 
 
 "That's the charity to the poor, I suppose," said the fat 
 fellow of the nightcap. " 'T is wishing it, I am, the same 
 charity." 
 
 " We wor to bring the doctor on our back, I hope," said 
 a cripple in a bowl. 
 
 ' ' Did ever man hear or see the like o' this ? " exclaimed 
 M'Nab, as with uplifted hands he stared in wonderment 
 around him. " One would 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 forever. I '11 send twenty miles round the 
 country but I '11 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, anyhow." 
 
 And with these comments, and the hearty laughter that 
 followed, the tattered and ragged group defiled out of the 
 yard with all the honors of war, leaving Sir Archy alone, 
 overwhelmed with astonishment and anger. 
 
 A low chuckling laugh, as the sash was closed overhead, 
 made him look up, and he just caught a glimpse of 
 
70 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 O'Donoghue as he retired from the window; for in his 
 amusement at the scene the old man forgot the sick boy 
 and all about him, and only thought of the ridiculous in- 
 terview he had witnessed. 
 
 ''Hisain 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 3^e back again, ye lazy scoundrels? 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 Marma- 
 duke's footmen, had at that instant entered the yard. 
 
 "What for are ye come, 1 say? and what's the flunkie 
 wanting beside 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 sneer- 
 ing 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 Christian afterwards. Ye 'r out 
 of place, maybe." 
 
 These last words were delivered in an irony to which a 
 tone of incredulity gave all the sting ; and these only were 
 intelligible to the sleek and well-fed individual to whom they 
 were addressed. 
 
 In all likelihood, had he been charged with felony or high- 
 way robbery, his self-respect might have sustained his 
 equanimity ; any common infraction of the statute law 
 might have been alleged against him without exciting an 
 undue indignation ; but the contemptuous insinuation 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 
 
SIR ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED. 71 
 
 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 mis- 
 take. He saw at once the immeasurable gulf, impassable 
 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 with- 
 out speaking. 
 
 " Here is a letter for you, O'Donoghue," said he, as he 
 entered the parlor, where the chief was alreadj^ seated at 
 his breakfast, while Kerry O'Leary, a short distance behind 
 his chair, was relating the circumstance 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 disappoint- 
 ment, 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 evident degree of 
 fear in his manner. 
 
 " 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." 
 
72 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " Thank God ! " muttered O'Donoghue ; " that scoundrel 
 never leaves me a night's rest when I hear he 's in the neigh- 
 borhood. AVill 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 contents 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 j^our honor 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 grate- 
 ful sense — his own words — of 3'our 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 
 hae a bad servant? There 's nothing about Hemsworth here. 
 It's a ceevil demand 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 would n'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 3^e no comprehend? It is no law document, but a 
 ceevil way to make your acquaintance. Sir Marmaduke 
 wad pay his respects to ye." 
 
SIR ARCHY'S TEMPER TRIED. 73 
 
 " "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.'' 
 
 " The answer must be a written one," said M'Nab ; "it 
 wadna be polite to gie the flunkie the response." 
 
 " With all my heart, Archy, so that I am not asked to 
 indite it. Miles O'Donoghue are the only words I have 
 written for many a year ; " and he added, with a half bitter 
 laugh, " it would have 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 favorite, 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 Southern," 
 for such in his soul he believed him. 
 
 There was no help for it, however ; the advances were 
 made in a spirit s6 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 honor with a profession of satisfaction ; apol- 
 ogizing 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 writer's time, and signed "O'Donoghue," was care- 
 fully folded, and enclosed in a large square envelope, and 
 with it in his hand M'Nab re-entered the breakfast-room. 
 
 " "Wad you like to hear the terms of the response, 
 O'Donoghue, before I seal it up?" asked Su* Archy, with 
 an air of importance. 
 
 "No, no; lam sure it is all right and proper. You 
 mentioned, of course, that Mark was from home, but we 
 were expecting him back ever}^ clay." 
 
 "I didna make ony remark o' that kind. I said ye wad 
 be happy to see him, and felt proud at the honor of making 
 acquaintance wi' him." 
 
74 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " 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 honor on the subject. Let it go, however, and there 's 
 an end to it." 
 
 "I've despatched a messenger for Roach to Killarney; 
 that bit of a brainless body, Terry, is gone by the mountain 
 road, and we may expect the doctor here to-night." And 
 with these words Sir Archy departed to send off his epistle, 
 and the O'Donoghue leaned back in his easy-chair, sorely 
 wearied and worried by the fatigues of the day. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS. 
 
 How painfully is the sense of severe illness diffused through 
 every part of a household ! How solemn is the influence 
 it sheds on every individual, and every object : the noiseless 
 step, the whispered words, the closed curtains, the interrup- 
 tion to the ordinary avocations of life, or the performance 
 of them in gloom and sadness ! When wealth and its appli- 
 ances exist, these things take all the features of extreme 
 care and solicitude for the sufferer ; all the agencies of kind- 
 ness 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 in- 
 deed a dark one. 
 
 The many deficiencies in comfort which daily habit has 
 learned to overlook, the privations which in the active con- 
 flict 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 anything like dangerous sickness 
 in the house ; and like most people who have long enjoyed 
 the blessings of uninterrupted iiealth, they had no thought 
 for such a calamity, nor deemed it among the contingencies 
 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 rude 
 violence of careless hands, were closed noiselessly; every- 
 thing betokened that sorrow was there. O'Donoghue him- 
 self paced to and fro in the chamber of the old tower, now 
 stopping to cast a glance down the glen, where he still 
 
76 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 hoped to see Mark approachiDg, now resuming his melan- 
 choly walk in sadness of heart. 
 
 In the darkened sick room, and by the bed, sat Sir 
 Archibald, concealed 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, rendered gloomier as 
 he listened to the hurried breathings and low mutterings 
 of the youth, whose fever continued to increase upon him. 
 The 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 foxhound, 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 everything, 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 pour- 
 ing a long melancholy note through the narrow corridors of 
 the old house. The sound of the storm, made more audible 
 by the drear}^ silence, seemed to weigh down every heart. 
 Even the bare-legged little gossoon, Mickey, who had come 
 over from Father Luke's with a message, 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. 
 
 " 'T is a dreadful day of rain, glory be to God ! " said 
 Kerry, as he drew a fragment of an old much-soiled news- 
 paper from his pocket, and took his seat beside the blazing 
 fire. For some time he persevered in his occupation with- 
 out interruption ; but Mrs. Branaghan, having apparently 
 exhausted her own reflections, now turned upon him to sup- 
 ply 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 
 have n't room to stir in, and my eye is always going to the 
 line above and the line below, and can't keep straight in the 
 
THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS. 
 
 77 
 
 furrow at all. Come here, Mickey, alanah ! 't is you ought 
 to be a great scholar, living in the house with his reverence. 
 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 
 chau-j and prepared to commence his task. 
 
 " Where will I begin, sir? " 
 
 "Begin at the news, av coorse," said Kerry, somewhat 
 puzzled to decide 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. 
 
 " Ay, read about that, Mickey," said the cook, resuming 
 her pipe. 
 
 With a sing-song intonation, which neither regarded 
 paragraph nor period, but held on equably throughout the 
 column, the little fellow began: — 
 
 " The prospect of an abundant harvest is now very gen- 
 eral throughout the country ; and should we have a continu' 
 
78 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ance of the heavenly weather for a week or so longer, we 
 hope the corn will all be saved." 
 
 As the allusion made here by a journalist was to a period 
 of several years previous, the listeners might be excused 
 for not feeling a perfect 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 Stony Batter ; they are well known, and are advised 
 to take care, as such depredations cannot go long unpun- 
 ished. — The two villains that broke into the house of the 
 Archbishop of Dublin, and murdered the housemaid, 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-eightpence reward 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 effemi- 
 nacy may not spread any further. — 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 Mrs. Branaghan. 
 "Bad luck to me, but they might be ashamed of them- 
 selves." 
 
 " 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?" 
 
THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS. 79 
 
 *' 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 
 jail at 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?" 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 Mr. 
 Daly, and not Mr. Crosbie, horsewhipped 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 politics, and miscellaneous matters. 
 
 "It is rumored 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 back 
 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." 
 
 " Ayeh ! 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' 
 
80 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 villains of all kinds 
 for childer? 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 with holy men." 
 
 "Whisht! what's that? there's the bell ringing above 
 stairs," said Kerry, suddenly starting up and listening. 
 "Ay, there it is again;" and, so saying, he yawned and 
 stretched himself, and after several interjectional grum- 
 blings over the disturbance, slowly mounted the stau*s 
 towards the parlor. 
 
 'Are ye sleepin' down there, ye lazy deevils?" 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 vouchsafed 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 little box into a damp corner, and, 
 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 whistling 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 account, man." 
 
THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS. 81 
 
 "'Tis in bad company she'd put it, then," muttered 
 Kerry below his breath; then added, aloud, "Sorrow one 
 she 'd give, if I had n't the sixpence 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 
 naj'giir, and would not 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 of 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 rang the coin upon the table, as if to test its 
 genuineness, and muttered to himself, — 
 
 " 'T is 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 restrain him as Kerry reached the spot. 
 By his aid the bo}^ was conveyed 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 unfavorably than the former one. The violent 
 parox^^sms of wild insanity betokened, while they lasted, a 
 degree of vital energy and force, which now seemed totally 
 to have given way ; and although Kerry regarded the change 
 
 VOL. I. — 6 
 
82 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 as for the better, the more practised and skilful mind of Sir 
 Archibald drew a far different and more dispiriting augury. 
 
 Thus passed the weary hours, and at last the long day 
 began to decline ; but still no sign nor sound proclaimed the 
 doctor's coming, and M'Nab's 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." 
 
 "'T is what I'm thinking too," said Kerry, with a sen- 
 tentious gravity almost revoltmg. " When the fingers does 
 be going that way, it's a mighty bad sign. If I seen the 
 hounds working with their toes, I never knew them 
 recover." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A DOCTOR 'S VISIT. 
 
 The night was far advanced as the doctor arrived at the 
 O'Donoghue's house, 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 courte- 
 sies which regulate social life among less privileged persons. 
 The concessions now only yielded to a cook were then ex- 
 tended to a physician ; and in accordance with the privilege 
 b}^ 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-flavored draughts had tinctured the spirit that con- 
 ceived 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 privi- 
 
84 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 leges. 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, or how limited its range, 
 will eventually generate a tyrannical habit in him who 
 wields it. Doctor Roach was certainly not the exception 
 to this rule. The Czar himself was not more autocrat in 
 the steppes of Russia, than was he in any house where 
 sickness had found entrance. From that hour he planted 
 his throne there. All the caprices of age, all the follies of 
 childhood, the accustomed freedoms of home, the indul- 
 gences which grow up by habit in a household, had to give 
 way before 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 savored of ingratitude. 
 "I saved his life yesterday," saith he, "and see how happy 
 he is to dismiss me to-da3\" But who is ever grateful for 
 the pangs of a toothache? Or what heart 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, his 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 
 properly appreciate. 
 
 Such was the individual whose rumbling and rattling 
 vehicle now entered the court-j^ard of Carrig-na-curra, 
 escorted by poor Terry, who had accompanied him the 
 
A DOCTOR'S VISIT. 85 
 
 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 senti- 
 ment to such a pitch, that they never met without disagree- 
 ment, 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 in politics, 
 and in whatever companionship his active years were 
 passed, experience had taught him the fallacy of many 
 opinions, which owe any appearance of truth or stability 
 they possess to the fact that they have never advanced 
 beyond the stage of speculative notions into the realms of 
 actual and practical existence. But, above all, the prudent 
 Scotchman dreaded the prevalence of these doctrines among 
 young and unsettled minds, ever ready to prefer the short 
 and hazardous career of fortune to the slow and patient 
 drudgery of 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 threaten- 
 ing, the old man resolved 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 conces- 
 sion to conciliate the good-will of one on whose services so 
 much depended. 
 
 *'Do ye hear? " 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 
 wayworn beast into the stable, "I '11 take care of him as if 
 he was a racer; " and then, as Roach disappeared, added, 
 
86 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "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 intercourse was cut off; 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, 1 fear." 
 
 " D — n me, if I ever saw it otherwise in this confounded 
 glen. I never set foot in it that I was n't wet through." 
 
 "We have our share of rain, indeed," replied the other, 
 with a good-humored laugh; "but if we have storm, we 
 have shelter." 
 
 Intentionally misunderstanding the allusion, and apply- 
 ing 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. 
 
 The O'Donoghue's blood was up in a moment. His 
 brow contracted and his cheek flushed, as, in a low and 
 deep tone, he said, — 
 
 " It is a crazy old concern. You are right enough, — 
 neither the walls 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 
 
A DOCTOR'S VISIT. 87 
 
 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 w^ith all his wonted good humor and 
 affability. 
 
 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 pres- 
 ence 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 admirably. In fact, if the old weir-rapid be any- 
 thing like what I remember 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 favor he could bestow, which is, 
 to leave me alone." 
 
 "There was a lawsuit, or dispute of some kind or other 
 between you, was there not?" 
 
 "There is something of the 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, "there *s no knowing how this adventure may turn 
 out. If your son saved the girl's life, I scarcely think he 
 could press you so hard about — " 
 
88 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *'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 nowise 
 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 chair, 
 and not by any means sorry at the opportunity of escaping 
 a tete-a-tete 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, discolored portrait of some long-buried ances- 
 tor, several of which figured on the walls of the staircase. 
 
 "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 saluta- 
 tion being forgotten in Sir Archibald's eagerness about the 
 youth, and dryly answered, — 
 
 "I have the honor 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 you 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." 
 
A DOCTOR'S VISIT. 89 
 
 "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 hand rudely back upon the bed. "That 's going 
 as fast as ever his father went with the property." A 
 harsh, low, cackling laugh followed this brutal speech, 
 which demanded all Sir Archy's predetermined endurance 
 to suffer unchecked. 
 
 "Do you know me? " said the doctor, in the loud voice 
 used to awaken 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 aiu 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 to examine him myself." 
 
 M'Nab said not a word, but, with noiseless step, stole 
 from the room. 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, "ain't they all broke here? Isn't 
 the whole thing smashed? " 
 
 "Broke — smashed!" repeated Kerry, as he held up both 
 
90 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 hands in feigned astonishment. '"Tis a droll smash; 
 begorra, I never see money as plenty this many a year. 
 Sure av there was n't lashings of it, would he be looking 
 out for carriage-horses, and buying hunters, not to say put- 
 ting the kennel in order?" 
 
 "Is it truth you are telling?" said Roach, in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "True as my name is Kerry O'Leary. ATe offered Lauty 
 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 '11 be here to-morrow or next 
 day; sure ye '11 see him yourself." 
 
 "The place is falling to ruin; the roof will never last the 
 winter," 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? 'T is the finest wood in the world, they tell 
 me, and lasts for ever and ever." 
 
 *'But don't they owe money everywhere in the country? 
 There is n't a little shop in Killarney without an account 
 of theirs 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 '11 engage, now, they do be tell- 
 ing 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 opposite to all he had heard of the circumstances of 
 the O'Donoghues; 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, — 
 
A DOCTOR'S VISIT. 91 
 
 "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 Doctor Roach's appre- 
 hension clinched the discovery at once. 
 
 ''We'll go down, now," said the doctor; "I believe I 
 know the whole state of the case." And, with these words 
 of ambiguous meaning, he returned to the drawing-room. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 AN EVENING AT "mARY " m'kELLt'S. 
 
 If sorrow had thrown its sombre shadow over the once 
 proud house of the O'Donoghue, within whose walls now 
 noiseless footsteps stole along, and whispered words were 
 spoken, a very different scene presented itself at the small 
 hostel of Mary M' Kelly. There, before the ample fireplace, 
 a quarter of a sheep was roasting, while various utensils of 
 cookery, disposed upon and around the fire, diffused a 
 savory odor 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; 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 wayside 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 tricolored 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 per- 
 fection of ease, while in the jaunty manner he held the 
 long pipe-stick between his fingers could be seen the affec- 
 tation of one who wished to be thought at home, as well as 
 to feel so. 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 93 
 
 "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 on the flood tide. Whisht! what 
 was that? Was n't that like the noise of 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 nor e'er a harbor 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 were 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, maybe so," muttered he, sententiously. "They 're 
 wild chaps, any way, and they 've a wild life of it." 
 
 "Troth, if I was a man, 't is 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 ankles 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 for six beasts, and I 'd like to get a few 
 hours' sleep before morning." 
 
 '"T is making a nice penny you are there, Lanty," said 
 Mary, with a quizzical look from the corner of her eye. 
 
94 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "A good stroke of business, sure enough, Mary," replied 
 he, laughingly. "What d' ye think I did with him yester- 
 day morning? I heerd here, ye know, what happened to 
 the gray 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 for a hundred ; 
 't is 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 honor would n't prevent a poor man making a 
 trifle in the way of his trade.' 'You 're an honest fellow, 
 Lanty,' says he, — devil a lie in it, Mary, don't be laugh- 
 ing, — '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 she was my sister. I wish you had seen his daughter 
 then; upon my conscience, it was as good as a play. 
 'They have so much feel in',' 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 baytin' of John Bull, any 
 day! You '11 humbug him out of his shirt, and, faix, it 's 
 the easiest way to get it, after all." 
 
 " It 's a mane way, Lanty," interposed Mary, with a look 
 of pride, — "it 's a dirty, mane way, and does n'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 what more they want, if the stout 
 heart was there. There 's eight barrels of gunpowder in 
 that rock there," said she, in a low whisper, "behind your 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 95 
 
 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 full." 
 
 " 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 we see the riders. I could mount two thou- 
 sand men in a fortnight, any day, if there was money to 
 the fore; ay, and mount 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 door of the cabin, which having 
 unbarred, he issued forth into the darkness. 
 
 "It's likely I'd hear anything such a night as this," 
 grumbled he to himself, "with the trees snapping across, 
 and the rocks tumbling down! 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 could n'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 Carriguacurra : 
 
96 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 they 're moving about there, at a wonderful rate. What 's 
 O'Donoghue doing at all?" 
 
 '"T is 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 
 scoulding, 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 gray hairs!" 
 
 " They 've a big score with yourself, I '11 be bound," said 
 Lanty, inquiringly. 
 
 " Troth, I 'd like to see myself charge them with any- 
 thing," said she, indignantly. "It's to them and theirs 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 wine and spirits, and tay 
 and tobacco, as if I was n'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 savory 
 odor was becoming a temptation overmuch for resistance. 
 
 "You 've a smart baste in the stable," said Mary. "He 
 has eaten his 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." 
 
 There never was a proposition less acceptable to the 
 individual to whom it was made; to leave a warm fireside 
 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 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 97 
 
 -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 '11 hear them plain enough, for they 
 shout and sing every step of the road, as if it was their 
 own; wild devils they are." 
 
 "Sing is it? Musha, now, do they sing? " 
 
 ''Ay, faix, the drollest songs ever ye heerd; French and 
 Roosian 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, I 'm going; it 's myself would like 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 the door and withdrawing the bolt, while a smart 
 knock was heard, and the same instant a voice called out, — 
 
 "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 oilskin cap from his 
 head, held out his arms wide, as he said, — 
 
 " Jiarie, via viie ! embrasse-moi ; " 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 compounded of true feeling and 
 stage effect. 
 
 "Here's my friend and travelling 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 hand- 
 some, save for a look of great effeminacy; his complexion 
 
 VOL. I. — 7 
 
98 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 was fair as a girl's, and, flushed by exercise, the tint upon 
 his cheek was of a pale rose color; he was dressed in a 
 riding-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, the only weapon he 
 carried, composed his costume, — one as unlike his com- 
 panion's as could be. 
 
 Captain Jacques Flahault was a stout-built, dark-com- 
 plexioned 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 colors, 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 conceived 
 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 St. Pierre^ Henry, this is the veriest 
 frijjon 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 le potage^ ma mie ! — soup before a story. 
 You shall hear everything by-and-by. Let us have the 
 supper at once." 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 99 
 
 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 heap- 
 ing 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 intermingling with the duties 
 of the table a stray remark from time to time. 
 
 ^'' Ventrebleu^ how it blows! If it veers more to the 
 south' ard, there will be a heavy strain on that cable. 
 Trinquons^ mon ami, trinquons toujours. Ma belle Marie, 
 you eat nothing." 
 
 '"Tis unasy I am. Captain Jack, about what's become 
 of the others," said Mrs. M' Kelly. 
 
 "Another bumper, ma mie, 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 northwest coast, 
 our only business here being to land my friend Harry," — 
 here Talbot bowed and smiled, — " and to leave two hogs- 
 heads of Bordeaux for that very true-hearted, kind, bi'ave 
 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 conscience; we had neither despatches 
 nor run-brandy to trouble us, — nothing to do but eat our 
 supper, saltier 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, 77io7't de ma vie ! what did I behold but the prettiest 
 face in Europe. Tin ange de beaiite. She was leaning 
 
100 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 over a table copying a drawing, or a painting of some sort 
 or other. Tete bleue ! 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 hien^ 1 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 fa ire? 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. 
 
 " DiabJe ! what did I want? Pour V admirer, V adorer^ — 
 or at least to make my respects, as becomes a stranger and 
 a Frenchman. Pour siiiv ens. 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. Mor- 
 hleu! the weapon slipped and came slap through the pane, 
 with a tremendous fracas. She started up, and screamed — 
 there was no use in any more delay. I put my foot through 
 the window, and pushed open the sash at once ; but, before 
 I was well in the room, the bells were ringing in every quar- 
 ter of the house, and men's voices calling aloud, and shout- 
 ing 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, wherefore, or upon whom, 
 the devil himself, that instigated them, can tell. The garri- 
 son 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, tete 
 hleue ! they had got round to the farm-3^ard, and set fire to ' 
 the corn-stacks ; in a second, the corn and hay blazed up, 
 and enveloped house 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. 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 101 
 
 resolved not to give up my supper — and so, me void! 
 But come, can none of you explain this affair? What is 
 Hems worth 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 ; the}^ 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 Mary, with a savage determina- 
 tion. ''I'm sorry to the heart's core. Luck nor grace 
 never was in the glen since the first stone of it was laid — 
 nor will it be again, till it is a ruin ! Why did n'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 bulldogs in my life. It was all you could do, 
 Flahault, to call them off." 
 
 "True enough," replied Jacques, laughing. "They en- 
 joy a hrisee like 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 proceeded to explain by what 
 different tenants the Lodge became occupied since his last 
 visit ; and that an English baronet and his daughter, with a 
 household of many servants, had replaced Hemsworth and 
 his few domestics. At every stage of the recital, Flahault 
 stopped the 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 miglit have been attended by the saddest 
 results ; and he chuckled a hundred times over 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. ^^Morhleu! 
 what a description of Irish rapparees, five hundred in number, 
 armed with pikes ! " 
 
102 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " I wish ye 'd give 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 drunk with all the honors of a favored 
 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 agreeing, 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' humor, whose convivial tem- 
 perament found slight pleasure in protracted or argumenta- 
 tive discussions of any kind. 
 
 '''•Que le dlable Veinporte!'' 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 rang 
 through the high rafters of the cabin, chanted out the 
 following rude verses to a French vaudeville air, giving the 
 the final e of the French words, at the end of each line, 
 that peculiar accentuation of a, which made the word sound 
 contrehanda. 
 
 Though this information as to Captain Jacques' per- 
 formance seems of little moment, yet such was the fact, 
 that any spirit the doggerel possessed could only be attri- 
 buted to the manner of the singer, and the effect produced 
 by the intonation we have mentioned. 
 
 LA CONTREBANDE. 
 
 A bumper, " mes enfans," to swallow your care, 
 A full bumper, we pledge, " a I'lrlande; " 
 
 The land of " belles femmes, le pays de bonne chere 
 Et toujours de la Contrebande." 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 103 
 
 Some like to make love, and some like to make war, 
 
 Some of beauty obey " la commaude ; " 
 But what is the glance from an eye, " bleu " or " noir," 
 
 Except it be " la Contrebande." 
 
 When a prince takes the cash that a peasant can't spare, 
 
 And lets him lie down " sur la lande," 
 Call it as you like, but the truth is, I swear, 
 
 " Cast bien pire que la Contrebande." 
 
 Stolen kisses are ever the sweetest, we 're told. 
 
 They sink like a " navire qui fondre ; " 
 And what 's true of a kiss is the same, too, of gold, 
 
 They 're both in their way, " Contrebande ! " 
 
 When kings take your money, they won't even say, 
 
 " Mon ami, que Uieu vous le rende ; " 
 While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay, 
 
 " C'est partout et toujours Contrebande." 
 
 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 ce que j'appelle Contrebande." 
 
 Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange. 
 
 That even " la France et I'lrlande," 
 If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange, 
 
 There are folks that call that " Contrebande." 
 
 *' Vive la Contrebande, 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 understood 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 ' Contrebande ' 
 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 of Ontario or 
 Champlain, or scudding along under the fog-banks of the 
 
104 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 here to-night? " 
 
 Mary whispered the answer in the captain's ear. 
 
 "Ah, parbleu ! " exclaimed he, aloud — "is it so? 
 Practising a little ' Contrebande ' 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 offices." 
 
 " 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 P^re 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 tro}? tard^ il est mort.' 
 
 " ' Trop tardf ' said Maurice, ' not a bit of it; give me a 
 pen and ink and some paper.' With that he folded a piece, 
 note fashion, and wrote, — 
 
 " Mox CHER Pierre, — Fais ton petit possible pour ce pau\Te 
 diable, qui s'est glisse hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparem- 
 ment il etait bien presse ; mais tu t'arrangeras pour le mieux. 
 
 " Ton viel ami, 
 
 "Maurice Dulang. 
 
 •' St. Pierre, a la Conciergerie du Paradis. 
 
 "' Put that in his mouth,' said Maurice, ' and there's no 
 fear of him.'" 
 
 " 'T was a blessed gospel he gave him," said Mary, who 
 did not comprehend the French portion of the story, "and 
 sure it's as good as anything." 
 
 "We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 105 
 
 story at Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine ; but 
 though the Commissaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it 
 much, they had found a breviary in his portmanteau, and 
 they could n't let him off. Pauvre bete ! To travel about 
 the world with the ' pi^ce de conviction' in his possession. 
 What, Harry, no more wine ? " 
 
 " I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a 
 temptation." 
 
 "A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master 
 Lawler, — does it suit your palate?" 
 
 " I begin to think it a taste cold or so by this time," said 
 Lanty; "I'm not genteel enough for wine, God help me. 
 But it 's time to turn in, anyhow, — and there 's Mary asleep 
 already." 
 
 " I don't stir till I finish the flask," said Jacques, firmly;- 
 " and if you won't drink, you need n't grudge me your 
 company. It 's hard to say when we meet again. You go 
 northward, Talbot, isn't that so?" 
 
 "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 honor 
 likes him, I '11 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 '11 answer for it — you may push on to Cork in a hand 
 gallop, if you give him ten minutes' rest and a gJass of 
 whiskey at Macroom." 
 
 " That's enough; what's his price?" 
 
 " Take a look at him first," replied Lanty; "for if you 
 
106 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 are judge of a beast, you '11 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 nar- 
 row 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 dis- 
 appeared 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 safe? " 
 
 *'Ay, is he safe?" said she, resuming her wonted calm- 
 ness in a second. " Why do you ask now? " 
 
 " I '11 tell you why — for myself I care not a sou — 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 in- 
 former ; and then this Mr. Talbot, he 's a great man, you 
 tell me ? " 
 
 "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 off — will 
 that do?" said the youth, as he emptied a heavily 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 keep- 
 sake ? " said the youth, while he took from around his neck 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 107 
 
 a fine gold chain of Venetian work, and threw it gallantly 
 ever Mary's. '' This is the first shelter 1 have found, after 
 a long exile from my native land; and you, my old com- 
 rade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy to ; 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 be- 
 tween the young man and the others ; for, although he had 
 mingled but little in the evening's conversation, his mild and 
 modest demeanor, added to the charm of his good looks, 
 had won their favorable 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. 
 
 " 'T is what I mean to do," said Lanty ; " I '11 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 any way," said he, 
 " never took a shilling 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 of France. With a start, a tre- 
 mendous oath broke from him. " My money — 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 dropped 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 endeavored to comfort and console him ; 
 all their assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its 
 
108 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 being discovered the next morning, were in vain. Lanty 
 relighted the lantern, and muttering 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 everything 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 would n'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 searching among the wet leaves that lay in 
 heaps by the wayside, or, equally in vain, sounding every 
 rivulet and watercourse 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 cause- 
 way 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-entered the cabin: " sorra one of me 
 would go rooting there for a crock of 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. 
 
 " 'T is a letter from your sweetheart, then," said she, 
 with a spice of jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had 
 more than once paid his addresses to Mary, whose wealth 
 was reported to be something considerable. 
 
 " Maybe it is, and maybe it is not," was the cranky 
 reply. 
 
 "Well, she'll have a saving husband, any way," said 
 
AN EVENING AT "MARY" M'KELLY'S. 109 
 
 Mary, tartly, " and one that knows how to keep a good 
 grip of the money." 
 
 The horse-dealer made no answer to this encomium on his 
 economy, but with eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on 
 his loss; meanwhile Mrs. M'Kelly's curiosity, piqued by 
 her ineffectual efforts 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 dhroU 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 to as soon as yourself, Mary M'Kelly; you 
 know the most of my heart already, and why would n't you 
 know it all?" 
 
 " Faix, it's little I care to hear about it," said Mary, 
 with an affectation of indifference the most finished coquetry 
 could not have surpassed. "Ye may tell it, or no, just as 
 you 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 wanting to overcome the horse-dealer's 
 resistance. 
 
 " Well, here it is now," said he, casting, as he spoke, 
 a cautious glance around, lest anj^ 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 
 
110 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 going over to Ballyvourney, 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 '11 
 not leave it to 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 '11 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. 
 
 "Each of them as big as a half-crown — and it was 
 thick inside too ; musha, 't was the evil day I ever set eyes 
 on it ! " And with this allusion to the lost money, which, 
 by the 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 XL 
 
 MISTAKES ON ALL 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 infor- 
 mation 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 him- 
 self 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 phenomenon in those parts. 
 But the butler negatived all these assertions, and stoutly 
 maintained that there had been neither attack nor assail- 
 ants; that the whole affair was a device of Terry's, to dis- 
 play 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 thou- 
 sand times more firm and resolute in his assertion; cir- 
 cumstances dubious a moment before, were then suddenly 
 remembered and sworn to, with numerous little aids to 
 corroboration newly recalled to mind. To one point, how- 
 ever, all the evidence more or less converged, and that was, 
 to accuse Terry of being the cause, or, at least, an accom- 
 
112 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 plice in the transaction. Poor fellow! his own devotedness 
 had made enemies for him everywhere; the alacrity with 
 which he mounted the burning stack was an offence not 
 soon to be forgotten by those who neither risked life nor 
 limb, nor were the taunts he lavished on their sluggish 
 backwardness to be forgiven now. Unhappily, too, Terry 
 was not a favorite among the servants. He had never 
 learned 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 of demeanor which should 
 mark the intercourse of a poor, houseless, friendless 
 creature like himself, with the tagged and lace-covered 
 servants of a wealthy master. Terry, by some strange 
 blunder of his nature, imagined that in his freedom and 
 independence he was the better man of the two. He knew 
 that to do nothing was the prerogative of the great; and 
 as he fulfilled that condition to a considerable extent, he 
 fancied he should enjoy its privileges also. For this rea- 
 son he had ever regarded the w^hole class of servants as 
 greatly his inferiors; and although he was ready and will- 
 ing to peril his life at any moment for Sir Marmaduke or 
 his daughter, the merest commonplace services he would 
 refuse to the others without a moment's hesitation. Neither 
 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 forgive- 
 ness and affection, — his waywardness and caprice 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 himself possessed of London life and 
 manners. 
 
 As his contempt was not measured by any scale of pru- 
 dence, but coolly evinced on every occasion of their inter- 
 
MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES. 113 
 
 course, they, one and all, detested him beyond bounds, — 
 most asserting that he was a thorough-paced knave, whose 
 folh^ was a garb assumed to secure a life of idleness, and 
 all regarding him 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 Marmaduke 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 evidence 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 the petty 
 tyranny of the low-minded and the base-born, tracking its 
 way through eavesdropping, and insinuating its venom in 
 moments of 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 honor, 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 enthusiasm. 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 charac- 
 ter; but, by a fatal tendency, too frequent as we advance 
 in years, the scales of doubt ever lean against, and not to 
 the side favorable 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 restrained 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 length fell fast upon her cheek. 
 
 "Well, then, be it so," said Sir Marmaduke, as he rang 
 the bell, and ordered Terry to be sent for. 
 
 While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her 
 
 VOL. I. — 8 
 
11- 
 
 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 hands, her father 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. AVhen the old man's eyes did 
 fall on him, he started back with horror and astonishment. 
 The poor fellow's clothes were actually reduced to a mass 
 of burned rags ; 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 fin- 
 gers. A deep cut marked his brow, and his hair was still 
 matted and clotted with the blood, while his face was of 
 the color of death itself. 
 
 "Can you doubt him now, father?" whispered the young 
 girl, as she gazed on the poor fellow, whose wandering eyes 
 roamed over the ornaments of the chamber, in total uncon- 
 sciousness of himself and his sufferings. 
 
MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES. 115 
 
 ''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 the lake — ay, 
 and see if there is n'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-ua-creena, by the 
 short cut." 
 
 "Tell me all you know of what happened last night, 
 Terry," repeated 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 tinder 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 did n't either. When 
 I gave them the rag, they said, 'Now, my lad, we '11 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 were, he knew 
 nothing of, whatever; for, in addition to his natural imbe- 
 cility of mind, the shock of the adventure, and the fever of 
 his wounds and bruises, had utterly routed the small rem- 
 nant of understanding 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 Marma- 
 uuke asked him how it happened that he should have been 
 
116 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 hg made 
 no reply. He stole a sharp, quick glance towards Miss 
 Travers, beneath his eyelids, but so rapidly withdrew it 
 again, when his color grew deeper and deeper. 
 
 The old man marked the embarrassment, and all his sus- 
 picions were revived at once. 
 
 "You must tell me this, Terry," said he, in a voice of 
 some impatience; "I insist upon knowing it." 
 
 "Yes, Terry, speak it out, freely; j^ou can have no cause 
 for concealment," said Sybella, encouragingly. 
 
 "I '11 not tell it," said he, after a pause of some seconds, 
 during which he seemed to have been agitating within him- 
 self all the reasons on either side, — "I '11 not tell it." 
 
 "Come, sir," said Sir Marmaduke, angrily, "I must and 
 w^ill 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. 
 
 "lam 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 agitation, 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 Marma- 
 duke, in a whisper, to his daughter. 
 
 "That he is innocent, — perfectly innocent," replied 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 
 canncjt unfathom this business; I'll go down to the boat- 
 bouse." 
 
 The generous girl delayed not a moment, but hastened 
 
MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES. 117 
 
 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 demeanor, 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 accom- 
 panied, 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 limb, 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. 
 
 "I know it, father, I know it all now! " said Sybella, as 
 she came running up the slope from the lake. 
 
 "It is too late, my child; he has gone — left us forever, 
 I fear," said Sir Marmaduke, 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 
 
118 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 messengers returned 
 unsuccessful in their search. 
 
 If there was real sorrow over his departure in the parlor, 
 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 Marma- 
 duke's only emotions on this sad morning. His messenger 
 had just returned from Carrignacurra with very dispiriting 
 tidings of Herbert O'Donoghue. Respect for the feelings 
 of the family under 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 painful impatience. In 
 this frame of mind was he as evening drew near, and he 
 wandered down his avenue to the roadside to learn some 
 minutes earlier the last intelligence of the boy. It was a 
 calm and peaceful 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 mountain 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 
 changeful of good and evil. He stood and meditated on 
 the passages of his 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 
 
MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES. 119 
 
 and energetic, yet indolent and fatalist, — a few hints he 
 had gathered of his neighbor, the O'Donoghue, amazed 
 him still more; and by no effort of his imagination could 
 he conceive the alliance between family pride and poverty 
 
 — between the reverence for ancestry and an utter indiffer- 
 ence to the present. He could not understand such an 
 anomaly as pretension without wealth; and the only satis- 
 factory 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 re- 
 spect of all humbler and more lowly than himself, and even 
 made 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 would not admit any obstacle in the way of acknowl- 
 edging it. 
 
 Reflecting 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 dis- 
 mounted to ascend the hill. 
 
 "A fine evening, sir," said Sir Marmaduke, as the stran- 
 ger, whose dress bespoke one of the rank of gentleman, 
 drew near. 
 
 The other stopped suddenly, and surveyed the baronet 
 without speaking; then, throwing down the collar of his 
 greatcoat, which he wore high round his face, he made a 
 respectful salute and said, — 
 
 "A lovely evening, sir. I have the honor 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 dubiousl}', but made no reply. 
 
 "I hope, sir, you don't apprehend danger to his life?" 
 
120 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 asked Sir Marmaduke, with an effort to appear calm as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Indeed I do, then," said Roach, firmly; "the mischief's 
 done already." 
 
 "He's not dead?" said Sir Marmaduke, almost breath- 
 less in his terror. 
 
 "Not dead; but the same as dead. Effusion will carry 
 him off 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 repress 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, clapping 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 Marma- 
 duke, hastily, and by a great exertion concealing the dis- 
 gust 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 fervently hope 
 something may 3^et be done for the youth." 
 
 "I '11 visit Miss Travers in the morning, with pleasure." 
 
 "Don't leave him, sir, I entreat you, till I send over; it 
 will be 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 perfected, he said, — 
 
 "The case of danger before all others, any day. I'll 
 
^ THE \ 
 
 UNIVERSITY 1 
 ^C>^^,PQP^^'PAKES ON ALL SIDES. 121 
 
 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, wav- 
 ing his hand in token of adieu; nor was the direction un- 
 heeded; for, using his whip with redoubled energy, the 
 doctor sped along the road at a canter which threatened 
 annihilation 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 would 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 instruments, — anything will do ; " 
 and, with this comfortable reflection, he lu'ged 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, anyhow," 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." 
 
122 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "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 you are, 
 you '11 just keep the other side of the door. Be off now, in 
 God's name. 'T is 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 of 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? " 
 
 " 'T is slugs they are," was the reply, as Kerry adjusted 
 the piece, and seemed to take as good an aim as the dark- 
 ness permitted; "divila more nor slugs, as you'll know 
 soon. I '11 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 '11 be murdered," muttered 
 old Roach, blessing himself, but unable, from terror, to 
 speak aloud, or stir from the spot. 
 
 "Here 's two! " cried Kerry, still louder. 
 
 "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 peppering 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 '11 give you another yet, begorra! that 's only a true 
 copy; but you '11 get the original now, you ould varmint! " 
 
 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 
 
MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES. 123 
 
 the wicket cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. 
 *' Mister Cassidy — Mister James, get up now — it's only 
 joking I was. Holy Joseph! is he kilt?" 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 exclama- 
 tion of old Roach. "Hear me, these are my dying words: 
 Kerry O'Leary murdered me." 
 
 "Where are you wounded? 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 dis- 
 closures about his victim; but deep in the recesses of a 
 hayloft he lay cowering in terror, and endeavoring 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 parlor, and threw him upon a sofa. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE GLEN 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 confounded 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 with- 
 out 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 your- 
 self, I'll be bound, and people have survived it, too." 
 
 "I'm better now," said Roach, in a faint voice, — "I 
 feel something better. But, may I never leave this spot if 
 I don't prosecute that scoundrel 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! Fired 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, and you need not 
 make such a work about it." 
 
THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 125 
 
 *' 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 '11 stop him at last; and 
 if they should n't, I don't suppose it matters much. The 
 
 whole yoke was n't worth a five-pound note — no, even 
 giving the owner into the bargain," muttered he, as he 
 turned away. 
 
 The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon 
 Roach. As if galvanized 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. 
 
126 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 "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 sprang 
 from the sofa, and stood before him, " is very much honored 
 by your flattering 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 convul- 
 sion. "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 suf- 
 fered himself to be led away by the young man. Sir Archy 
 following slowly, as the}^ 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 of the doctor, or the mingled 
 shame and distress of M'Nab. It was, indeed, a rare thing 
 to obtain such an occasion for triumph over Sir Archy, 
 whose studied observance of all the courtesies and proprie- 
 ties of life formed so strong a contrast with his own care- 
 less and indifferent habits. 
 
 "Archy will never get over it, that 's certain; and, begad, 
 he sha' n't do so for want of a reminder. The d — d auld 
 
THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT. 127 
 
 beestie ! " and with the words came back his laughter, 
 which had not ceased as Mark re-entered the room. "Well, 
 lad," he cried, "have 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 forget- 
 fulness 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 '11 do it," replied he, in the deter- 
 mined 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 
 Ballyvourney tenants not to pay us the rents, and the 
 ejectment go^es 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 mention 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 w^ithering glance at his father. 
 
 "Then there 's nothing but ruin before us," said the 
 O'Donoghue, in a solemn tone, — "nothing!" 
 
128 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 The old man's bead 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 intention of building here," resumed he, after a 
 long interval of silence. 
 
 " Building where ? — over at the Lodge ? " 
 
 "No, here, at Carrignacurra ; throwing down this old 
 place, I suppose, and erecting a modern villa instead." 
 
 "What! " exclaimed the O'Donoghue, with a look of fiery 
 indignation, "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 pos- 
 session, which this term will give him." 
 
 " I wish he had waited a little longer, — a year, or, at 
 most, two, would have been enough," said the old man, in 
 a voice of great dejection; then added, with a sickly smile, 
 " you have little affection for the old walls, Mark. " 
 
 The youth made no reply, and he went on : " Nor is it to 
 be wondered 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 the land stood 
 uncovered when he addressed them, and deemed the highest 
 honor 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 descended to my grandfather, and even 
 that was but a moiety of our former possessions." 
 
 " Enough of this," interrupted Mark, rudely. " It is but 
 an unprofitable theme. The game is up, father," added he, 
 in a deep, stern voice, " and I, for one, have little fancv to 
 
THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT. 129 
 
 wait for the winner to claim the stakes. Could I bat 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 j^ou. 
 A little 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 little on my own account, Mark ; my 
 only sorrow was for you ; but so long as we were together, 
 boy, — so long as hand in hand we stood against the storm, 
 I felt that my courage never failed me. Stay by me, then, 
 Mark, — tell me that whatever comes you'll never leave me. 
 Let 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 everything," said he, with an im- 
 passioned tone, as he fixed his eyes upon the youth's counte- 
 nance. " 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 his outstretched arm fell power- 
 less 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 sank 
 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." 
 
130 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 " I '11 get to my bed, Mark," said the O'Donoghue, as he 
 pressed his hands upon his throbbing temples. It was many 
 a day since anything 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 
 bedroom, Mark threw himself upon a chair, and buried his 
 face in his hands. His sorrow was a deep one. The resolve 
 he had just abandoned had been for many a day the cherished 
 dream of his heart — his comfort under every affiiction — his 
 support against every difficulty. To seek his fortune in some 
 foreign service, to win an honorable 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 ward- 
 ing 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 independence ; he thought indifference 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 suffer the cool night au' to blow upon his throb- 
 bing temples, and sat down beside the casement 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 hearthstone. 
 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 starlit : a stillness almost pain- 
 
THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT. 131 
 
 ful reigned aroiiud. It seemed as if exhausted nature, 
 tired with the work of storm aud hurricane, had sunk into 
 a deep and wearied sleep. Thousands of bright stars 
 speckled the dark sky ; yet the light they shed upon the 
 earth but dimly distinguished mountain aud valley, save 
 where the calm surface of the lake gave back theii- 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 
 splendor the planets shone on, as though to say, the higher 
 destiny is rather to display an eternal brightness than the 
 brilliancy of momentary splendor, 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 sank 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 unburden 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 falling 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 glit- 
 tering 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 ; for in that wild district such signals were em- 
 ployed without much fear by those who either could trust 
 the revenue as accomplices, or dare them by superior num- 
 bers. More than once it had occurred to him to join this 
 lawless band, and many a pressing invitation had he re- 
 ceived from the leaders to do so ; but still the youth's 
 
132 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ambition, save in his darkest hours, took a higher and a 
 nobler range. The danger of the career was its only fas- 
 cination 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 an- 
 chored, or whose party were then preparing to land theu- 
 cargo. 
 
 " Ambrose Denner, belike," muttered he to himself, " the 
 Flemish 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 it's 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 its 
 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 carr}^ 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 
 
THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT. 133 
 
 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 in- 
 tervals, 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 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 gaze on the moving 
 multitude, he was assured of its reality; and now was 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 little distance, by 
 two figures on horseback. Their long cloaks concealed the 
 wearers completely from his view, but he could distinctly 
 mark the steel scabbards of swords, and hear their heavy 
 clank against the horses' flanks. 
 
 Suffering 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 a hazardous 
 v3xploit. 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 
 Avas 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. 
 
 AVith 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 slipped past, till the gray 
 
134 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 honor? " said the man, as he touched 
 his hat obsequiously. 
 
 "That great crowd of people, — you could not help meet- 
 ing them; there was no other road they could take." 
 
 " Sorra man, woman, or child I seen, your honor, since 
 I left home, and that 's eight miles from this." And so 
 saying he followed his journey, leaving Mark in greater 
 bewilderment than before. 
 
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 evidence 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 dis- 
 habille of the morning, and with the evident traces of fatigue 
 and dissipation on his brow, was strikingly handsome. 
 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 linea- 
 ments which are pre-eminently distinguished as Saxon, — 
 massive but well-chiselled features, the harmony of whose 
 expression is even more striking than their individual ex- 
 cellence ; 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 
 
136 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 w^ere conceived, 
 were all accessories which won their way among his acquain- 
 tances, and made them proud of his intimacy and boastful 
 of his friendship. That circumstances like these should 
 have rendered a young man self-willed and imperious, is not 
 to be wondered at, and such was he in reality, — less, how- 
 ever, 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 inscrip- 
 tion, "^ tort et a travers.'' 
 
 Over, his father, Frederick Travers exercised an unlimited 
 influence ; from his boyhood upward he had never met a 
 contradiction, and the natural goodness of his temper, and 
 the affectionate turn of his disposition, 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 always the effect of restoring his spirits, 
 no matter how deep their depression the moment before. 
 
 The youth returned his father's affection with his whole 
 heart ; he knew and valued all the high and generous prin- 
 ciples of his nature ; he estimated with an honest pride those 
 gifts Avhich had won Sir Marmaduke the esteem and respect 
 of his fellow-citizens ; but yet he thought he could trace cer- 
 tain 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 
 
"THE GUARDSMAN." 137 
 
 of life than are to be obtained in less exalted and distin- 
 guished company ; the smart sayings 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 
 intercourse with such people diffuses few, if any, of their 
 distinguishing merits among their less-gifted associates, who 
 rarely learn anything 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 religion, — their 
 phrases, their prejudices, their passions, he regarded as 
 standards for all imitation. It is not surprising, then, it 
 he conceived many of his father's notions obsolete and an- 
 tiquated, and had they not been his, he would have treated 
 them as ridiculous. 
 
 This somewhat tedious explanation of a character with 
 whom we have not any very lengthened business hereafter, 
 demands some 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 break- 
 fast, lay an open letter, 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. Hemsworth knows them well ; he is the only 
 man fit to deal with them. Heigho ! " said he, with a sigh, 
 "there's 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 Frog- 
 more, fixed for Wednesday ; there 's the tennis match on 
 Friday ; and Saturday, the first day of the stag-hounds. It 
 
lo8 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 is too bad. Hems worth 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 Sy- 
 bella, too, why did n'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 himself. 
 
 Now, assuredly, Hemsworth requires some vindication at 
 our hands. It had never entered into that worth}^ man's most 
 imaginative conceptions to believe a visit from Sir Marma- 
 duke to his Irish property within the reach of possibility ; 
 for although, as we have already said, he was in the con- 
 stant habit of entreating Sir Marmaduke to bestow this 
 mark of condescension on his Irish tenants, he ever con- 
 trived to accompany the recommendation with certain cas- 
 ual hints about the habits and customs of the natives, as 
 might well be supposed sufficient to deter a more adventur- 
 ous traveller than the old baronet ; and while he pressed 
 him to come and see for himself, he at the same time plied 
 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 offence they affected to deplore. The accident 
 which ultimately led to Sir Marmaduke's hurried journey 
 was a casualty which Hemsworth had overlooked, and when 
 he heard that the family were actually domesticated 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 
 xjommenced his work of Irish reformation ; that, alreadj^ 
 
"THE GUARDSMAN." 
 
 both the baronet and his daughter had undertaken the tc 
 of improvement among the tenantry ; that rents were toi 
 lowered, school-houses erected, medical aid provided loi 
 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 himself the instrument of, he bad 
 been the obstacle to, their welfare and happiness. The 
 letter concluded with a pressing entreaty for his speedy 
 return to the Lodge, as, should he be longer absent, the 
 mischief would become past remedy. 
 
 Never did agent receive an epistle more alarming ; he 
 saw the game, for which he had been playing half a life- 
 time, 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 machina- 
 tions, 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 
 drawn between the landlord and the people which no acute- 
 ness on either side could penetrate. The very acts in- 
 tended as benefits by the owner of the soil passed through 
 such a medium that they diverged from their destined direc- 
 tion, and fell less as blessings than inflictions. The land- 
 lord was taught to regard the tenant as incurably sunk in 
 barbarism, ignorance, and superstition. The tenant to sup- 
 pose the landlord a cruel, unfeeling taskmaster, with no 
 care but for his rent ; neither sympathy for their sufferings, 
 nor sorrow for their calamities. Hemsworth 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 
 
140 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *' duty-labor " were enormous. There was scarcely a man 
 upon the property whose rent was paid to the da}^ and hour ; 
 and for the favor 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 poverty-struck 
 and starving peasantry, with wretched hovels, naked chil- 
 dren, 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 labor 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 theu' own barbarous ways to newer and 
 better methods ; in fact, are beyond the lessons of either 
 precept or example." 
 
 Yet what was the real cause? 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, man- 
 hood pining in want and misery, and infancy to dawn upon 
 suffering to last a life long. Duty-labor 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 for- 
 bearance ere he be called on for that rent these exactions are 
 preventing him from earning. Duty-labor summons him 
 from his own profitless ground to behold the fruits his exer- 
 tions are raising for another's enjoyment, and of which he 
 must never taste. Duty-labor culls the days of fair sky and 
 sunshine, 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-labor is the type of a slaver}^ that hardens 
 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 Ma 
 life, while his vengeance yearns for that of his taskmaster. 
 
"THE GUARDSMAN." 141 
 
 Nor does the system end here. The agent must be con- 
 ciliated by presents of various kinds : the humble pittance 
 wrung from misery and hoarded up by industry must be 
 offered to him, as the means of obtaining some poor and 
 petty favor, — most frequently one the rightful due of the 
 asker. A tyranny like this spreads its baneful influence far 
 beyond the afilictions of mere poverty, — it breaks down the 
 spirit, it demoralizes the heart of a people ; for where was 
 blackmail ever extorted 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 taskmaster 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 bond- 
 age should cease. 
 
 Men spoke of their light-heartedness^ their gayety 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 is 
 often but the wildfire that dances over the bleak and 
 desolate heath. 
 
 Their apathy and indifference to exertion was made a 
 matter of reproach to them ; yet, was it ever known that 
 toil should be voluntary, when hopeless, and that labor 
 should be endured without a prospect of requital? 
 
 We have been led almost unconsciously into this some- 
 what lengthened digression, for which, 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 
 
142 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 calam- 
 ities of the country. Happy were 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 memory ; and 
 that, in our own day, these instances were not to be found 
 among us. 
 
 When Hemsworth perceived that the project of his life 
 was in peril, he bethought him of ever}^ 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 em- 
 ployed as minister plenipotentiary : 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 benevo- 
 lence could satisfy, whose expectations no concessions could 
 content. 
 
 He narrated the fearful instances of their vengeance, 
 whenever disappointment had checked the strong current 
 of their hopes, and told, with all the semblance of truth, 
 of scenes of bloodshed and miurder, 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 statement and bis false inference, that the young 
 man read the epistle with an anxious and beating heart, and 
 longed for the hour when he should recall those he held 
 dearest from such a land of anarch}' and misfortune. 
 
 Not satisfied with the immediate object in view, Hems- 
 worth ingeniously 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 
 
"THE GUARDSMAN." 143 
 
 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 j^outh, seemed too dear 
 for any requital whatever. 
 
 On a separate slip of paper, marked " to be burned when 
 read," Frederick deciphered the following lines : — 
 
 Above all things, I would caution you regarding a family who, 
 though merely of the rank of farmer, affect a gentility which had 
 its origin some dozen centuries back, and has had ample oppor- 
 tunity to leak out in the mean time ; these are the " O'Donoghues," 
 a dangerous set, haughty, ill-conditioned, and scheming. They 
 will endeavor, if they can, to obtain influence with your father, 
 and 1 cannot too strongly rej)resent the hazard of such an event. 
 Do not, 1 entreat you, suffer his compassion, or mistaken benevo- 
 lence, to be exercised in their behalf. Were they merely unworthy, 
 I should say nothing on the subject ; but they are highly and 
 eminently dangerous in a land where their claims are regarded as 
 only in abeyance, — deferred, but not obliterated, by 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 pre- 
 luded Frederick'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 of 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 prett}'' 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 devotion 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 ac- 
 <5ompanied by a single servant, they were both armed to the 
 
144 THE O'DONOGHTJE. 
 
 teeth, and prepared to do valiant battle, if need be, against 
 the Irish "rogues and rapparees." 
 
 Here, then, for the present, we shall leave him, having 
 made his lasf'adieux" to his friends, and set out on his 
 journey to Ireland. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTURE. 
 
 Brief as has been the interval of our absence from Glen- 
 flesk, time's changes have been there. Herbert O'Donoghue 
 had experienced a fortunate 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 honor on the doctor, 
 who certainly did not scruple to attribute to his skill what, 
 with more truth, was owing to native vigor and youth. 
 Sir Archy alone was ungrateful enough to deny the claim 
 of physic, and slightly hinted to Roach that he had at 
 least benefited his patient by example, if not by 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 dispensed 
 with to reopen his fire ; while Roach, harassed by so unex- 
 pected a peace, felt like a beleaguered fortress during the 
 operation of the miners, and knew not when and how the 
 dreaded explosion was to occur. Now, however, the signal- 
 gun was fired, hesitation was at an end ; and, of a verity, the 
 champions showed no disinclination for the field. 
 
 " Ye '11 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 mixture." 
 
 VOL, I. — 10 
 
146 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " Ye slept surprisingly after your slight refection. I 
 heerd ye snoring like a grampus." 
 
 " 'T was n't the nightmare from indigestion, anyhow," 
 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." 
 
 " 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 vouchsafed you a vara sound sleep." 
 
 How this controversy was to be carried on farther it is 
 not easy to say, but at this moment the door of the break- 
 fast-room opened cautiously, 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 on you till I see you in the dock, — ay, with hand- 
 cuffs on you." 
 
 " Oh, murther, murther, is it take the law of me for a 
 charge of swan-drops ? Oh, docther acushla, don't say you '11 
 do it." 
 
 " I '11 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. ''I'll take anything, barrin' the black grease 
 he gave the masther, — that would kill the divil." 
 
 This exceptive compliment to his skill was not so accept- 
 able to the doctor, whose passion boiled over at the new 
 indignity. 
 
 " I '11 spend fifty guineas but I '11 hang you, — there 's my 
 word on it." 
 
 "Oh, wirra ! wirra ! " cried Kerry, whose apprehensions 
 
THE COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTURE. 147 
 
 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 pon3\" 
 
 "AYhere'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 corn — 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? " 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 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 '11 have the divil to pay ! " 
 
 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 harrows, broken ploughs, and disabled wheel- 
 barrows in numbers, nothing was there that bore any resem- 
 blance 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 how much it may be asso- 
 ciated 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.' " 
 
 (( 
 ( 
 
148 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 This true history must not recount the expressions in 
 which Roach permitted himself to indulge. It is enough 
 to say that his passion took the most violent form of invec- 
 tive against the house, the glen, the family, and their 
 retainers, to an extreme generation, while he stamped and 
 gesticulated like one insane. 
 
 "Ye '11 hae sma' space for yer luggage in yon," said 
 M'Nab, with one of his dry est 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 him. "There 
 he is, jumping like a kid out of his skin wid fun this 
 morning." 
 
 Now, although the first part of Kerry's simile was as- 
 suredly 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 repre- 
 sented 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. " He stripped a trifle of hair off him with kick- 
 ing ; but a little gunpowder 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! " 
 
 There are some evils which no anticipation can paint 
 equal to their severity, and these, in compensation, per- 
 haps, are borne for the most part without the sanne violent 
 exuberance of sorrow lesser misfortunes elicit. So it was, 
 — Roach spoke not a word ; one menace of his clinched 
 hand towards Kerry was the only token he gave of his 
 malice, and he left the stable. 
 
 "I 've a note here for Doctor Roach," said the servant, 
 
i?^o/iJ^ ^^^^-r?^7_y-^3^n^_^&i^^^(:y2. 
 
1 
 
THE COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTURE. 149 
 
 in Sir Marmaduke's livery, to Kerry, as be 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 gentle- 
 man." 
 
 "I 'm ready, then," said the doctor; and never casting a 
 look backward, nor vouchsafing another word, he passed 
 out of the gate, and descended towards the high road. 
 
 "I '11 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, but I hope you '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 consequences past, he began speculat- 
 ing in a very Ii'ish fashion on the reasons of the doctor's 
 sudden departure. 
 
 "He 's off now to the Lodge — divil 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 the week before he leaves 
 them. Well, well, thanks be to God, he 's out of this." 
 
 "Is he gone, Kerry?" said Mrs. Branaghan. "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, he sprang from his chair, and mounted 
 the stairs towards the parlor, where now the O'Donoghue, 
 Mark, and Sir Archy were assembled at breakfast. 
 
 "He 's away, sir, he 's off again," said Kerry, as though 
 the nature of his tidings did not demand any more cere- 
 monious preliminary. 
 
 "Who's away? Who's gone?" cried they all, in a 
 breath. 
 
 " The doctor, sir, — Doctor Roach. There was a chap 
 
150 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 in a sky-blue livery came up with a bit of a letter for him 
 to go clown there, and when he read it, he just turned 
 about, this way," — here Kerry performed a not over grace- 
 ful 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 grin on him." 
 
 "What!" cried Mark, as his face crimsoned with pas- 
 sion. "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 neighbors 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. Roach 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, and, by G — , I'll help him to one; 
 for out of that window he goes, as sure as my name is 
 Mark." 
 
 "'T is 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 inau- 
 dible by the rest. 
 
 "It 's no improbable but that Sir Marmaduke Travers 
 did ask if the doctor could be spared, and it's no impos- 
 
THE COMMENTS ON A HURRIED DEPARTURE. 151 
 
 sible, 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 different aspect. It smacks of English courtesy to 
 an Irish kern." 
 
 "By Jove, Mark is right," said the O'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 gen- 
 tleman, as this Sir Marmaduke'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 obliged if I permitted him to pay his respects 
 here. I forgot to tell you of it." 
 
 " Does the enemy desire to peep at the fortress, that he 
 may calculate how long we can hold out? " said the youth, 
 sternly. 
 
 "Begorra, with the boys from Bally vourney and Inchi- 
 geela, we '11 howld the place agin the English 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 bound 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 
 
152 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 needna hae children and grandchildren; and so I'll even 
 take a cup of tea to the callant." And thus, wise in 
 practice and precept, Sir Archibald left the room, while 
 O'Donoghue and Mark, ali'eady wearied of the theme, ceased 
 to discuss it farther. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SOME OP THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. 
 
 In a 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 carpet 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 debarred 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 labor of the mind, teeming 
 with its many appliances for enjoyment, yet encouraging 
 thought more certainly than ministering to luxury ; with its 
 cabinet pictures, its carvings, its antique armor, 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 ex- 
 penditure 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. 
 
154 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Here sat Sir Marmaduke, 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 
 common; his features were homely, but intelligent, and 
 though a quick, sharp glance shot from his gray 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 strength, 
 while his face was pale and colorless, and without the 
 other indications of active health in his gait and walk 
 would have implied a delicacy of constitution. This was 
 Sam Wylie, the sub-agent, — one whose history may be 
 told in a few words. His father had been a butler 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 fourteen years in transportation; but how- 
 ever 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 
 recommended him to the notice of Hemsworth, 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 satisfaction, and with 
 the full confidence of his chief. Of his "antecedents " Sir 
 Marmaduke knew nothing; he was only aware of the im- 
 'plicit trust Hemsworth had in him, and his own brief 
 experience perfectly concurred in the justice of the opinion. 
 He certainly found him intelligent, and thoroughly well 
 informed on all connected with the property. When ques- 
 tioned, his answers were prompt, direct, and to the pur- 
 pose; and to one of Sir Marmaduke's business habits this 
 
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. 155 
 
 quality possessed merit of the highest order. If he had a 
 fault with him, it was one he could readil}^ pardon, — a 
 leniency towards the people, a desire to palliate their errors 
 and extenuate their failings, and always to promise well 
 for the future, eyen when the present looked least auspi- 
 cious. His hearty concurrence with all the old baronet's 
 plans for improyement were also highly in his favor; and 
 already Wylie was looked on as " a yery acute fellow, and 
 with really wonderful shrewdness for his station ; " as if 
 any of that acuteness or that shrewdness, so estimated, 
 could haye 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 man- 
 ners, and their motives, — not through any false medium of 
 speculation and theory, but practically, innately, instinc- 
 tively, — who had not studied the peasantry like an alge- 
 braic 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. 
 
 "Roger Sweeney," said Sir Marmaduke, — "Roger 
 Sweeney complains of his distance from the bog; he can- 
 not draw his turf so easily as when he lived on that swamp 
 below the lake ; but I think the change ought to recompense 
 him for the inconvenience." 
 
 ''He 's a Ballyvourney man, your honor," 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 Marmaduke, accepting an 
 explanation he was far from thoroughly understanding. 
 "Then there's Jack Heffernan, — what does this fellow 
 mean by saying that a Berkshire pig is no good?" 
 
 "He onl}^ means, your honor, 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 Mud- 
 ford told me that he never saw such an excellent breed, and 
 his swineherd is one of the most experienced fellows in 
 England. Widow Mul — Mul — what? " said he, endeavor- 
 
 I 
 
156 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ing to spell an unusually long name in the book before 
 him, — '' Mulla — " 
 
 "Mallahedert, your honor," slipped in ^"ylie, "a very 
 dacent crayture." 
 
 ''Then why won't she keep those beehives? Can't she 
 see what an excellent thing honey is in the house? — if one 
 of her children was sick, for instance." 
 
 ''True for you, sir," said Sam, without the slightest 
 change of feature. ^' It is wonderful how your honor 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 Bally vourney man, too, 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 appears a very desperate fellow ; he beat a man the 
 other evening, coming back from the market." 
 
 "It was only a neighbor, sir; they live fornint each 
 other." 
 
 "A neighbor! but, bless my heart, that makes it worse." 
 
 "Sure, sir, it was nothing to speak of; it was Darby 
 Lenahan said your honor'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 skull that laid him 
 quivering on the daisies." 
 
 "Savage ruffian, that Shamus; I'll keep a sharp eye on 
 him." 
 
 "Faix, and there's no need, — he's a Ballyvourney 
 man." 
 
 The old baronet looked up from his large volume, and 
 seemed for a moment undecided whether he should not ask 
 the meaning of a phrase, which, occurring at every moment, 
 appeared most perplexing in signification; but the thought 
 that by doing so he should confess his ignorance before 
 the sub-agent deterred him, and he resolved to leave the 
 interpretation to time and his own ingenuity. 
 
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. 157 
 
 "AVhat of this old fellow who has the mill, — has he con- 
 sented to have the overshot wheel ? " 
 
 "He tried it on Tuesda}^, sir," said Sam, with an almost 
 imperceptible smile, "and the sluice gave way, and carried 
 off the house and the end of the barn into the tail race. 
 He 's gone in to take an action again your honor 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 insure 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, is n't he? " 
 
 "He is, sir," replied Wylie, 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 lie, — they are not; 
 they'd rather it was the ould way still." 
 
 "What, have I taken all this trouble for nothing, then? 
 Is it possible that they '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 honor; and they did n'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 trespassing, out comes 
 some one with a stick and wallops him back again, and then 
 
158 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 the man that owns him, natural enough, would n't 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 Wylie, as- 
 sentively. 
 
 *^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 unskilful- 
 ness. He forgot that a people long neglected cannot at 
 once be won back ; that confidence is a plant of slow growth. 
 But, more than all, he lost sight of the fact that to ingraft 
 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 favored 
 lands, must be attended with failure and disappointment. 
 On both sides the elements of success were wanting. The 
 peasantry saw — for, however strange it may seem, through 
 every phase of want and wretchedness their intelligence and 
 apprehension suffer no impairment — the}' 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- 
 
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. 159 
 
 ditioD, has an innate reverence for ability, and can rarely 
 feel attachment 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 detriment 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 holiness 
 of religion with the sway and influence of the priesthood. 
 If the tenantry regarded the landlord as a simple-hearted, 
 crochety old gentleman, with no harm in him, the landlord 
 believed 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 politeness, 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 unsuited to their condition; 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 a rich 
 man's favor. These, at first sight, found favor with him, 
 as possessing more intelligence and tractability than their 
 neighbors, and for them cottages were built, rents abated, 
 improved stock introduced, and a hundred devices organized 
 to make them an example for all imitation. Unhappily, 
 the conditions 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 
 stagnant pools before the door, weed-grown fields, and 
 
160 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 broken fences, harmonize ill with rural palings, drill culti- 
 vation, and trim hedges. They took all they could get, but 
 assuredly they never understood the obligation of repay- 
 ment. 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 adopt- 
 ing 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 independence, 
 were a set of wild, irreclaimable savages, he softly insinu- 
 ated 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 Wylie, as he glanced 
 through the window 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 murmur of blessings and heavenly invocations met 
 his ears, — sounds, that if one were to judge from his 
 brightening eye and beaming countenance, 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 land- 
 lord's manifold theories of improved agriculture, neat cot- 
 tages, pigsties, dovecots, beehives, and Heaven knows 
 
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. 161 
 
 what other suggestive absurdity, ease and affluence ever 
 devised to plate over the surface of rude and rugged 
 misery. 
 
 " The Lord bless your honor every morning you rise, 't is 
 the iligant little place ye gave me to live in. Musha, 't is 
 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 mornins:, 
 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 greatcoat around her in lieu of a cloak. 
 
 '• Slates falling — why does n't your husband fasten them 
 on again? He said he was a handy fellow, and could do 
 anything about a house." 
 
 ''It was no lie, 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 cabins burned down, nor will I have them the 
 filthy hovels they used to be." 
 
 "Why would your honor? — 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 honor, 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 stripped 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 unmoved gravity. 
 
 "This is too bad; Wylie, do you hear this?" said the 
 old gentleman, with a face dark with passion. 
 
 "Ay," chorused in some half-dozen friends of the woman; 
 "nothing stands the wind like the thatch." 
 
 Wylie whispered some words to his master, and by a side 
 gesture motioned to the woman to take her departure. The 
 
 VOL. I. — 11 
 
162 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 resem- 
 blance to that of a human being; the eyes were entirely 
 concealed by swollen masses of cheek and eyelid, — the 
 nose might have been eight noses, — and the round, im- 
 mense lips, and the small aperture between, looked like the 
 opening in a ballot-box. 
 
 "Who is this? what's the matter here?" said Sir Mar^ 
 maduke, as he 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 neighbors knew me this 
 morning. I'm Tim M'Garrey, of the cross-roads." 
 
 "What has happened to you, then?" asked Sir Marma- 
 duke, somewhat ruffled by the sturdy tone of the ragged 
 fellow's address. 
 
 "'T is 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 
 cursed beehives you made me take home wid me, I put 
 them in a corner of the house, and, by bad luck, it was the 
 pig's corner, 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 did n't work 
 hard, while the childer was roarin' and bawlin' for the bare 
 life." 
 
 "Gracious mercy! could this be credited? Could any 
 man conceive barbarism like this?" cried Sir Marma- 
 duke, as, with uplifted hands, he stood overwhelmed with 
 amazement. 
 
 W^'lie again whispered something, and again telegraphed 
 to the applicant 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'Garreys war n't as 
 good as the Lenahans, to say we 'd have nothing but bees, 
 and them was to get a dacent baste ! " 
 
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. 163 
 
 "Stand aside, sir," said Sir Marmaduke; "Wylie has 
 got my orders about you. AVho is this ? " 
 
 ''Faix, me, sir, — Andrew Maher. I'm come to give 
 your honor the key; I couldn't stop there any longer." 
 
 "What! not stay in that comfortable house, with the 
 neat shop I had built and stocked for you? What does 
 this mean? " 
 
 "'Tis just that, then, your honor: 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? " 
 
 "Everything's wrong about it. First and foremost, your 
 honor, the neighbors 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 could n't have them 
 there f ornint 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 '11 pay in time, — they '11 pay when they sell 
 the crops." 
 
 "Bother! I ax your honor's pardon, I was manin' 
 they 'd see me far enough first. Sure, when they go to 
 market, they '11 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 Marmaduke. 
 
 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 keep- 
 ing the same shop." 
 
 These complaints were followed by others, differing in 
 kind and complexion, but all agreeing in the violence with 
 which they were urged, and all inveighing against "the 
 
164 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 improvements " Sir Marmaduke was so interested in carry- 
 ing forward. To hear them, you would suppose that the 
 grievances suggested by poverty and want w^ere more in 
 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 unrestricted liberty. 
 
 Far from finding any contented, Sir Marmaduke only 
 saw a few among the number willing to endure his boun- 
 ties, as the means of obtaining other concessions they 
 desired more ardently. They would keep their cabins 
 clean if anything was to be made by it; they'd weed their 
 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 
 for encountering labor which brought no requital ; and the 
 real benefits offered to them came so often associated with 
 newfangled and absurd innovations, that both became 
 involved in the same disgrace, and both sank 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 "improve- 
 ment " 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 encour- 
 aged 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 taken but one-half the pains to learn 
 something of national character that he bestow^ed on his 
 absurd efforts to fashion it to his liking, his success might 
 have been different. He would, at least, have known how 
 to distinguish between the really deserving and the un- 
 worthy recipients of his bounty, — between the honest and 
 independent peasant, earning his bread by the sweat of his 
 brow, and the miserable dependent, only seeking a life of 
 indolence, at any sacrifice of truth or character; and even 
 this knowledge, small as it may seem, will go far in appre- 
 ciating the difficulties which attend all attempts at Irish 
 
SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY. 165 
 
 social improvement, and explain much of the success or 
 failure observable in different parts of the country. But 
 Sir Marmaduke fell into the invariable error of his coun- 
 trymen: 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 sat down with the 
 conviction that there was no truth in the laud. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE FOREIGN LETTER. 
 
 The arrival of a post-letter at the O'Donoghue house was 
 an occurrence of suflScient 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. Branaghan 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 imagination 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 bedroom. 
 
 "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! 
 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 honor, come by the post." 
 
 "Leave it on the bed, and tell me about the boy." 
 
 "Faix, there's nothing particular, then, to tell your 
 honor; sometimes he 'd be one way, sometimes another, — 
 
THE FOREIGN LETTER. 167 
 
 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, endeavor- 
 ing to frame some distinct notion from these scanty mate- 
 rials, and then said, — 
 
 "Send Master Mark to me." At the same time 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 it 
 carelessly on the bed, and lay down again once more. 
 During all this time, how^ever, Kerry managed to remain in 
 the room, and, while affecting to arrange clothes and furni- 
 ture, keenly scrutinized the features of his master. It was 
 of no use, however. The old man's looks were as apa- 
 thetic as usual, and he seemed already to have forgotten 
 the missive Kerry had endowed with so many terrors 
 and misfortunes. 
 
 "Herbert has passed a favorable night," said Mark, 
 entering a few moments after. "The fever seems to have 
 left him, and, except for debility, I suppose there is little 
 to ail him. What ! — a letter ? Who is this from ? " 
 
 "From Kate," said the old man, listlessly. "I got as far 
 as 'My dear uncle; ' the remainder must await a better 
 light, 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 color more than once. Break- 
 ing off, he said, — 
 
 "You don't know, then, what news we have here? More 
 embarrassment — 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 break- 
 ing up, and the Sacre 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 evi- 
 
168 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 dence 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 servants, and have 
 nothing like 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 old name again, now that we are to 
 meet, — how happy I am to visit Carrignacurra 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 cabin, and the red boat-house, and fifty things 
 that are gone many a day ago. Strange enough, she remem- 
 bers what I myself have long since forgotten. 'How I long 
 for my own little blue bedroom that looked out on the 
 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 bar- 
 barism. 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 intrusted 
 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 ? — 
 
THE FOREIGN LETTER. 169 
 
 and if it were, is it here, within these damp, discolored 
 walls, with ruin without and within, that you 'd desire a 
 guest, — and such a guest?" 
 
 "What do you mean, boy? " 
 
 " I mean what I say. The girl, educated in the midst of 
 luxury, pampered and flattered; we heard that from the 
 abbe, — what a favorite 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 grieve it should be 
 so rude a one, but I '11 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 twelvemonth." 
 
 "You must write to her, Mark; you must tell her that 
 matters have not gone so well with us latterly, — that she '11 
 see many changes here; but mind you say how happy we 
 are to receive her." 
 
 " She can have her choice of blue bedrooms, 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 balk it. 
 The window has fallen out many a long day ago that looked 
 on Keim-an-eigh." 
 
 "How can you torture me this way, boy? " 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 burden to him. In fact, I 
 believe he rather likes it; so here goes to do him a favor. 
 It is seldom the occasion presents 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 portion 
 of his former embarrassment. 
 
 "I have brought you a letter, sir," said he, almost ere 
 
170 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 he took his seat, — "a letter which my father would thank 
 you to 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 coming here, to Carrignacurra ? " 
 
 "It is even so! though I don't wonder at your finding it 
 hard of belief." 
 
 "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 
 I^oyal — " 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 resump- 
 tion 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 clew to put her off." 
 
 "My father insists on her coming," said Mark, sternly. 
 
 "So he may, lad," replied Sk Archy; "but she may hae 
 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 vera disturbed state. 
 Folks are talking in a suspicious way." 
 
 Mark thought of the midnight march he had witnessed, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 "Tiiere 's a fever, besides, in the house, and wha can tell 
 
THE FOREIGN LETTER. 171 
 
 the next to tak' it. The Lord be mercifu' to us! " added 
 he, gravely, as if the latter thought approached somewhat 
 too close on a temptation of Providence. 
 
 "If she 's like what I remember her as a child," replied 
 Mark, "3'our 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 likelihood 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 benevolence, of the act charmed her." 
 
 "You are no far wrong. I mind her weel; she was a 
 saucy cutty ; and I canna forget the morning she gave me 
 a bunch o' thistles on my birthday, and ca'ed it a 'Scotch 
 bouquey. ' " 
 
 "You had better read the letter, in any case," said Mark, 
 as he presented 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 ani- 
 mated them. I wad like to see her mysel'," said he, after 
 a pause. "But what have we here in the postscript?" 
 And he read aloud the following lines : — 
 
 " 'I have too good a recollection of a Carrignacurra 
 household to make any apology for adding one to the num- 
 ber 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 anything outside the 
 Boulevards. What will she think of Mrs. Branaghan and 
 Kerry O'Leary? and what will they think of her?' 
 
 "Lord save us, Mark, this is an awfu' business; 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." 
 
 "True enough, Mark; we maun let the malady cure itseP; 
 
172 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 parritch,' 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 sounds of feet were heard in 
 the corridor outside; the young man sprang 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 
 panel; I thought it might cui'e 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 '11 no play the eavesdropper 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 '11 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 chamber to look after the arrange- 
 ments he spoke of. 
 
 "'Tis what I tould you," said Kerry, as he drew his 
 stool beside the kitchen 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. 
 Branaghan, with a holy horror in her countenance; "desart- 
 ing the elegant place, with the priests, and monks, and 
 friars, to come here again, in the middle of every wicked- 
 ness and divilment — ochone! ochone!" 
 
 " What wickedness and what divilment are you spaking 
 
THE FOREIGN LETTER. 173 
 
 about ? " said Kerry, indignantly, at the aspersion thus east 
 on the habits of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Branaghan 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 wickedness! Isn't horse-racing, card-playing, 
 raffiing, wickedness? Isn't drinking and swearing wicked- 
 ness? 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? Is n't it wickedness — Botheration to 
 you, but I wouldn't be losing my time talking to you! 
 When was one of ye at his duties ? Answer me that. How 
 much 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 little knew when 
 he pulled up the sluice-gate the torrent that would flow 
 down; and now would have made any "amende" to estab- 
 lish a truce again. But Mrs. Branaghan was a woman, 
 and, having seen the subjugation of her adversary, her last 
 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, signs on it, 
 there 's a curse on the place — nothing thrives in it." 
 
 "Faix, then, ye mustn't say that, anyhow," said Kerry, 
 insinuatingly. " You have no rayson to spake again it. 
 'T was Tuesday week last I heerd Father Luke say, — it 
 was to myself he said it, — 'How is Mrs. Branaghan, 
 Kerry? ' says he. 'She 's well and hearty, your reverence,' 
 says I. 'I '11 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 was n'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. ' Had n*t ye a cap 
 with red ribbons in it ? " 
 
 A nod was the response. 
 
174 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 "True for him, ye see be 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- hj a neck.' " 
 
 "What's that 3-e 're saying?" said Mrs. Branaghan, who 
 did n't comprehend the figurative language of the turf, par- 
 ticularly 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 dexterous shift to change the topic. "I was n't 
 often there mj'self, but I heerd it was the iligant fair 
 entirely." 
 
 "So it was," said Mrs. Branaghan; "there never was the 
 kind of sport and divarsion was n't there. It begun on a 
 Monday, and went through the week ; and short enough the 
 time was. There was dancing, 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 plaj^-actors. Musha, there never was the like of it." 
 And in this strain did she pour forth a flood of impassioned 
 eloquence on the recollection of those carnal pleasures and 
 enjoyments which, but a few minutes before, she had con- 
 demned 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, the best of us." 
 
 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 monke}'," said Mrs. Branaghan, who had a 
 vague notion that France lay somewhere within the tropics. 
 
 "'Worse nor that." 
 
 "Is it a bear? " asked she again. 
 
THE FOREIGN LETTER. 175 
 
 *'No; but a French maid, to dress lier hair, and powder 
 her, and put patches on her face." 
 
 "Whisht, I tell you," cried Mrs. Branaghan, '"and don't 
 be talking that way. Miss Kate was never the one to turn 
 to the likes of them things." 
 
 "'T is truth I 'm telling ye, then; I heerd 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. Branaghan, 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; 't is what the master says. 'I pity poor 
 Mrs. Branaghan,' says he; 'she's a quiet crayture that 
 won't take her own part, and — ' " 
 
 "Won't I? Be my conscience, we '11 soon see that." 
 
 "Them's his words; 'and if Kerry and she don't lay 
 their heads together to make the place too hot for her, 
 she'll bully the pair of 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; "I 'd take the odds on you any day, 
 and never ask the name of the other horse." 
 
 "I '11 lay the mark of my fingers on her av she says 
 ^pays,' " said Mrs. Branaghan, 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 Branaghan nor 
 the reader are destined to hear; for at that moment a loud 
 
176 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 frag- 
 ment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, as he has- 
 tened to receive the visitor. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 KATE O'dONOGHUE. 
 
 Before Kerry O'Leary had reached the hall, the object 
 around whose comiug 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 con- 
 flicting emotions, concealed her face upon his shoulder. 
 
 " This is Mark, my dearest girl, — Cousin Mark." 
 
 The gM 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 out her hand, and he 
 took it half coldly, the meeting augured but poorly for 
 warmth of heart on either side. 
 
 " 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 farther, and did her best to persuade me to 
 the same opinion. She did n't remember that I had sent on 
 my effects, and that my heart was here already." 
 
 VOL. I. — 12 
 
178 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *'My own dearest child," said O'Donoghue, as he pressed 
 her hand fervently between his own. 
 
 "But how have ye journeyed by yoursel'?" 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 lad}^ And 
 once at Cork, I met, at 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 wishing 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 like mysel', 
 it wadna 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 glii of no common attraction. Her figure — 
 rather below than above the middle size — was yet so per- 
 fectly moulded that, for very symmetry and grace, it seemed 
 as if such should have been the standard of womanly beaut}^, 
 while her countenance had a character of loveliness even 
 more striking and 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 
 color of an autumn sunset, giving a brilliancy to her com- 
 plexion which, in its transparent beauty, needed no such aid ; 
 but her mouth was the feature whose expression, more than 
 any other, possessed a peculiar charm. In speaking, the 
 rounded lips moved with a graceful undulation, more ex- 
 pressive than mere sound, while, as she listened, the slight- 
 est 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 honorable and lofty ; one who 
 
KATE O'DONOGHUE. 179 
 
 accepted no compromise with a doubtful line of policy, but 
 eagerly grasped at the right, and stood firmly by the conse- 
 quence. 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 obser- 
 vation would show, 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 commonplace. To any one who has seen 
 the graceful coquetry of French manner ingrafted on the 
 more meaning eloquence of Irish beauty, my effort at a por- 
 trait will appear a very meagre and barren outline ; and I 
 feel how poorly I have endeavored 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 character 
 of the Celt, and tempered again by the consummate attrac- 
 tion of French manner. 
 
 The ease and kindliness of spirit with which she sat be- 
 tween the two old men, listening in turn to each, or answer- 
 ing 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 gayety 
 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, 
 when strengthened by the rich eloquence of a spotless na- 
 
180 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ture, beaming 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-forgot- 
 ten gladness in their chilled hearts as they looked upon her ! 
 None could have guessed, however, what an effort 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 tree- 
 less 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 demeanor — the descend- 
 ant of a house more than noble — the heir of a vast prop- 
 erty ; 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 uncheckered existence, with 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 
 Carrignacurra, 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 spurn- 
 ing all admixture of blood with 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 lux- 
 
KATE O'DONOGHUE. 181 
 
 ries ! 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 sor- 
 row, and premature old age. It can devastate the fields, 
 and desolate the affections, and make cold both heart and 
 home together. 
 
 If want stopped short at privation, men need not to 
 tremble at its approach. It is in the debasing and degrad- 
 ing influence of poverty its real terror lies. It is in the 
 plastic facility with which the poor man shifts to meet the 
 coming e^il that the high principle of rectitude is sacrificed, 
 and the unflinching course of honor 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 lackeys, of plate, of equipage, and all the glit- 
 tering 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 demeanor, little changed from 
 what she remembered him years before ; nor had time, ap- 
 parently, 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 ancient 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 wamscot, and threw a rich glow along the 
 
182 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 
 possessed 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 
 honor her whose presence these humble preparations 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 marqueterie, 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 the 
 very gems of his collection. 
 
 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 feeling appeal to a very different 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 aliment 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 
 color, — for her costume had been adapted to a very differ- 
 ent sphere, — she took her place in the family circle, diffus- 
 ing 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 accomplishments so 
 foreign to the rude emblems of the chase and the field, 
 henceforth to be banished to the old entrance hall. 
 
KATE O'DONOGHUE. 183 
 
 The O'Donoghue himself felt the influence of the young 
 girl's presence, and evidenced in his altered dress and 
 demeanor 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 pre- 
 vented her from showmg 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 clief-d' ceuvre on the 
 part of Mrs. Branaghan — passed off most pleasantly. The 
 fear her coming had excited now gave way to the delight 
 her presence conferred. They felt as if they had done her 
 an injustice in their judgment, and hastened 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 surrounded 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 ecstasy. 
 Sir Archibald, too, felt a return to his former self in the tone 
 of good-breeding her presence diffused, and evinced, by the 
 attentive politeness of his manner, how happy he was to 
 recur once more to the observances which he remembered 
 with so much affection, associated as they were with the 
 brightest period of his life. 
 
 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 brilliant 
 sparkle of her dark eyes, the graceful elegance of gesture, — 
 the Frenchwoman's prerogative, — threw over him their 
 charm, a fascination never experienced before ; and although 
 a dark dread would now and then steal across his mind. 
 
184 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 showed his father, the 
 fondness with which she dwelt on every little incident of her 
 childhood — every little detail of the niountain scenery — 
 showed a spirit which well might harmonize 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 ecstasy 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'Xab, 
 slyly; "but sin ye say so, I must hear baith before I 
 decide." 
 
 "Your own favorite 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 mountains 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 lit up, and his eye glared 
 with the fierce fire of native pride ; but when the moment of 
 leave-taking arrived, and the heartrending cry of " Fare- 
 well ! " broke from the deserted, his 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 hae 
 
KATE O'DONOGHUE. 185 
 
 smote the rock too suddenly, lassie ; " and the tears rolled 
 heavily 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 Scottish valor in the service of France, 
 every line swelling with their proud achievements, as fore- 
 most 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 transport, as he cried, — 
 
 "It's a mercifu' thing, lassie, ye didna live fifty years 
 ago; by my soul, 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 is 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 '11 answer for 
 it, it will save you a fortnight in j^our recovery." 
 
 Kate knelt down beside the sick boy and kissed him 
 tenderly, while he, poor fellow, scarce daring to believe in 
 the reality of all before him, played with the long tangles of 
 her silky hair, and gazed on her in silence. 
 
 " We maun be cautious, Mark," whispered M'Nab, care- 
 fully ; 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 blest. 
 
CHAPTER XVni. 
 
 A HASTY PLEDGE. 
 
 While these things were happening within the ruined castle 
 of the O'Donoghue, a guest, equally unexpected as theu's, 
 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 life 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; his affection for his father and sister was un- 
 bounded ; he had a bold, manly 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 convic- 
 tions. Still, a conventional cant, a tone of disparaging, 
 half-contemptuous indifference to everything which char- 
 acterized 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 hear what you thought of the scenery. 
 Is not Glenflesk fine?" 
 
A HASTY PLEDGE. 187 
 
 *'Matlock on a larger scale," said he, coolly. *' Less 
 timber and more rocks." 
 
 " Matlock ! dear Fred. You might as "well compare 
 Keim-an-eigh 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." 
 
 '' Admu-ably done! Why, Sybella dear, I shall not be 
 surprised to see you take to the red petticoat and bare feet 
 soon. Y"ou have indoctrinated yourself wonderfully since 
 your arrival." 
 
 *'I like 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 little encouragement, that 's 
 all, — and they are as docile and tractable as possible. I '11 
 show you to-morrow what improvements a few months have 
 effected. I '11 bring you over a part of the estate where there 
 was not a hovel fit for a dog, and you shall see what com- 
 fortable dwellings 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 anything I asked them." 
 
 "Devilish high principled that, any way," said Fred, 
 dryly. 
 
 " I did n'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." 
 
188 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ** 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 my 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, father, — 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 per- 
 fectly ; I can read them like a book. They are a guileless, 
 simple-minded, confiding people; you may see every thought 
 they have in their countenances. They only need the com- 
 monest offices of kindness to attach them ; and as for polit- 
 ical or religious leanings, I have questioned them pretty 
 closely, and, without a single exception, have heard nothing 
 but 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 've 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 go 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 difficul- 
 ties. There 's that fool about the mill-wheel, and that fel- 
 low that persists in dragging the river with a net ; " and so 
 he muttered on for some minutes between his teeth, to the 
 evident enjoyment of Fred, whose quivering lip and laugh- 
 ing eye told how he appreciated the conflicting evidence 
 memory was eliciting. 
 
 Thus, for some time, the conversation continued, until 
 
A HASTY PLEDGE. 189 
 
 Miss Travers retired for the night. Then Sir Marmaduke 
 drew his chaii- 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 eloquence on 
 the young O'Donoghue's heroism in coming to her rescue. 
 "The youth has narrowly escaped with his life. The doc- 
 tor, who left this but a few hours ago, said he ' never wit- 
 nessed 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 suitable 
 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 favor. Wylie tells me that they have 
 been at feud with Hemsworth for years past; they never 
 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 — " 
 
 " Y"es, at least for part of the land they occupy. There 
 is a dispute about another portion ; but I believe Hems- 
 worth 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. AVe hope 
 to obtain the whole of the Ballyvourney property, — that is 
 part of our plan ; the tenants there are in a state of abso- 
 lute misery and starvation." 
 
 "Then, in God's name, give them plenty to eat; it 
 does n'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 
 
190 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 two, seemed quite dumfounded by his son's proposition, 
 while Fred continued, — 
 
 " If I understand 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 pos- 
 sible example to the other tenants, and marring the whole 
 force of the lesson I am endeavoring to inculcate ? " 
 
 "That, I take it, is more their affair than yours^ after 
 all," said Fred; "you are not to confer the boon and allo- 
 cate 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 living, 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 worldly 
 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 ascertain, your steps must demand all 
 your caution." 
 
 " I hope, sir," said Fred, with some vanity in the tone, 
 " that I have never made 3'ou blush for my awkwardness, 
 and I don't intend to do so now. I promise for the success 
 
A HASTY PLEDGE. 191 
 
 of my negotiatiou ; but I must not say a word more of how 
 I mean to obtain it." 
 
 Sir Marmacluke was far from feeling satisfied with him- 
 self for having even so far encouraged a plan that his own 
 blind confidence in his sou'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 opposition 
 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 correctness 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 negotiation, 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 morning that he had overstated his diplomatic 
 abilities, and fairly abandon a task to which he saw himself 
 inadequate. These were his last sleeping thoughts ; for his 
 waking resolves we must enter upon another chapter. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED. 
 
 If Frederick Travers went to sleep at night with very con- 
 siderable doubts as to the practicability of his plans regard- 
 ing the O'Donoghues, his waking thoughts were very far 
 from reassuring him, and he heartily wished he had never 
 engaged in the enterprise. Now, however, his honor was in 
 a manner pledged ; he had spoken so confidently of success, 
 there was nothing for it but to go forward, and endeavor, 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 occasion 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 assumption and conscious importance in the 
 wearer which more or less separated 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 favored order. 
 
 A certain haughty, overbearing tone of manner, was then 
 popular in the army, and particularly in those regiments 
 which boasted of an unalloyed nobility among the officers. 
 If they assumed an air of superiority to the rest of the ser- 
 vice, so much the more did they look down upon the mere 
 civilian, whom they considered as belonging to a very sub- 
 ordinate class and order of mankind. To mark the sense of 
 
A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED. 193 
 
 this difference of condition in a hundred little ways, and by 
 a hundred petty observances, was part of a military educa- 
 tion, and became a more unerring test of the soldier in 
 society, than even the cockade and the cross-belt. To sup- 
 pose that such a line of conduct should not have inspired 
 those against whom it was directed with a feeling of counter 
 hatred, would be to disbelieve in human nature. The civilian, 
 indeed, reciprocated with dislike the soldier's insolence, and, 
 in their estrangement from each other, the breach grew grad- 
 ually wider, — the dominant 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 reliev- 
 ing Frederick Travers of any portion of the difficulty of his 
 task, increased it tenfold. He knew and felt he was stoop- 
 ing to a most unwarrantable piece of condescension in seek- 
 ing these people at all ; and although he trusted firmly that 
 his aristocratic friends were very unlikely to hear of proceed- 
 ings 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 all the parade of a 
 most condescending act, to let them see plainly how im- 
 measurably 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, separated at the breast so as to 
 show a vest of white kerseymere, trimmed with a gold 
 border — his breeches, of the same color 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 somewhat 
 haughty carriage of his head. There was an air of freedom, 
 an absence of restraint, in the militar}^ costume of the period, 
 which certainly contributed to increase the advantages of a 
 
 VOL. I. —13 
 
194 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 naturally good-looking man, in the same way as the present 
 stiff Pi'ussian mode of dress will assuredly conceal many 
 defects in mould and form among less-favored individuals. 
 The loosely-falling flaps of the waistcoat — the deep hanging 
 cuffs of the coat — the easy folds of the long sku-t — gave a 
 character of courtliness to uniform which, to our eye, it at 
 present is very far from possessing. In fact, the graceful 
 carriage and courteous demeanor of the drawing-room 
 suffered no impediment from the pillory of a modern 
 stock, or the rigid inflexibility of a coat strained almost 
 to bursting. 
 
 "Are you on duty, Fred?" said Sir Marmaduke, laugh- 
 ing, 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 deliver his • credentials in 
 undress." 
 
 "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 blackguards in the county, I verily believe," 
 added he, in a more natural key. 
 
 "Are you really going to Carrignacurra, Fred?" asked 
 Miss Travers, hurriedly; " are you going to ^^sit our 
 neighbors ? " 
 
 "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-ceremo- 
 nious, I hope, about according me an audience." 
 
 " Not in the forenoon, I believe," said Sir Marmaduke, 
 dryly ; for he was recalling the description old Roach had 
 
A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED. 195 
 
 given him of his own reception by Kerry O'Leary, and 
 which circumstance, by the bye, figured somewhat ostenta- 
 tiously in his charge to the old baronet. 
 
 " Oh, then, they receive early," resumed Fred, " the old 
 French style — the j^^t^i lever 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 my- 
 self you '11 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 Fl-ed, delighted 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 Carrignacurra to admire so very smart a cavalier." 
 
 Frederick colored slightly and endeavored to laugh ; but 
 the consciousness that his " bravery" of costume was some- 
 what 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; 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 can- 
 not 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 specimen of 
 
196 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Lanty's taste in horseflesh, — 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 con- 
 scious 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 one 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 held 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 honor you by accepting him." And as he spoke, he laid 
 the stress on the yoii^ 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 colored heaths, too, shone in hues more bright and 
 varied than usual in our humid climate ; 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 wound along their bases — the wa}^- 
 ward 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 soli- 
 tude awed and appalled him. 
 
A DIPLOMATIST DEFLATED. 
 
 197 
 
 He had not ridden long when the tall towers of the old 
 castle of Carrignacurra 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 pretension 
 to a degree he was by no means prepared for. These feat- 
 ures, however, gradually diminished as he drew nearer ; the 
 highly pitched roof, pierced with narrow windows, patched 
 and broken — the crumbling battlements of the towers them- 
 selves — the ruinous dilapidation of the outer buildings, dis- 
 enchanted the spectator of his first more favorable opinion; 
 until at length, as he surveyed the incongruous and mis« 
 
198 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 shapen pile, with its dreary mouutaiu background, be won- 
 dered bow, at any point of view, be should have deemed it 
 other than the gloomy abode it seemed at that moment. 
 
 The only figure Frederick Travers bad seen, as he rode 
 along, was that of a man carrying a gun in bis band, in a 
 dress somewhat like a gamekeeper's, who, at some short 
 distance from the roa.d, 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 be 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 
 be carried, Travers spurred eagerly forward ; and at last, 
 but not without an effort, came within bail 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 baste. It was a j'Oung buck, just killed ; 
 the blood still trickled from a wound in its skull. 
 
 '' Leave that gate open, my good fellow," cried Frede- 
 rick, in a voice of command, as the other pushed the frail 
 portal wide, and let it fall back heavily to its place again, 
 
 — " do 3^ou hear me? — leave it open." 
 
 " We always leap it when mounted," was the cool reply, 
 as the speaker turned bis bead round, and then, without 
 deigning either another word or look, continued bis 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 disdain- 
 ing to follow a counsel thus insolently conveyed, or, it 
 might be, not over-confident of his horse, be dismounted, 
 and, flinging wide the gate, rode quickly up the causeway, 
 
 — not, however, in time to overtake the other, for, although 
 the way was enclosed by walls on both sides, be bad dis- 
 appeared already, but in what manner, and bow, 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 
 
A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED. 199 
 
 entrance of the house. The door lay open, clisplaj'ing 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 tor 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 vigorous 
 pull at the old bell, which answered loudly in its own person, 
 and also by a deep howl from the aged foxhound, then 
 lying at the fire in the drawing-room. These sounds soon 
 died away, and a silence deep and unbroken as before suc- 
 ceeded. 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 
 becoming reconciled to the disturbance, as one that needed 
 no further attention from him. 
 
 "I must explore for m^^self," thought Fred; and so, 
 attaching his horse to the massive ring by which a chain 
 used once to be suspended across the portal, he entered 
 the house. Walking leisurely forward, he gained the long 
 corridor. For a second or two he was uncertain 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 in- 
 voluntarily 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 : the inn is lower down 
 the glen, — you'll see a sign over the doorway." 
 
200 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 ludi- 
 crous 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 inquire 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 with 
 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 en- 
 hance the obligation, it has been the heroism, the personal 
 daring — " 
 
 "Hold, there," said Mark, sternly. "It's not our cus- 
 tom 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 may be 
 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 acknowledge it." 
 
 "It is the more like some of our own," broke in Mark, 
 
A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED. 201 
 
 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 few weeks* low diet. Let us have 
 a word about the poaching you spoke of.'* 
 
 His fixed and steady stare — the rigid brow by which 
 these words were accompanied — at once proclaimed the in- 
 tention of one who sought reparation for an insult, and so 
 instantly did they convey the sentiment that Travers, in a 
 second, forgot all about his mission, and, starting to his 
 feet, replied in a whisper audible but to Mark, — 
 
 "True, it w^as 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 gamekeeper or a poacher." 
 
 Mark struck his gun against the ground with such vio- 
 lence 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 paralyzed 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, embroidered in silver, which are so popular 
 among the peasantry of Rhenish Germany. The light air- 
 iness of her step as she came forward, unconscious 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, thunder- 
 struck with amazement at recognizing 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 inquire after me. Miss O'Donoghue, sir;" and 
 the boy, with much bashfulness, essayed, in some sort, the 
 ceremony of introduction. 
 
202 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "My cousin, Mr. Mark O'Donoghue," said Kate, with a 
 graceful movement of her hand towards Mark, whose atti- 
 tude led her to suppose he was not known to Travers. 
 
 "I have had the honor of presenting m^^self already," 
 said Frederick, bowing; but Mark responded not to the 
 inclination, but stood still with bent brow and clinched 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 that 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. 
 
 If Kate was not sorry to learn that the Lodge was 
 tenanted by persons of such condition and class as might 
 make them agreeable neighbors, 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 so 
 many things to say, and so many topics which seemed 
 mutually interesting. For so it is; they who are ignorant 
 of the world and its habits can scarcely credit the great 
 extent of those generalities which form food for daily inter- 
 course, 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 flippancy of each, as in turn they discussed scenes, 
 and pleasures, and people, of whom he never so much as 
 heard. The gentlllesse ot 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 in her costume and her carriage there 
 was a certain coquetry discernible, not a particle of affecta- 
 tion pervaded either her opinions or expressions. Travers, 
 long accustomed to the best society of London, had yet 
 seen scarcely anything of the fascination of foreign agreea- 
 bility, and 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 
 
A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED. 203 
 
 luckless animal be had attached to the door-ring, — luck- 
 less, indeed, for already a heavy snowdrift was falling, 
 and the day had assumed all the appearance of severe 
 winter. 
 
 **You cannot go now, sir," said Herbert, as Frederick 
 rose to take his leave, — "there 's a heavy snow-storm with- 
 out ; " 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, laughing, as she pointed to the blazing hearth, — 
 " ' Le soldat ne tourue pas son dos au 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 
 favor me so far? " 
 
 "With pleasure," said she, smiling; "I only ask one 
 condition, — point de grdce : no giving back, — the O'Dono- 
 ghues never take or give 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 little mar- 
 queterie table 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 watch- 
 ing 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 
 
204 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 advance thus far to cut off my retreat forever. How am I 
 to save myself now ? " 
 
 "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 forever. Check! " 
 
 "And you lose your castle." 
 
 "And you youi* bishop." 
 
 "We must avenge the church, sir. Take care of your 
 queen." 
 
 ^^ Parhleu^ 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 her head, she said : 
 
 "I should like much to beat you, — but in fair fight, 
 remember; no courtesy nor favor." 
 
 "I can spare neither," said Travers, smiling. 
 
 "Then defeat is no dishonor. 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." 
 
 "No, Kate, no," whispered Herbert, whose excitement 
 was at the highest. 
 
 "1 must abide my fortune," said Frederick, bowing; 
 "and the more calmly, as I have won the game." 
 
 ' ' Won the game ! How ? — where ? " 
 
 "Check!" 
 
 "How tauntingly he says it now," said Kate, while her 
 
A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED. 205 
 
 eyes sparkled brilliantly. "There is too much of the con- 
 queror in all that." 
 
 Frederick's glance met hers at the instant, and her cheek 
 colored 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 approached the window. 
 
 "Is that snowball your horse. Captain Travers?" said 
 she, with a wicked smile. 
 
 "My father's favorite cob, by Jove!" exclaimed Fre- 
 derick; 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 Guardsman — and 
 departed. 
 
 "I like him," said Herbert, as he looked out of the win- 
 dow after him. "Don't you, cousin Kate?" 
 
 But cousin Kate did not reply. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 TEMPTATION IX A 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 r.nger, — and, 
 dui'ing 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 uttered 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. Cm-ses be on them ! they carry 
 persecution through everything, — house, home, country, 
 rank, wealth, station, — ay, the very affection of our kin- 
 dred they grudge us. Was slavery ever like this ? " And 
 with these bitter words, the offspring of bitterer thoughts, 
 he strode down the causeway, 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 thi'obbing brow and fevered hand he went, turn- 
 ing 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 retm-n 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 for- 
 ward, and at last arrived at that part of the glen where the 
 
TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR. 207 
 
 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 ! " And so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat 
 two pistols, examined the priming of each, and then re- 
 placed them. The prospect of speedy revenge seemed to 
 have calmed his \nndictive spirit; for now he continued to 
 walk backwards and forwards, at a slow pace, like a sen- 
 tinel on his post, pausing occasionally to listen if a horse's 
 hoofs could be heard upon the road, and then resuming his 
 walk once more. A rustling sound in the brushwood above 
 his head once startled him, but the granite cliffs that over- 
 hung 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 approaching night were falling, yet no one 
 came. Tortured with strange conjectures, Mark saw the 
 day waning, and jQt no sight nor sound of him he looked 
 for. Let not poets speak of the ardent longing of a lover's 
 heart, as in thi'obbing 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 pas- 
 sion is but sluggish apath3\ It is the bad that ever calls 
 forth the sternest energies of human nature. It is in crime 
 that men ti*anscend the common attributes 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. 
 
208 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 sounds 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 roadside, where the snowdrift 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 amid the pebbles of the mountain 
 rivulet. 
 
 "I'll never see it again; it's no use! " was the exclama- 
 tion of the seeker, as he gathered up his reins and prepared 
 to mount. 
 
 "Is that Lanty Lawler ? " cried Mark, as he recognized 
 the voice. "I say, did you meet with a young officer riding 
 down the glen, in the direction of Carrignacurra ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, Mr. Mark ; I never saw living 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 would n't fight without seconds. Oh, that 's dowm-ight 
 
TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR. 209 
 
 murder! What did be 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 mine." 
 
 "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 gi'eat value, — and I 
 dare n'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 w^ithout 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 calculation was a 
 correct one. They had not gone many paces forward when 
 young O'Donoghue unburdened his whole heart to him: told 
 him, with all the eloquent energy of a wounded spirit, of 
 the insult he had received in his own home, before his 
 younger brother's face. He omitted nothing in his descrip- 
 tion of the overbearing impertinence of Frederick Travers's 
 manner ; with what cool assurance he had entered the house, 
 and with what flippant carelessness he treated his cousin 
 Kate. 
 
 '"I left home with an oath not to return thither un- 
 avenged," 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 distance. 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 cer- 
 tain to develop the deeper indignation of the youth. A 
 
 VOL. I. — 14 
 
210 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 low, muttering commentary, intended to mean a heartfelt 
 sympathy with his wrongs, was all he suffered to escape his 
 lips; and, thus encouraged in his passionate vehemence, 
 Mark's wrath became like a frenzy. 
 
 "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 people. Do you mind me ? " 
 
 There was a tone of mystery and secrecy in these words 
 Mark could not penetrate; but, however dark their mean- 
 ing, 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 j^oung 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, feel- 
 ingly. " 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? 
 'T is 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?" 
 
 "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 
 
TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR. 211 
 
 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 
 intoxication 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 glori- 
 ous 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, maj^be 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 
 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 L.'eland is about to strike for liberty, 
 
212 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 it is not an O'Donoghue should be last in the ranks. 
 Swear to me you '11 never mention again what I '11 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 for me, but I must 
 obey them that's over me." And so saying, Lanty at once 
 proceeded to lay before the astonished mind of young 
 O'Donoghue the plan of France for an invasion of Ii'eland, 
 
 — not vaguely nor imperfectly, not in the mere language 
 of rumor or chance allusion, but with such aids to circum- 
 stance and time, as gave him the appearance of one con- 
 versant with what he spoke on. The restoration of Irish 
 independence, the resumption of forfeited estates, the return 
 of the real nobility 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 effect such changes would work in the youth's own 
 condition, who, no longer degraded 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 honored name and house. Lanty knew well, and 
 more, too, implicitly believed in all the plausible preten- 
 sion of French sympathy for Irish suffering, which formed 
 the cant of the day. He had often heard the arguments in 
 favor 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 sem- 
 blance of an incontestable statement, and then he told 
 him that from Brest to Dublin was " fifty hours' sail, with a 
 fair breeze," — that same ''easterly wind" the toast alluded 
 to; that the French could thi'ow thirty, nay fifty thousand 
 troops into Ireland, yet never weaken their own army to 
 any extent worth speaking of; that England was dis- 
 tracted 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, 
 
TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR. 
 
 213 
 
 would meet the fate of eDemies. On the extent and com- 
 pleteness of the organization he dwelt with a proud satis- 
 faction ; 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 the}" are." 
 
 "They were unarmed," said Mark. 
 
 "If they were, it is because the general did n'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 imprudence of which he was already 
 aware of. 
 
 "Ay will I," said Mary. "I never mistrusted one of 
 
 OF THE ^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
214 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 his name ; " and with that she rose from the fireside, 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 off 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 carbines. 
 There's pistols in that case; and all them, over there, is 
 swords and cutlasses. 'T is pike-heads that 's in the other 
 corner; 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 light and handy weapon, and bore on its stock the 
 words, — "Armee de 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 independence, are we not able to win it? " 
 
 "Because there 's traitors among us," said Mary, reply- 
 ing 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 '11 be sure to stand on the safe side.'* 
 
 "I don't care for that," said Mark. "I want no such 
 allies as these. I say, if we deserve our liberty, 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." 
 
TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR. 215 
 
 "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 would n't they love us," said Mary, half angry 
 at such 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 comes of it," said Mark, after 
 a few seconds of thought. "I 'm with you; and if the rest 
 have as little to live for, trust me, they '11 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 XXL 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY. 
 
 Sir Marmaduke Travers and his daughter had passed a 
 morning of great uneasiness at the delay in Frederick'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 ser- 
 vant towards Carrignacurra, fearing lest he should have 
 missed his way. This determination, however, they aban- 
 doned, 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. S3^bella, too, was not without her fears, and 
 though vague and undefined, she dreaded a possible colli- 
 sion between the hot blood of Mark and her brother. The 
 evening of her first arrival was ever present to her mind, 
 and she often thought of what might have then occurred 
 had Frederick been present. 
 
 They had wearied themselves with every mode of ac- 
 counting for his delay, guessed at every possible cause of 
 detention, and were at length on the 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 expectancy, and Frederick, with his horse splashed 
 and panting, alighted beside them. 
 
 "Well, you certainly have a very pretty eye for a coun- 
 try, father," said he, gayly. "That same line you advised 
 
THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY. 217 
 
 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, I 'd rather have daylight for that 
 kind of thing ; and I really believe the ragged fellow j^ou 
 sent for me chose the stift'est places. I saw the rascal 
 grinning when I was coming up to the mill-stream." 
 
 "Messenger! — ragged fellow! The boy is dreaming." 
 
 "My dear Frederick, we sent no messenger. We were, 
 indeed, very anxious at your delay, but we did not despatch 
 any one to meet you." 
 
 Frederick stared at both the speakers, and then repeated, 
 in astonishment, 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?' 'Yes,' said he, answering 
 for himself, 'you are her brother. I 'm sent over to tell 
 you not to go back by the road, for the bridge is down; 
 but you 're to come over the fields, and I '11 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 
 not 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 Terry," cried Sybella. 
 
 "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 
 
218 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 engaged in canvassing the motive for this strange act to 
 pay due attention to his question. 
 
 As Frederick was but little interested in his guide, nor 
 mindful of what became of him, they were not able to 
 obtain any clew from him as to what road he took, nor 
 what chance there was of overtaking him. 
 
 "So, then, this was a piece of politesse 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 with- 
 drawn, and they were once more alone ; " and I am all im' 
 patience 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 Frederick, 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, and the other had gone to visit some sick person on 
 the mountain. But I made acquaintance with your preux 
 chevalier^ Sybella, — a fine-looking young fellow, even 
 though 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 you^'' said Sir 
 Marmaduke. "I trust, Fred, he was aware of who you 
 were? " 
 
 "Faith, sir, I fancy he cared very little 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 overburdened with courtesy." 
 
THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY. 219 
 
 "Had you any words together, boy?" said Sir Marma- 
 duke, with an evident anxiety in his look and voice. 
 
 "A mere interchange of greeting," replied Fred, laugh- 
 ing, "in which each party showed his teeth, and did not 
 bite withal. I unhappily mistook him for a gamekeeper, 
 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 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 implied. Then, satisfied that she had not, he said, 
 in a carelesss 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?" 
 
 "It was not with him I played," answered he, hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 ' ' What — with the elder ? " 
 
 "No, nor him either; my antagonist was a cousin, — I 
 think they called her cousin." 
 
 "Call Aer," 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 
 
220 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 with avidity at the opeDing then offered to coincide with 
 an opinion he was half afraid to broach. "She is perfectly 
 foreign in look, dress, and demeanor, — with all the man- 
 nerism 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 
 Immeasurably her inferior in every respect." 
 
 "Is she pretty, Frederick?" said Sybella, not lifting her 
 eyes from her work as she spoke. 
 
 "I should say pretty,'* replied he, with hesitation^ as if 
 qualifying 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 
 her, as if to give 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." 
 
 "What 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." 
 
 Frederick 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- 
 affected indifference. "She is a most ladylike person, and 
 if it be your own 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 
 Frederick had journeyed to determine; but whether it was 
 that the time seemed unfavorable, 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,- 
 
THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY. 221 
 
 and did not endeavor to oppose his determination by a 
 single argument of any kind. On tlie 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 vice- 
 regal 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 ap- 
 pearance. 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 Txavers had already given her hearty concurrence 
 to all her father's schemes, and seconded most ably every 
 one of his views by such arguments as she was possessed of; 
 so that Frederick, even if disposed to record his opposition, 
 saw that the present was not an opportune moment, and 
 prudently reserved for another time what, if unsuccessful 
 now, could never be recurred to with advantage. 
 
 The conversation on these topics lasted long. They dis- 
 cussed with interest every detail of their plans; for so it is, 
 the pleasures of castle-building are inexhaustible, and the 
 very happiest realities of life 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 humor 
 with each other, — a visit to the O'Donoghue being the plan 
 for the succeeding day's accomplishment. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A MORNING 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 carriage 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 awa}^, now adverting to the bold and majestic 
 scenery around them, now speaking of the people, their 
 habits, their prejudices, and their leanings, or anon discus- 
 sing the O'Donoghue family, which, of all the puzzling 
 themes the land presented, was certainly not the least 
 embarrassing 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 latter part, somehow, I believe I — I 
 actually begin to fear I forgot it altogether. However, I 
 have thought of one thing, and it should be done without a 
 moment's loss of time. You must write to Carden, the 
 law agent, and stop any proceedings Hemsworth may have 
 begun against these people. It would be most disgraceful 
 to think that, while professing sentiments of good feeling 
 
A MORNING VISIT. 223 
 
 and friendliness, we were using the arm of the law to harass 
 and distress them." 
 
 "I '11 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 Hemsworth'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 
 Carrignacurra. 
 
 Whether recent events had sharpened Kerry O'Leary to 
 a more acute sense of his duties as butler, or that Kate 
 O'Douoghue 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, his 
 ordinary costume being augmented, if not improved, by a 
 pair of very unwieldy top-boots of his master's, which 
 reached somewhere to the middle of the thigh, and was 
 there met by a green velvet waiscoat, from the same ward- 
 robe, 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 unbarred the portal to 
 admit her. 
 
 Having informed his visitors that the family were at 
 home, he preceded 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 misjht arise 
 
224 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 from the blundering announcement Kerry ttouM inevitably 
 make of their names, he having repeated over and over as 
 he went along, by way of refreshing his memor}^, "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'Donoghue, 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 ha,d so 
 long labored to acquit, the conversation became easy and 
 agreeable. Sir Marmaduke, seating himself next O'Dono- 
 ghue, had entered into a discussion of the state of the couu' 
 try and the people. Frederick, beside Herbert's chair, was 
 conversing with the boy by livel}^ 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 con- 
 versation 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 astonishment 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 humor, won each moment more and more on Sir 
 Marmaduke. Frederick, too, never grew wearied of the 
 fresh and joyous spirit which gleamed out of every look 
 and word from Herbert, whose ardent temperament and 
 high-hearted nature caught up the enthusiasm of a spirit 
 
A MORNING VISIT. 225 
 
 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 conveyed 
 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. Recognizing 
 Frederick Travers with a gracious smile, she received Sir 
 Marmaduke's salutation with a deep courtesy, and then, as 
 if similarit}' of years required a less ceremonious introduc- 
 tion, took her seat beside Miss Travers, with an air of 
 mingled kindness and cordiality she so well knew how to 
 assume. As in an orchestra, amid the swell of many 
 instruments, where deep-toned thunders mingle with sounds 
 of softer influence, some one strain will rise, from time to 
 time, suggestive of feelings apart from the rest, with higher 
 and nobler sympathies 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 color 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 
 regularity of Sybella' s featurcs, their classic outline, their 
 chaste correctness in every line and lineament, seemed 
 cold and inanimate when contrasted with the more expres- 
 sive loveliness of Kate O'Donoghue. The fearless charac- 
 ter 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 left it graven on the heart 
 long after the words were spoken. 
 
 Frederick Travers watched with eager delight the effects 
 these gifts were producing upon his sister. He saw the 
 pleasure with which Sybella listened; he recognized, even 
 
 VOL. I. — 15 
 
226 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 a prelude to their nearer intimacy, the 
 O'Donoghue, with a touch of sadness in his voice, replied 
 that he himself was an invalid, 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 neighborhood. 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 anticipation 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 in person." 
 
 "That promise is already most kindly made, father,'* 
 interrupted Sybella, whose pleased look showed how she 
 had been captivated by her new friend. 
 
 While their smiles and gracious words went round, the 
 door was suddenly opened by Kerry O'Leary, who, forget- 
 ful of the visitors in his eager anxiety as the bearer of 
 news, cried out, — 
 
 "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 together? Ye daft loon, what 
 ails ye? " 
 
 "I ax your pardon, and the quality's pardon," said 
 Kerr}^, with an expression of abject misery for his uncere- 
 monious entree; "but, if you seen it, sorra bit but you 'd 
 forgive me." 
 
 "There has been good fun somewhere, I 'm certain," 
 cried out Frederick 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." 
 
A MORNING VISIT. 227 
 
 '"Tis Master Mark, good luck to him!" cried Kerry, 
 overjoyed at the permission to speak out freely. *'He was 
 over at Ballyvourney with the greyhounds, when he seen 
 that dirty spalpeen, Sam Wylie, wid a process-sarver along 
 wid him, noticiu' the tenants. The sarver was a stranger, 
 and he did n't touch him; but he made the boys put Sam on 
 Nick Maloue'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 Chris- 
 tian, if 3^ou seen him this minit dripping wet, and the 
 duckweed all hanging round him; and he's running still, 
 for he thinks Master Mark will take the life of him before 
 he stops." 
 
 A roar of laughter from Frederick, joined in by Herbert, 
 and at last by the O'Donoghue himself, for some moments 
 prevented a word of commentary on this outrageous proceed- 
 ing, 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 
 license here I doubt ye are na used to." 
 
 "I '11 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 Frederick, "your son 
 has served him properly." 
 
 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 farther prosecution of a most 
 unpleasant topic. 
 
 "The captain's guessed it well," cried Kerry. "The 
 splapeen tould Master Mark that he 'd be up here to-morrow 
 wid a notice for the master himself, and it would go hard 
 but he 'd see us out of the place before Easter." 
 
o«>J 
 
 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 '' Is this possible ? " said Sir Marmaduke, blushing deeply. 
 "I beg, my dear sir, that you will forgive an}^ hasty expres- 
 sion I may have used." 
 
 "I can forgive the lad myself," said Sir Archy, proudly. 
 
 ''Not I, then, uncle," interposed Kate, — "not I. Mark 
 should have horsewhipped the fellow within an inch of his 
 life." 
 
 Sybella Travers started at the energy of voice and man- 
 ner which accompanied these words; while the O'Donoghue, 
 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. "'T is blood that never gives in, — divil 
 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 you.'' 
 
 It would have been a difficult, nay, an almost impossible 
 task to recall the tone and temper of the party previous to 
 this unhappy interruption. 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 
 occasion, 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. 
 
 Frederick Travers alone seemed happy and delighted. 
 The sudden expression of Kate O'Donoghue's opinion, so 
 utterly unlike anj^thing 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 delivered the words ; while Sybella 
 could not help a sentiment bordering on fear, for one who, 
 young as herself, gifted with every womanly attribute of 
 grace and loveliness, had yet evinced a degree of impetu- 
 
\ 
 
 A MORNING VISIT. 229 
 
 osity aud passion she could not reconcile with such attrac- 
 tions. As for Kate, the sentiment had evoked no stir 
 within her bosom. It was a wish as natui'ally expressed as 
 it was felt, and all the surprise the others experienced 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 Marma- 
 duke, having succeeded in a great degree in restoring the 
 favorable 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 Mar- 
 maduke, with a courtesy he was perfect master of, requested 
 the party would not delay their kind intentions, but favor 
 him with their company 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 abruptness 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. 
 
 SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 
 
 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 themselves made to 
 ward off the semblance of their fallen estate induced a 
 happier frame of mind than that which resulted from daily 
 brooding 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 light step, her lighter laugh, her mirthful tone of con- 
 versation, with its many anecdotes and stories of places and 
 people he had not heard of before, were 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 accom- 
 plished girl, whose gracefulness 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 her- 
 self, armed with so many fascinations, dispensed cheerful- 
 ness and bliss on all about her. Nor was he selfish in all 
 this. He marked with delight the impression made upon 
 his favorite Herbert by his cousin's attractive manners. 
 How insensibly, as it were, the boy was won from ruder 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 231 
 
 pursuits and coarser pleasures to sit beside her as she sang, 
 or near her as she read ; with what interest he pursued his 
 lessons in French beneath her tuition, and the ardor 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 his 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 w^hich 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 in 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 
 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 wouk] absent 
 himself from home ; and, as he was never submissive to 
 much questioning, his appearance called forth no other re- 
 mark 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 
 impression on his father than events of greater moment 
 could have done. He watched every movement and expres- 
 sion of his favorite son, to catch some clew 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 cir- 
 
232 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 cumstances 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, like 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 favorable. His attorney at Cork hajil 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 misfortune 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 favorable issue to their 
 affairs, and yet how fatally debarred from such a consumma- 
 tion by this one disastrous circumstance. 
 
 The drowning man 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 has long oppressed it, 
 and, for the very moment, convert every passing circum- 
 stance into an argument for its truthfulness. The O'Dono- 
 ghue 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 prof- 
 fered civilities, by that wounded pride which made him feel 
 his present position so painfully, and, as the future head of 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 233 
 
 the house, grieve over a state so unbecoming to its former 
 fortunes. 
 
 "The poor 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 unprofit- 
 able schemes, he had resolved on abandoning the subject 
 forever, 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 rall}^ him from 
 his low spirits his father possessed no longer, — the indul- 
 gence 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 
 over the matter. Nor had he one to share his sorrow, or 
 assist him with 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, ver}^ impracti- 
 cable remarks, on frugality and order, — the necessity of 
 submitting to altered fortunes, — and, if need be, of under- 
 taking some humble but honest occupation as a livelihood. 
 These, and such like, had more than once been intruded 
 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 house- 
 holds, will not be surprised at the choice of the confidant. 
 He, I say, was the O'Donoghue's last resource ; and from 
 
234 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 him he still hoped to gain some clew, at least, to the secret 
 of this mystery. Scarcely had the O'Douoghue retired to 
 his room at night, when Kerry was summoned to his pres- 
 ence, and after a few preliminaries, was asked if he knew 
 where, how, or with whom his young master latterly spent 
 his time. 
 
 " Faix, and 'tis that same does be puzzling myself," said 
 Kerry, to whom the matter had already been one of consider- 
 able curiosity. " Sometimes I think one thing, and then I 
 think another; but it beats me entirely." 
 " What were your thoughts, then, Kerry?" 
 " 'T was Tuesday last I suspected Joe Lenahan's daughter, 
 
 — the fair-haired girl, above at the three meadows ; then I 
 took it into my head it might be a badger he was after, — 
 for he was forever 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." 
 "It's a fine brown beast Lanty Lawler has, — a strap- 
 ping four-year-old, as likel}^ 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 did n't stride nineteen feet over the yallow ditch." 
 
 " 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. Ay eh ! he 's a plaj^-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 had n't a conceit out of the beast under him. 
 ' Whoop ! ' says he, throwing up his whip hand, ' this way.' 
 ^ Your heart's in him,' says I, ' and 't is a murther he is n't 
 your own.'" 
 
 " You may leave me, Kerry," said the old man, sighing 
 heavily; "'tis getting near twelve o'clock." 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 235 
 
 «* 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 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 '11 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 j^ou." 
 
 The young gu*l obeyed with a smile, and returned the 
 pressure of her uncle's hand with warmth. 
 
 " Kate, my child," said he, — speaking with evident diflS- 
 culty 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 ? " 
 
 " They are very different from you, my sweet child. The 
 moss-rose will not bear the storms of winter 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 3^ou 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 with 
 
236 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 no intention 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 mas- 
 ter 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 story is an old one 
 now, and has few terrors for us as long as it remains merely 
 anticipated evil. This is a sad tale for your ears, — 1 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 farther. Kate spoke not ; for as yet 
 she could neither see the drift of the communication, nor, 
 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 consid- 
 erable delay, " that your father was married to your mother 
 when she was but sixteen ? " 
 
 " 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 youth- 
 fulness of his wife as one of the reasons 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 conviction, 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 endeav- 
 ored to dissuade him, I did my best to expose the dangers 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OP CHARACTER. 237 
 
 and difficulties of such a plau. Perhaps, dearest, I should 
 have been less obstinate iu 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 im- 
 patience for him to continue. 
 
 " I see, my child," said he, gently, " you are not aware of 
 the proceedings of coming of age ; you have not heard, per- 
 haps, that, as your guardian, I hold in my hands the for- 
 tune your father bequeathed to you. It was his portion as 
 a younger son ; for, poor fellow ! he had the family fail- 
 ing, and never could live within his income. Your ten 
 thousand — he always called it yours — he never encroached 
 upon, and that sum, at least, is secured to 3'ou." 
 
 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 so 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, sii\ Does it represent the 
 value ? " 
 
 " Unquestionably it does." 
 
 " Take it then, dearest uncle," said she, flinging herself 
 upon his neck, — " take it, and use it so that it maj^ bring 
 some comfort to yourself, some ease of mind at least, and 
 
238 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 Sacre Coeur will gladly 
 take me back. Indeed, they feel their work of conversion 
 of me but very imperfectly 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 cannot 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 m}^ 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 believe 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 will be said that I should not have 
 suffered you to do this. That in accepting a loan — " 
 
 " A loan! " uttered she, reproachfully. 
 
 " As that, or nothing, can I ever touch a farthing of it," 
 replied the O'Donoghue. "No, no! Distress and hardship 
 have been a weary load this many a year ; but all sense of 
 honor is not yet obliterated in this poor heart I " 
 
 "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." 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 239 
 
 ** Aud 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 humor, and he only frowns and stares at us ; but 
 all that will pass away soon ; I shall find 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 look- 
 ing-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 ecstasy, 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 towards his bedroom. 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 feeling satisfied with 
 himself for what he had done. Had Kate been at all diffi- 
 cult of persuasion, — had she yielded to his arguments, or 
 been convinced by any explanations 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 the charge of his own con- 
 science ; 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 honor such atliuence suggests ; for, alas I humbling 
 
240 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 as the avowal may seem, the noble traits so often adrnked 
 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 
 involves 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- 
 du-ected judgments of the mind. This man was less changed 
 than he knew of : the world of his circumstances was, in- 
 deed, different, but he was little altered ; the same selfish- 
 ness that once made him munificent now made him mean ; 
 but, whether conferring or accepting favors, the spirit was 
 one. 
 
 Besides, how ingenious is the mind in suggesting plau- 
 sible 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 con- 
 tented 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, hear- 
 ing 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 honor 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 favorite boy, — 
 the indulgences he could once more shower upon him. He 
 fancied the happiness of emancipation from pressing diffi- 
 culties, 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 out- 
 bid us there, and we '11 see which of the two best becomes 
 his saddle. I '11 back my own boy against his scarlet-coated 
 fop for a thousand. They 've got some couples of dogs, too, 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 241i 
 
 Kerry was telling me, up the mountains. We must inquire 
 about them ; with eight or ten couple Mark could have good 
 sport in the glen. Then there 's those bills of Callaghau's, 
 — but he '11 not press hard when he sees we 've money. 
 Cassidy must get his £800, and so he shall ; and that scoun- 
 drel, Swaby, will be sending in his bill of costs ; but a 
 couple of hundred pounds ought to stop his mouth. Arch}^, 
 too, — by Jove, I forget how much I owe him now ; but he 
 does n't, I '11 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 happened 
 the craft nor the crew afterwards. 
 
 His next thought was how to effect all the legal arrange- 
 ments 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 liqui- 
 dated ; 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 harassing cares of debt 
 and difficulty was a boon of inestimable 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 
 enjoj^ments 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. 
 
242 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 and to make such arrangements as might enable them to 
 live economically but comfortably, paying off those creditors 
 whose exorbitant interest was consuming all the remnant 
 of his income, and entering into contracts with others for 
 the gradual repayment of 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 
 like cowardice to surrender now ; besides, the very complica- 
 tion of his affairs offered an excuse which he was not slow 
 to catch at. How could he pay Cassidy in full, and only 
 give Hickson a part? Would not the mere rumor of his 
 paying off his debts bring down a host of demands that had 
 almost slumbered themselves out of existence. He had 
 often heard that his grandfather " muddled awa}^ 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 ex- 
 penditure would do more to silence the complaints of duns 
 than the most accurately calculated 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 vigor. 
 No sooner had he decided on his line of acting, than he de- 
 spatched Kerry O'Leary to Cork with a letter for Swaby, 
 his attorney, requiring his immediate presence at Carrigna- 
 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 to- 
 gether." 
 
 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 remaining sorrow he felt 
 for his share in the transaction gave way to the vulgar pleas- 
 ure of this surprise ; for, so it is, the conflict with poverty 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 243 
 
 can debase the mind, and make the very straits and strata- 
 gems of want seem straits of cleverness and ability. 
 
 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 enjoy- 
 ment, and the galling 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," muttered he, '* and 
 even Herbert, too, — Herbert, that used to look up to and 
 rely on me, — even he shuns me." He did not utter his 
 cousin's name, but 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 courtyard, 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 agree- 
 able; 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. 
 
244 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 wis- 
 dom derived from reflection, and the experience of long 
 intercourse with the world ; while, as if to relieve the sombre 
 coloring of his thoughts, Kate's lively sallies 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 polite intercourse in the world of 
 the cultivated and the fashionable ; and although Sir Archy 
 had long been removed from such companionship, 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 differ- 
 ent ages, — they sat, after dinner, watching, through the 
 unshuttered window, the bright moonlight that streamed 
 across the glen and glittered on the lake, the conversation, 
 from some reference to the scenery, turned to the condi- 
 tion of Ireland, and the then state of her people. Sir Mar- 
 maduke, notwithstanding his late experiences, fully main- 
 taining the accuracy of his own knowledge in matters which 
 have not ceased to puzzle even wiser heads, gained confi- 
 dence 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 re- 
 bellion ; that the organization of revolt was perfect, and 
 only waiting French co-operation to burst forth. But how 
 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 over-likely 
 to mak' ye a confidant if they intend a rising," was the 
 dry observation of M'Nab. 
 
SOME OPPOSITE TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 245 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 "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 did not have a brush 
 with them every thirty or forty years ; and, if I don't mis- 
 take, 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 actu- 
 ally 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 surprise. 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 extinguished, 
 leaving the dark mountain black and gloomy as before. 
 
 "What can it mean?" said Sir Marmaduke, in amaze- 
 ment. " Can it be some signal of the smugglers? I under- 
 stand 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 expla- 
 nation," said Fred Travers. " She is the only one here not 
 surprised 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 started at the strange meaning 
 the words seemed to convey. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A WALK BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The visit alluded to in the last chapter formed the first step 
 to au acquaintance which speedily ripened into intimacy. 
 Seldom a day passed without some interchange of civilities ; 
 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 supplies 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 frankl}^ and 
 openly with each other. 
 
 How little, now, did Sir Marmaduke remember of all Sir 
 Archy's peculiarities of manner and expression I 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 
 discrepancy 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 glittering talents of her Irish 
 friend — the warm and senerous slow of her ima2;ination — 
 
A WALK BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 the brilliant flashes of her wit — the ready eloquence of 
 tongue ; and, perhaps, not least of all, the intrepid fearless- 
 ness 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 b}' self-love ? — how fre- 
 quently are we led to think highly and speak praisingly of 
 qualities the opposite to our own, from the self-satisfaction 
 our apparent impartiality yields us. Justice must, indeed, 
 be 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 Sybella's character 
 was as free from taint as was Sybella's heartfelt enthusiasm 
 for the Irish girl. As for Frederick Travers, the same dis- 
 similarity 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 
 estimation ; and any idea of a comparison between them 
 would now have appeared ridiculous. It was true many of 
 her opinions savored of a nationality 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 to her mind 
 that grew more confirmed with years. The immediate cir- 
 cumstances 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 then- great defects. In Mark she saw one whose 
 spirit seemed crushed and stunned, and not awakened by the 
 pressure of misfortune. Herbert, with all his kindliness of 
 nature and open-heartedness, appeared more disposed to 
 enjoy the sunshine of life than to prepare himself to buffet 
 with its storms. 
 
 How often she wished she had been a boy ; how many a 
 da3^-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 
 
248 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 ardor 
 of the French 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 return 
 to Carrignacurra, which, as the night was fine and the moon 
 nearly at her full, they did on foot. Kate, who rarely 
 accepted an arm when 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 travers- 
 ing had been the scene. It was a faithless massacre of a 
 chieftain and his followers, seduced under pretences of 
 friendship 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 with their swords, and that here, where we now stand, 
 she should once more become his own. The hour was sun- 
 set, 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 you still that the great rock was never split until that 
 night. Their 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 with your 
 story." 
 
A WALK BY MOONLIGHT. 249 
 
 "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 anxious 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 born, 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?" whispered Travers, softly. 
 
 "I scarcely know," continued Kate, with an accent less 
 assured than before. '"I 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's arm, and 
 exclaimed, "Did you see that?" 
 
 "I thought some dark object moved by the roadside." 
 
 "I saw a man pass, as if from behind us, and gain the 
 thicket yonder; 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 Gienflesk. 
 Let us join my uncle, however, for I see he has left us 
 some distance behind him ; " and while they hastened for- 
 ward she resumed her story with the same unconcern as 
 before the interruption. 
 
 Travers listened 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 roadside, — "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 endeavored to turn the application of her speech 
 by some commonplace compliment about her own powers of 
 inflicting bondage ; but she stopped him suddenly with, — 
 
 "Nay, nay; these are not jesting themes, although you 
 
250 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 may deem them unsuited for one as ignorant and inexpe- 
 rienced 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 ardor, he pushed farther than calmer judg- 
 ment might warrant, they shook hands cordially, and 
 parted. 
 
 "He 's a fine-hearted fellow, too," thought Kate, as she 
 slowl}^ moved along in silence. "Saxon though he be, 
 there 's a chord in his bosom that responds to the touch of 
 truth and honor." 
 
 "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 fre- 
 quently 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 there are marauders about." 
 
 Mark blushed till his face became scarlet, and, turning 
 abruptly away, sought his own room in silence. 
 
 I 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOTIATIONS. 
 
 The time was now approaching when the Traverses were 
 to remove to the capital, and, at Sybella's m-gent entreaty. 
 Sir Marmaduke was induced to request that Kate O'Dono- 
 ghue 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 correspon- 
 dence, was opened by Kate herself. Scarcely had she 
 thrown her eyes over its contents, when, with a heightened 
 color, and a slight tremor in her voice, she passed the letter 
 across the table to her uncle, and said, " This is for yoilr 
 consideration, sir." 
 
 "Then you must read it for me, Kate," replied 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 favor, just tell me what it is 
 about, — polite 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, 
 
252 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 to take our darling Kate away from us, for a season, and 
 show her some of the life and gayeties of the capital." 
 
 "Well, that is handsomely done, at least," said the 
 O'Donoghue, whose first thought sprang from gratified 
 pride at the palpable evidence of social consideration ; then 
 suddenly changing 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 
 the 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," said 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 have brought 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 were to be a short one." 
 
 "And I wad hae nae objection the capital should see 
 yersel'," said Sir Arch}^, "albeit I may lose a sweetheart 
 by my generosity." 
 
 "Have no fears of my fidelity," said Kate, laughing, as 
 she extended 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 
 
A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOTIATIONS. 
 
 to their country may well be suspected of having less 
 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 as yours are but too ready 
 teachers : be cautious, lassie. This country, however others 
 may think, is on the eve of some mighty struggle ; the peo- 
 ple 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 fortunes?" cried Kate, eagerly; 
 for the warning, so far from conveying the intended moral, 
 only stimulated her ardor and excited her curiosity. 
 
 "The gentry," replied Sir Archy, in a firm, decided tone^ 
 " are better satisfied to live under a government they dis- 
 like than to be at the mercy of a rabble they despise. I 
 hae 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 outlive the evil memories of the past. We want here — 
 time to blunt the acuteness of former and long-past suffer- 
 ings; 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 they loved, 
 lassie," said M'Nab, in a tone whose fen^or contrasted with 
 his former accent. 
 
254 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "And will you tell me that the principle of freedom is 
 not more sacred than the person of the sovereign ? " said 
 Kate, tauntingl3\ 
 
 "There can be nae mistake about the one, but folks may 
 have vara unsettled notions of the other," said he, dryly; 
 "but we maunna 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," replied 
 she, with an air of defiance which it was impossible to pro- 
 nounce more real 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 laboring his wearied horse up the steep ascent to the 
 castle. 
 
 "It's Swaby, father," cried Herbert, who immediately 
 recognized the equipage of the Cork attorney, and felt a 
 certain uneasiness come over him at the unexpected 
 appearance. 
 
 "What brings him down to these parts? " said the 
 O'Donoghue, affecting an air of surprise. "On his way to 
 Killarney, 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 appearance at once, his progress to the draw- 
 ing-room being arrested by Sir Archy, who, with a signifi- 
 cant gesture, motioned him to follow him to his chamber. 
 
 "I will not 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 your secrecy." 
 
 Mr. Swaby closed one eye, and placed the tip of his finger 
 on his nose, — a pantomime intended to represent the most 
 perfect fidelity. 
 
 "I happen," resumed Sir Arch}', apparently satisfied 
 with this pledge, — "I happen at this moment to need a 
 
A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOTIATIONS. 255 
 
 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 require 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 parch- 
 ments. '' 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 Ballyrickau property, and I could not 
 get any one to advance me sixpence. The country is un- 
 settled, you see. There 's a notion abroad that we '11 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 Pre- 
 tender got some of your countrymen into a pretty scrape 
 with his tricks. There are fools to be had for asking 
 everywhere." 
 
 "We will no discuss this question just noo," said Sir 
 Archy, snappishly; "and, to return to the main point, 
 please to inform me, is this loan impracticable ? " 
 
 "I did n't say it was, all out," said Swaby. "In about a 
 week or two — " 
 
 "I must know before three days," interrupted M'Nab. 
 
 ''His honor's waiting for Mr. Swaby," said Kerry, who 
 now appeared 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; "but I 'm thinking I 've 
 
256 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 hit on a way to meet your wishes, so we '11 talk of the 
 matter again this evening;" and thus saying, he withdrew, 
 leaving Sir Arehy 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 favorable 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 Swab}^ 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 neces- 
 sary, 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, recognizing with practised acuteness how far 
 he could turn such unlooked-for prosperity to his own pur- 
 poses, and subsidize one brother-in-law at the expense of 
 both. 
 
 While thus each within the limit of this narrow house- 
 hold was following out the thread of his destiny, eagerly 
 bent on his own object, Kate O'Donoghue sat alone at the 
 window of her chamber, buried in deep thought. The pros- 
 pect of her approaching visit to the capital presented itself 
 in so many aspects that, while offering pleasures and 
 enjoyments none relished more highly than herself, she yet 
 saw difficulties which might render the step unadvisable, 
 if not perilous. Of all considerations, money was the one 
 which least had occupied an}^ share in her calculations; yet 
 now she bethought herself that expense must necessarily be 
 incurred which 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 
 
A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOTIATIONS. 257 
 
 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 believed a 
 point of principle to be engaged; and the only difficulty 
 now lay how and in what manner to refuse an offer prof- 
 fered 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 backwards and for- 
 wards 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 hesi- 
 tated ; 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 
 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 
 suspicious of that fellow Kerry, who frequently plays the 
 eavesdropper here — " 
 
 "Not when you are alone, Mark?" said Kate, smiling. 
 
 "Ay, even then. I have a foolish 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? Yes, yes; I remember something of it now. You 
 must forgive me, cousin, if these careless habits take the 
 shape of rudeness." He seemed overwhelmed with con- 
 
 VOL. I. — 17 
 
258 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 fusion, as he added, "I know not why I put it into my 
 pocket; here it is." 
 
 And so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat a 
 crushed 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, she 
 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 Mark's 
 morose, sullen humor was the discontent of one who felt the 
 ignominy of an inglorious life, — that habits of reckless- 
 ness 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. She 
 pondered long on this theme, and fancied how, under cir- 
 cumstances favorable to their development, Mark's good 
 qualities and courageous temper had won for him both 
 fame and honor. "And here," exclaimed she, half aloud, 
 — "here he may live and die a peasant!" 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 confi- 
 dence ; indeed, the intense interest 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, 
 
A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOTIATIONS. 259 
 
 and arms for double the number. Youghal is talked of as a suit- 
 able spot ; and H. has sent charts, etc., over. Above all, be 
 patient ; trust no rumors, 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 correspondence discovered would ruin all. 
 
 Y''ours ever, and in the cause, 
 
 H. R. 
 
 Here, then, was the youth she had been commiserating 
 for his career 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 preoccupation and his gloom? Was it to concen- 
 trate his faculties on such a scheme that he lived this lonely 
 and secluded life? "Oh, Mark, Mark, how have I mis- 
 judged you! '* she exclaimed, and, as she uttered the words, 
 came the thought, quick as a lightning flash, to her mind, — 
 what terrible hazards such a temperament as his must incur 
 in an enterprise like this; without experience of men or 
 any knowledge of the world whatever; without habitual 
 prudence or caution of any kind, — the very fact of his mis- 
 taking the letter a palpable evidence of his 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 fascinated 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 con- 
 jured 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 
 scoffed at the miserable part of such as, endowed with high 
 
260 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 interested? What misery was in this 
 fear ! 
 
 Each moment increased the agony of this reflection, while 
 her doubts as to how she ought to act thickened around her. 
 Sir Archy alone was capable of advising her; his calm and 
 unbiassed reason 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, to learn from him as much as 
 lay in her power of the dangers and difficulties of the medi- 
 tated revolt, and if unable to dissuade him from participa- 
 tion, 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 w^as not so easy of 
 accomplishment. A dozen times she endeavored, 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 dissatisfied 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 ven- 
 turous career would expose him, she felt how every word 
 contradicted the tenor of her own assertions for many a 
 
 
A DAY or DIFFICULT NEGOTIATIONS. 261 
 
 day and week previous. In utter despair how to act, she 
 ended by enclosing the letter with merely these few 
 words : — 
 
 1 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 little 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, dryly; while at the same moment his eye caught the 
 letter bearing Mark O'Donoghue's name. 
 
 Kate saw on what his glance was fixed, and grew red 
 with shame and confusion. 
 
 "Be it so then, uncle," said she, resolutely. "I do not 
 seek 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 say- 
 ing, he pressed her hand fervently between his own and left 
 the room. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A LAST EVENING AT HOME. 
 
 With the experience of past events to guide us, it would 
 appear now that a most unaccountable apathy existed in 
 the English Cabinet of the period with regard to the plan 
 of invasion meditated against Ireland by France ; nor is it 
 easy to determine whether this indifference proceeded more 
 from ignorance of the danger, or that amount of 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 impediment or molestation; statistical 
 information the most minute was forwarded to Paris every 
 week. The state of popular opinion, the condition of 
 parties, the amount of troops disposable by Government, 
 even the spirit which animated them, were reported and 
 commented on, and made the subject of discussion in the 
 " bureau " of the War Minister of France. To such an 
 extent was this system carried that more than once the 
 French authorities became suspicious regarding the veracity 
 of statements, from the very facility with which their 
 details were communicated, and hinted that such regularity 
 in correspondence might be owing to the polite attentions 
 of the English Cabinet; and to this distrust is in a great 
 measure to be attributed the vacillatins^ and hesitatinoj 
 policy which marked their own deliberations. 
 
 Tone's letters show the wearisome toil of his negotia- 
 tion; the assurances of aid, obtained after months of pain- 
 ful, harassing solicitation, deferred or made dependent on 
 some almost impossible conditions; guarantees demanded 
 from him which he neither could nor would accord ; infor- 
 
A LAST EVENING AT HOME. 263 
 
 mation 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 acknowledgments 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. Mean- 
 while, the insurgents spared no efforts to organize a power- 
 ful 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 undis- 
 ciplined and almost unarmed masses, still they looked 
 plausible on paper, and vouched for the willingness of the 
 people to throw off the yoke of England. 
 
 It is now w^ell 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 terrible scenes they had witnessed abroad, and thus the 
 " patriots " lost the aid which, more than any other, could 
 have stirred the heart of the nation. Abstract principles 
 of liberty are not the most effective appeals to a people; 
 and although the French agents were profuse of promises, 
 and the theme of English oppression could be chanted with 
 innumerable variations, the right chord of native sentiment 
 was never touched, and few joined the cause save those 
 who, in ever}^ country and in every age, are patriots, 
 — because they are paupers. Some, indeed, like the 3'oung 
 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 
 
264 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 fascinated with a scheme which exalted themselves into 
 positions of trust and importance. The necessity of em- 
 ploying this lure, and giving the adherents of the cause 
 their share of power and influence, was another great source 
 of weakness. Diversity of opinion arose on everj- subject; 
 personal altercations of the bitterest kind, reproaches and 
 insinuations, passed continually between them, and it needed 
 all the skill and management of the chiefs to reconcile, 
 even temporarily, these discordant ingredients, and main- 
 tain any semblance of agreement among these "United 
 Irishmen." 
 
 Among those who lived away from such scenes of con- 
 flict the great complaint was the delay. "What are we 
 waiting for?" "When are we to strike the blow?" were 
 the questions ever arising; and their inability to answer 
 such satisfactorily to the people only increased their chagrin 
 and disappointment. If the sanguine betrayed impatience, 
 the despondent — and there are such in every cause — 
 showed signs of vacillation, and threw out dark hints of 
 treachery and betrayal ; while between both were the great 
 masses, moved by every passing rumor, and as difficult to 
 restrain to-day as impossible to muster to-morrow. 
 
 Such, briefly, was the condition of the party into which 
 Mark O'Donoghue threw his fortune in life, as reckless of 
 his fate as he was ignorant of the precise objects in view, 
 or the means proposed for their accomplishment. 
 
 His influence among the people was considerable. Inde- 
 pendently of all claims resulting from his name and family, 
 he was individually a great favorite 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 peo- 
 ple; and thus Herbert, who scarcely ever uttered a harsh 
 word, whose daily visits to the sick were a duty Sir Archy 
 expected from him, whose readiness to oblige was the theme 
 of every tongue, was less their favorite than his brother. 
 
 This influence, which, through Lauty Lawler, was soon 
 reported to the delegates in Dublin, was the means of 
 Mark's being taken into special confidence, and of a com- 
 
A LAST EVENING AT HOME. 265 
 
 mand beiug conferred on him, for the duties and privileges 
 of which, he was informed, a few days would sufficiently 
 instruct him. 
 
 Nearly a week had elapsed from the day on which Kate 
 addressed her note to Mark, and he had not yet returned 
 home. Such absences were common enough; but now she 
 felt an impatience almost amounting to agony at the 
 thought of what treasonable and dangerous projects he 
 might be engaged in, and the doubt became a torture how 
 far she ought to conceal her own discovery from others. 
 
 At length came the evening before her own departure 
 from Carrignacurra, and they were seated around the tea- 
 table, thoughtful and silent by turns, as are they who meet 
 for the last time before separation. Although she heard 
 with pleasure the announcement that Herbert would be her 
 companion to the capital, where he was about to take up 
 his residence as a student in Trinity College, her thoughts 
 wandered away to the gloomier fortunes of Mark, darker as 
 they now seemed in comparison with the prospects opening 
 before his brother. 
 
 Of all the party Herbert alone was in good spirits. The 
 career was about to begin which had engrossed all his. boy- 
 ish ambition, — the great race of intellect his very dreams 
 had dwelt upon. What visions did he conjure of emulative 
 ardor to carry off the prize among his companions, and 
 win fame that might reflect its lustre on all his after life. 
 From his very childhood Sir Archy had instilled into him 
 this thirst for distinction, wisely substituting such an ambi- 
 tion for any other less ennobling. He had taught him to 
 believe that there would be more true honor in the laurels 
 there won than in all the efforts, however successful, to bring 
 back the lost glories of their once proud house. And now 
 he was on the very threshold of that career his heart was 
 centred in. No wonder is it, then, if his spirits were high 
 and his pulse throbbing. Sir Archy's eyes seldom wan- 
 dered from him. He seemed as if reading the accomplish- 
 ment 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. 
 
266 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 The O'Douoghue 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 adieus are said forever. 
 He could not help those gloomy forebodings, and he was 
 silent and depressed. 
 
 Kate's attention wandered from the theme of Herbert's 
 anticipated pleasures to think again of him, for whom none 
 seemed now interested. She had listened long and anxiously 
 for some sound to mark his coming, but all was still with- 
 out, and on the road for miles the moonlight showed no 
 object moving; and at last a deep revery succeeded to this 
 state of anxiety, and she sat lost to all around her. Mean- 
 while, Sir Archy, in a low, impressive voice, was warning 
 Herbert of the dangers of involving himself in any way in 
 the conflicts of party politics then so high in Dublin. 
 
 He cautioned him to reject those extreme opinions so 
 fascinating to young minds, and which either give an un- 
 warrantable bias to the judgment through life, or which, 
 when their fallacy is detected, lead to a reaction as violent 
 and notions as false. "Win character and reputation first, 
 Herbert; gain the position from which your opinions will 
 come with influence, and then, my boy, with judgment not 
 rashly formed, and a mind trained to examine great ques- 
 tions, then you may fearlessly enter the lists, free to choose 
 your place and party. You cannot be a patriot this way, 
 in the newspaper sense of the term. It is possible, too, 
 our dear Kate may deem your ambition a poor one — " 
 
 ''Kate, did you say? — Kate, uncle?" said she, raising 
 her head with a look of abstraction. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, I was speaking o' some of the dangers 
 that beset the first steps in political opinion, and telling 
 Herbert that peril does not always bring honor." 
 
 "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 
 
A LAST EVENING AT HOME. 267 
 
 detected how inadvertently she had revealed the secret of 
 her own musings. 
 
 "Mark, my sweet Kate, is, I trust, in no need of my 
 warnings. He lives apart from the struggle; and, were it 
 otherwise, he is older, and more able to form his opinions 
 than Herbert here." 
 
 These words were spoken calmly, and with a studious 
 desire to avoid increasing Kate's confusion. 
 
 "What about Mark?" cried the O'Donoghue, suddenly 
 aroused by the mention of the name. ''It's very strange 
 he should not be here to say 'good-bye' to Kate. Did any 
 one tell him of the time fixed for your departure ? " 
 
 '*I told him of it, and he has promised to be here," said 
 Herbert. "He was going to Beerhaven for a day or two 
 for the shooting, but, droll enough, he has left his gun 
 behind him." 
 
 "The boy's not himself at all, latterly," muttered the 
 old man. "Lanty brought up two horses here the other 
 day, and he would not even go to the door to look at them. 
 I don't know what he 's thinking of." 
 
 Kate never spoke, and tried with a great effort to main 
 tain a look of calm unconcern; when, with that strange 
 instinct so indescribable and so inexplicable, she felt Sir 
 Archy's eyes fixed upon her, her cheek became deadly 
 pale. 
 
 "There — there he comes, and at a slapping pace, too! " 
 cried Herbert; and as he spoke the clattering sound of a 
 fast gallop was heard ascending the causeway, and the next 
 moment the bell sent forth a loud summons. 
 
 "I knew he 'd keep his word," said the boy, proudly, as 
 he walked to meet him. The door opened, and Frederick 
 Travers appeared. 
 
 So unexpected was the disappointment, it needed all Sir 
 Archy's practised politeness to conceal from the young 
 Guardsman the discomfiture of the rest. Nor did he entirely 
 succeed, for Frederick was no common observer, and failed 
 not to detect in every countenance around that his was not 
 the coming looked for. 
 
 "I owe a thousand apologies for the hour of my visit, 
 not to speak of its abruptness," said he, graciously; "but 
 
268 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 we only learned accidentally to-day that Herbert was going 
 up to Dublin, and my father sent me to request ne would 
 join our party." 
 
 "He is about to enter college," said Sir Archy, half 
 fearing to divert the youth's mind from the great object of 
 his journey. 
 
 "Be it so," said Fred, gayly. "We'll talk Virgil and 
 Homer on the road." 
 
 "I 'm afraid such pleasant companionship may put Greece 
 and Kome in the background," said Sir Archy, dryly. 
 
 "I '11 answer for it, he '11 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?" 
 
 "1 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 sub- 
 ject ; 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 womanl}^ perti- 
 nacity, 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 'bygones be 
 bygones.' " 
 
 "I hae taught her nothing Scotch, sir," replied Sir 
 Archy, smiling, "but to love a thistle, and that e'en 
 because it has a sting." 
 
 "Not for those that know how to take it, uncle," said 
 she, archly, and with a fond expression that lit up the old 
 man's face in smiles. 
 
 The Guardsman was less at his ease than usual; and, 
 having arranged the matter of his visit satisfactorily, arose 
 to take his leave. 
 
" A LAST EVENING AT HOME. 269 
 
 *'Then you '11 be ready for me at eight, Herbert. My 
 father is a martinet in punctuality, and the phaeton will 
 not be a second behind time; remember that, Miss O'Dono- 
 ghue, for he makes no exception, even for ladies." 
 
 He moved towards the door; then, turning suddenly, 
 said, — 
 
 "By the by, have you heard anything of a movement in 
 the country here about us? The Government have appar- 
 ently got some information on the subject, but I suspect 
 without any foundation whatever." 
 
 "To what extent does this information go?" said Sir 
 Archy, cautiously. 
 
 "That I can't tell you. All I know is, that my father 
 has just received a letter from the Castle, stating that we 
 are living in the very midst of an organized rebellion, only 
 waiting the signal for open revolt." 
 
 "That same rebellion has been going on, to my knowl- 
 edge, something more than forty years," said the O'Dono- 
 ghue, laughing; "and I never knew of a lord-lieutenant or 
 chief secretary who did n'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 no come to a hatching yet," said 
 Sir Archy, with a dry shake of the head. 
 
 "If it is to come, I wish with all my heart it might while 
 I have a chance of being a spectator," said Travers. 
 Then, suddenly remembering that the levity of the remark 
 might not please the others, he muttered a few words about 
 a hope of better prospects, and withdrew. 
 
 During this brief colloquy, Kate listened with breathless 
 interest to learn some fact, or even some well-grounded sus- 
 picion, 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 
 anything he knew. Was he in a position to learn more? 
 was the next question to herself; might he not be able to 
 ascertain where the suspicion of Government rested, and 
 on whom? Her decisions were seldom but the work of a 
 second, and, as soon as this thought struck her, she deter- 
 mined to act upon it. Slipping noiselessly from the room, 
 
270 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 she hastily threw a shawl around her, and hurried from the 
 house by a small postern door which, leading down to the 
 high road, was considerably shorter than the causeway by 
 which Travers must pass. 
 
 It was no time for the indulgence of bashfulness, and, 
 indeed, her thoughts were far too highly excited by an- 
 other's destiny to leave any room to think of herself; and, 
 short as the path was, it sufficed to let her arrange her plan 
 of procedure, even to the very words she should employ. 
 
 "I must not tell him it is for Mark," said she; "he must 
 think it is a general desire to save any rash or misguided 
 enthusiast from ruin. But here he comes." And at the 
 same instant the figure of a man was seen approaching, lead- 
 ing his horse by the bridle. The dark shadow of the castle 
 fell across the road at the spot, and served to make the 
 form dim and indistinct. Kate waited not for his coming 
 nearer, but, advancing hastily towards him, cried out, — ; 
 
 "Captain Travers, I have a favor to ask you, — one 
 which my coming thus to seek — " 
 
 "Say no more, Kate, lest I hear what was never intended 
 for my ears," said a low, deep voice. 
 
 "Mark — cousin Mark, is this you?" cried she, with 
 mingled pleasure and shame. 
 
 "Yes," replied he, in a tone of still deeper gravity; "I 
 grieve to disappoint you, — it is me." 
 
 "Oh, Mark, mistake me not, — do not TVTong 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 ??ie/" 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 j^ou 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. 
 
A LAST EVENING AT HOME. 271 
 
 stared fixedly at the figures before him, and then, taking off 
 his hat, said, — 
 
 ' ' Good-night, Miss O ' Donoghue. " 
 
 When Kate recovered the shock of this surprise, she 
 found herself alone, — Mark had disappeared ; and she now 
 returned slowly to the castle, her heart torn with opposing 
 emotions, among which wounded pride was not the least 
 poignant. 
 
CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 A SUPPER PARTY. 
 
 As we are about to withdraw our reader for a brief period 
 from the sceues 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 
 Carrignacurra, 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 conjm-e up no such memorials of 
 past pleasure as come from the objects and scenes asso- 
 ciated with days and nights of happiness. They appeal 
 with a force mere speculation never suggests, and bring 
 back all the lesser but more touching incidents of hourly 
 intercourse, so little at the time — so much when remem- 
 bered years afterwards. 
 
 The brightest moments of life are the most difficult to 
 recall; they are like the brilliant lights upon a landscape, 
 which we may revisit a hundred times, yet never behold 
 under the same favorable circumstances, nor gaze on with 
 the same enthusiasm as at first. It was thus that both the 
 O'Donoghue and Sir Archy now remembered her whose 
 presence lightened so many hours of solitude, and even 
 grafted hope upon the tree scathed and withered by evil 
 fortune. Several efforts to start a topic of conversation 
 were made by each, but all equally fruitless, and both 
 relapsed into a moody silence, from which they were sud- 
 denly aroused by a violent ringing at the gate, and the 
 
A SUPPER PARTY. 273 
 
 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 at the bell drowned the remainder of the 
 speech. 
 
 " We are about to hae company, I perceive," said Sir 
 Archy, looking cautiously about to secure his book and his 
 spectacles before retreating to his bedroom. 
 
 " Bedad, you guessed it," said Kerry, who, having re- 
 connoitred the party through a small window beside the 
 door, had now prudently adjourned to take counsel whether 
 to admit them. "There's eight or nine at laste, and it 
 isn't 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 clinched teeth. " Open the door this instant." 
 
 But the words were scarcely uttered, when a tremendous 
 crash resounded through the whole building, and then a 
 heavy noise like the fall of some weighty object. 
 
 "'Tis the window he's bruk in, — divil a lie," cried 
 Kerry, in an accent of unfeigned terror ; and, without wait- 
 ing a second, he rushed from the room to seek some place of 
 concealment from Mark's anger. 
 
 The clash of the massive chain was next heard, as it 
 banged heavily against the oak door; bolt after bolt was 
 quickly shot, and Mark, calling out, "Follow me, — this 
 way." rudely pushed wide the door and entered the tower. 
 A mere passing glance was enough to show that his ex- 
 
 VOL. I. — 18 
 
274 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 citement was not merely the fruit of passion ; his eyes 
 wild and bloodshot, his flushed cheek, his swollen and heavy 
 lips, all betrayed that he had drunk deeply. His cravat 
 was loose and his vest open, while the fingers of his right 
 hand were one mass of blood, from the violence with which 
 he had forced his entrance. 
 
 " Come along, Talbot — Holt, this way — come in, boys," 
 said he, calling to those behind. "I told them we should 
 find you here, though they insisted it was too late." 
 
 " Never too late to welcome a guest, Mark, but always 
 too early to part with one," cried the O'Donoghue, who, 
 although shocked at the condition he beheld his son in, 
 resolved to betray for the time no apparent consciousness 
 of it. 
 
 "This is my friend Harry Talbot, father, — Sir Archy 
 M'Nab, my uncle. Holt, where are you? I'll be hanged 
 if they 're not slipped away ; " and with a fearful impreca- 
 tion on their treachery, he rushed from the room, leaving 
 Talbot to make his own advances. The rapid tramp of 
 feet, and the loud laughter of the fugitives without, did 
 not for a second or two permit of his few words being 
 heard ; but his manner and air had so far assured Sir Archy 
 that he stopped short as he was about to leave the room, and 
 saluted him courteously. 
 
 "It would be very ungracious in me," said Talbot, smil- 
 ing, " to disparage my friend Mark's hospitable intentions, 
 but in truth I feel so much ashamed for the manner of our 
 entry here this evening that I cannot express the pleasure 
 such a visit would have given me under more becoming 
 circumstances." 
 
 Sir Archibald's surprise at the tone in which these words 
 were delivered did not prevent him making a suitable reply, 
 while, relinquishing his intention of retiring, he extinguished 
 his candle, and took a seat opposite Talbot. 
 
 Having in an early chapter of our tale presented this 
 gentleman to our reader's notice, we have scarcely any- 
 thing to add on the present occasion. His dress, indeed, 
 was somewhat different: then, he wore a riding costume, 
 — now, he was habited in a frock richly braided, and orna- 
 mented with a deep border of black fur ; a cap of the same 
 
A SUPPER PARTY. 275 
 
 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 his apart- 
 ment, 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 '11 break every bone in your 
 skin." 
 
 "I request you will not order any refreshment for me, 
 sir," said Talbot, bowing : "we partook of a very excellent 
 supper at a little cabin in the glen, where, among other 
 advantages, I had the pleasure of making your son's 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " Ah, indeed, at Mary's," said the old man. " There 
 are worse places than that little ' shebeen ' : but you must 
 permit me to offer you a glass of claret, which never tastes 
 the worse in company with a grouse-pie." 
 
 "You must hae found the travelling somewhat rude in 
 these parts," said M'Nab, who thus endeavored to draw 
 from the stranger some hint either as to the object or the 
 road of his journey. 
 
 " We were not over particular on that score," said Talbot, 
 laughing. "A few young college men, seeking some days' 
 amusement in the wild mountains of this picturesque dis- 
 trict, could well afford to rough it for the enjoyment of the 
 ramble." 
 
 "You should visit us in the autumn," said O'Donoghue, 
 "when our heaths and arbutus blossoms are in beauty; 
 then, they who have travelled far, tell me that there is 
 nothing to be seen in Switzerland finer than this valley. 
 Draw your chair over here, and let me have the pleasure 
 of a glass of wine with you." 
 
276 
 
 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 The party had scarcely taken their places at the table, 
 when Mark re-entered the room, heated and excited with 
 the chase of the fugitives. 
 
 "They're off," muttered he, angrily, "down the glen, 
 and I only hope they may lose theii' 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 
 
 endeavoring 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. 
 
A SUPPER PARTY. 277 
 
 *' O master, darliu' ! — O Sir Archy dear! — O Joseph 
 and Mary ! " 
 
 " I 've drunk 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'Douoghue, as he took the bottle from Kerry's hand, who, 
 with a pace a kangaroo might have envied, approached the 
 table, actually dreading to stand up straight in Mark's 
 presence. 
 
 "At the risk of being thought an epicure," said M'Nab, 
 " I maun say I 'd like my wine handled more tenderly." 
 
 " It was cleverly done, though," said Talbot, helping 
 himself to a bumper from the broken flask. " I remember 
 a trick we used to have at St. Cyr, which was, to place a 
 bullet on a cork, and then, at fifteen paces, cut away the 
 cork, and drop the bullet into the bottle." 
 
 " No man ever did that twice," cried Mark, rudely. 
 
 "I'll wager a hundred guineas I do it twice, within five 
 shots," said Talbot, with the most perfect coolness. 
 
 " Done, for a hundred, — I say done," said Mark, slap- 
 ping him familiarly on the shoulder. 
 
 "I'll not win your money on such unfair terms," said 
 Talbot, laughing; "and if I can refrain from taking too 
 much of this excellent Bordeaux, I '11 do the trick to-morrow 
 without a wager." 
 
 Mark, like most persons who place great store by feats 
 of skill and address, felt vexed at the superiority claimed 
 by another, answered carelessly, " that, after all, perhaps 
 the thing was easier than it seemed." 
 
 "Very true," chimed in Talbot, mildly; "what we have 
 neither done ourselves nor seen done by another, has always 
 the appearance of difficulty. What is called wisdom is little 
 other than the power of calculating success or failure on 
 grounds of mere probability." 
 
 " Your definition has the advantage of being sufficient 
 for the occasion," said Sir Archy, smiling. " I am happy 
 to find our glen has not disappointed you ; but if you have 
 
278 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 not seen the Lake and the Bay of Glengariff, I anticipate 
 even a higher praise from you." 
 
 "We spent the day on the water," replied Talbot; " and 
 if it were not a heresy, I should affirm that these bold moun- 
 tains 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, endeavoring, by 
 adroit allusions to the place, to divine the real reason of 
 the visit, and Talbot, by encomiums on the scenery, or, occa- 
 sionally, 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 mo- 
 ments, would not have interested him, filling and refilling 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 push- 
 ing 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, unconstrained 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 venture out to sea. Now, it 
 strikes me that in that very Bay of Bautry 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 — " 
 
A SUPPER PARTY. 279 
 
 *'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 warning he threw towards the young 
 O'Douoghue. 
 
 "Here, then," cried Mark, rising, while the wine trickled 
 over his hand from a brimming goblet, " I '11 give it, — are 
 you ready ? " 
 
 " All ready, Mark," said the O'Donoghue, laughing heart- 
 ily at the serious gravity of Mark's countenance. 
 
 "Confound it," cried the youth, passionately, "I forget 
 the jingle." 
 
 "Never mind — never mind," interposed Talbot, slyly; 
 "we'll pledge it with as good a mind." 
 
 "That's — that's it," shouted Mai'k, 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, burst- 
 ing forth into a well-acted laugh, cried out, " You must ex- 
 cuse 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." 
 
 " 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 vapor of his clouded intellect, and 
 
280 THE OTONOGHUE. 
 
 flashed light upon his addled brain. '-Let us hear your 
 explanation." 
 
 Mark, for a second or two, looked like one suddenly 
 awakened from a deep sleep, and trying to collect his 
 wandering faculties, while, as if instinctively seeking the 
 clew 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 forget 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, what- 
 ever sentiment it might have excited in the others, relieved 
 Talbot, at least, from all his former embarrassment: he 
 saw that Mark had, though late, recognized 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 suspicions, and make him regard this guest as 
 at least a very doubtful character. Too shrewd a diplo- 
 matist to push his inquiries any farther, he adroitly turned 
 the conversation upon matters of comparative indifference, 
 reserving to himself the part of acutely watching Talbot's 
 manner, and narrowly scrutinizing the extent of his acquain- 
 tance 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 
 
A SUPPER PARTY. 281 
 
 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 endeavoring, with such skill 
 as he possessed, 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 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 for 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 charit}^ to cut your 
 hair for you, anyhow ! " said Mrs. Branaghan, 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 av he was the 
 fifty O'Donoghues, I'd have my vingince. Bad cess to me, 
 but they think the likes of me is n't fit to live at all." 
 
 " They do," responded Mrs. Branaghan, with a mild puff 
 of smoke from the corner of her mouth — " they do ; and if 
 they never did worse than extarminate such varmin, their 
 sowls would have an easier 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 your head from morning to night. Ayeh, 
 is it your hearin' 's failin' ye ? " 
 
282 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "I wish to the Blessed Mother it was," muttered he, 
 fervently, to himself. 
 
 "There's a man now eatin' and drinkin' in the parlor, 
 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. 
 Branaghan 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. Branaghan; it's not that same I'd 
 even to you — sure I knew 3'our people — father and mother's 
 side — two generations back. Miles Buoy — Yallow Miles, 
 as they called him — was the finest judge of a horse in 
 Kerry^, — I wonder, now, he did n't make a power of money." 
 
 " And so he did, and spint it after. 'T was 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 
 sententiousness of one revolving some strange and curious 
 social anomaly ; " and that 's the way it wint? " 
 
 " Was n't it a likely way enough? " said Mrs. Branaghan, 
 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. Brauaghan's reply, and 
 Kerry resumed, — 
 
 "Them's the changes of the 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. Branaghan, to whom the rhetorical figure seemed 
 a direct appeal, did look ; and assuredly the inspection con- 
 veyed nothing flattering, for she turned away abruptl}^ and 
 smoked her pipe with an air of profound disdain. 
 
 " Faix, ye may say so," continued Kerry, converting her 
 
A SUPPER PARTY. 283 
 
 glance into words. '' 'T is a poor object I am this blessed 
 day. The coat on my back is more like a transparency, and 
 my small-clothes, saving your favor, 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 fas- 
 tened. "There now," resumed he, "yer a cute woman — 
 can ye tell me what 's the meanin' of that ? " 
 
 Mrs. Branaghan gave one look at the object in question, 
 and then turned away, as though the inquiry 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 observations were so many devices to induce Mrs. 
 Branaghan 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 '11 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 almanac with blank pages interleaved, some 
 of which had short pencil memoranda. I '11 leave them 
 
284 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 both there, for, somehow, I don't like the look of either of 
 them." 
 
 " Read us a bit of it first, anyhow," said Mrs. Branaghan, 
 in a more conciliating tone than she had yet employed. 
 
 " 'T is what I can't do, then," said Kerry, " for it 's writ 
 in some outlandish tongue that 's past me altogether." 
 
 " And 3"ou found them at the door, ye say? " 
 
 " Out there fornint the tower. 'T was 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 did n't know." 
 
 " Well, then, hear it, and no lie in it, — 't is for measurin* 
 the say." 
 
 " Measurin' the say ! What bother you 're talking ; is n't 
 the say thousands and thousands of miles long?" 
 
 " And who says it is n'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 
 surf." 
 
 "'Tis the smugglers again," chimed in Mrs. Branaghan, 
 as though 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 parlor, wid an innocent face on 
 me, and I '11 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 honor dropped at the door out- 
 side ; ' and maybe ould Archy won't have the saycret out of 
 him." 
 
A SUPPER PARTY. 286 
 
 *'Do that, Kerry avich," said Mrs. Branaghan, who at 
 length vouchsafed a hearty approval of his skill in devices, 
 — "do that, and I '11 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, insinuatingly. 
 
 " Sure I know how you like it; and if ye have the whole 
 of the saycret, maybe you 'd get a dhrop to wash it down 
 besides." 
 
 " And wish you health and happy days, Mrs. Branaghan," 
 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. 
 
 " ' 'T is the rope and the little book, your honor,' I '11 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 '11 run him home by himself 
 afterwards." 
 
 With this sensible reflection Kerry ascended the stairs 
 in high good humor 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 endeavoring to 
 moderate the violent tone in which he spoke, and success- 
 fully, 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. 
 
CHAPTER XXVni. 
 
 THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 
 
 Dublin, at the time we speak of, possessed social attrac- 
 tions of a high 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 kindliness and cordiality as dis- 
 tinctive 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 indifference with the Ger- 
 man, are insuperable barriers against this acquirement, the 
 natural gayety of Irish character, the buoyancy, but still 
 more than all, perhaps, the inherent desire to please, sug- 
 gest 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 attend- 
 ant 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 high, 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 splendor over the scene, that 
 
THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 287 
 
 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, and the advantages were evident ; for 
 while the aristocrat gained immeasurably from intercourse 
 with men whose pursuits w^ere purely intellectual, so the 
 latter acquired a greater expansiveness, and a wider lib- 
 erality in his views, from being divested of all the trammels 
 of mere professional habit, and threw off his pedantry as a 
 garment unsuited to his position in society. But what more 
 than all else was the characteristic of the time, was the fact 
 that social eminence — the siicces 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 bar- 
 rister ambitious of parliamentary distinction — from the 
 mere fashionable idler of the squares to the deeper 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 ab- 
 sence of conversational ability, ready wit, and sharp intel- 
 ligence, 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 forever. 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 rank, wealth, and in- 
 fluence, the arrival of Sir Marmaduke Travers was not with- 
 out 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 connections or friends in the country, coming to 
 
288 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 reside in Dublin, which gratified native pride as much as it 
 excited public 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 rumors of his intended magnificence, and the splendor 
 of his equipage, furnished gossip for the town and para- 
 graphs for the papers. 
 
 It was, indeed, a wondrous change for those two young 
 girls, — from the stillness and solitude of Glenflesk, to the 
 gayety of the capital, from a life of reflection and retire- 
 ment, to the dazzling scenes and fascinating 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 surrounded by influences so novel and so 
 strange ; and in this wise there was mingled with her 
 enjoyment a sense of hesitation and fear that tinged all 
 her thoughts, and even impressed themselves upon her 
 manner. Not so with Kate : the instinct that made her feel 
 at home in the world was but 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 influen- 
 cing 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, 
 dramatizing, 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 her- 
 self 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 ap- 
 pearance, these two young girls at once became the acknowl- 
 edged beauties of the capital, and each was followed by a 
 troop of admirers, whose enthusiasm exhibited itself in a 
 hundred different ways. Their favorite colors 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 orio;in. 
 
THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 289 
 
 While the galling enmity of Celt to Saxon was then stir- 
 ring 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 characteristic 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 en- 
 hanced 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 par- 
 tiality to be a fair and just judge. Sir Marmaduke Travers 
 <!andidly avowed that he felt himself out of court. The 
 leaders of fashion, the great arbiters of hon 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 loveliness and attraction. 
 
 So much for "the sensation," to use the phrase appro- 
 priated by the newspapers, their entrance into the fashion- 
 able life of Dublin 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 eman- 
 
 VOL. I. — 19 
 
290 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 cipated himself 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 
 color 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," 
 replied Sybella, laughing, " and I must say most unhand- 
 somely 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 could n't dance in time, with such beautiful clocks 
 on her stocking." 
 
 " Oh, Kate, dearest! " said Sybella, who, while she could 
 not refrain from a burst of laughter, became deep scarlet at 
 her friend's hardihood. 
 
 " Why, Meddlicot told that as his own at supper," said 
 Sir Marmaduke. 
 
 "So he did, su-; but I cautioned him that a license for 
 wholesale does not permit the retail even of jokes. Is n'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 reddened slightly 
 at the words. " I did not know he was appointed aide-de- 
 camp to the Viceroy." 
 
 " Nor did I, my dear," said Sir Marmaduke. " I knew 
 he was most anxious to make the exchange with Lord 
 Sellbridge ; but this is the first I have heard of the success 
 of his negotiation.'* 
 
 "You see, Kate," said Sybella, while a sly glance shot 
 beneath her long-lashed lids, " that even Fred has become 
 a partisan of Ireland." 
 
 " Perhaps the prospect of the revolt he hinted at," replied 
 Kate, with an air of scornful pride, " has made the Guards- 
 man prefer this country for the moment." 
 
THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 291 
 
 " I incline to a very different reason," said S^^bella, 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 paragraph 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 implicitly 
 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," replied 
 Sir Marmaduke, proudly, — for he commanded a regiment 
 of Northamptonshire Fencibles, — " strengthening the differ- 
 ent 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 officers 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 inevi- 
 tably make a drawn battle of it." 
 
 " My dear young lady," said Sir Marmaduke, with an 
 unusual gravity, " it is not exactly to our enemies 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 consequences regarding herself, " Colonel Delcamp called 
 
292 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 them ' arsenaux ambulants,' admirably contrived to provide 
 an invading army with arms and ammunition." 
 
 "I heartily wish your friend Colonel Delcamp would 
 favor us with a visit of inspection," said the baronet, scarcely 
 able to control his anger. 
 
 "I should not think the occurrence unlikely," was the 
 cool reply; " and if so, I may be permitted to assure you 
 that you will be much pleased with his manners and agree- 
 ability." 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 farther 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. While Sir Marmaduke and Sybella ex- 
 pressed their joy at his success, Kate, half chagrined at the 
 interruption to a game where she already deemed herself the 
 winner, walked towards the window and looked out. 
 
 " Have I nothing like congratulation to expect from Miss 
 O'Donoghue?" said Frederick, as he placed himself at her 
 side. 
 
 '' I scarcely knew if it were a subject where congratula- 
 tion 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 splendors of a second- 
 rate capital, — perhaps you might have smiled at the simpli- 
 city of wishing j^ou 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 
 offence 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 
 labored 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 CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 293 
 
 the territory and gaining the affections of a people. You 
 have succeeded in one ; you '11 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 con- 
 tained an allusion that bore upon his own fortune. 
 
 "There — there, su'," said Kate, proudly, "your very 
 request is an answer to yourself. We here, who have known 
 each other for some time, have had opportunities of inter- 
 changing opinions and sentiments, cannot understand a 
 simple matter in the same way, nor regard it in the same 
 light ; how do you suppose that millions, separated by dis- 
 tance, habits, and pursuits, can attain to what we, with our 
 advantages, have failed in? Can you not see that we are 
 not the same people ? " 
 
 "But need our dissimilitudes sever — may tney 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 anything there. 
 See the University, for instance. By the by," — 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 yester- 
 day 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 live without ambition of one sort 
 or other," replied 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? We might persuade him to join us at dinner, 
 too." 
 
 "Well thought of, Fred," said Sir Marmaduke. "Her- 
 bert seems to have forgotten us latterly, and knowing his 
 anxiety to succeed, I really scrupled at the thought of idling 
 him." 
 
294 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " It 's 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," whis- 
 pered Kate in her friend's ear ; and simple as the words 
 were, they called the blush to her cheek in an instant. 
 
 The morning passed away in the thousand little avoca- 
 tions which aflfiuence 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 its London appoint- 
 ments, drew up at the outer gate of the University ; the 
 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 quad- 
 rangles ; 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's 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 
 
THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 295 
 
 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 olive 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 fur- 
 ther trial, for it was only the head porter, dressed in his 
 crimson robe, and carrying his cap at arm's length before 
 him, who, followed by the Provost, issued forth : the stu- 
 dents 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 minute now," said Fred. 
 
 '' I think the hand has not moved for the last ten," said 
 Sybella, smiling faintly. 
 
 "I hope he has gained the prize," muttered Kate, below 
 her breath; and at the moment the bell tolled, and the wide 
 doors, as if burst 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 eyes flashing, the 
 dress disordered, the cravats awry, the hair tangled, — all 
 the signs of mental excitement, long and arduously sus- 
 tained, 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 sur- 
 rounded by troops of eager and anxious friends, and the 
 
296 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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's party, as, mingling with 
 the crowd, they cast their anxious looks on every side ; 
 but amid the bustle of the scene, the hurrying forms, and 
 the babble of tongues, they felt bewildered and confused. 
 
 "Let us try at his chambers," said Frederick; "he will, 
 in all likelihood, be there soon." 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 '11 only laugh at one of these days." 
 
 "Not so," said Kate; "the augury of success or failure 
 In the outset of life is no such trifle as you deem it. If he 
 be faint-hearted, the game is up with him forever; if he be 
 made of sterner stuff, as one of his name and house ought 
 to be, he '11 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. Uncon- 
 
THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 
 
 29T 
 
 scious of her presence, lost to everything save his over- 
 whelming affliction, the sobs came with 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 wei'e sunk, and surrounded 
 by dark circles that made them seem quite buried beneath 
 his brows. His forehead traversed by a network of blue 
 veins, had that transparent thinness mental labor impresses, 
 and his lips were thin and colorless ; while on each cheek a 
 burning spot of red looked like the mark of hectic. He 
 
298 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 made no answer, but the tears ran fast from bis eyes, and 
 ills 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 undervaluing 
 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 success," 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 natui'e to be deterred by one repulse, nor 
 yours the name to be stamped with failure because the con- 
 test is difficult. Ambitious are only noble when 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 
 
THE CAPITAL AND ITS PLEASURES. 2Q9 
 
 gushed forth afresh, — "last night, when hope was almost 
 certainty." 
 
 "Then I '11 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 contest, 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 persist- 
 ence, until at length, my temper excited and my brain on 
 fire, I said something, — I know not what, — but it was evi- 
 dently an offence, 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 other- 
 wise. 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 tome; only promise one thing, 
 — and mind, Herbert, this is a pledge there must be no for- 
 getting, — do all in your power; spare nothing to win the 
 next time. I care not whether you ever carry away an- 
 other prize within these walls ; but one you must have. Is 
 this agreed? — give me your hand upo-n it. There, that's 
 like your own self, and now don't waste another thought on 
 what 's bygone. The Traverses invited you to dine with 
 them to-day." 
 
 "Oh, no — no." 
 
 "No, I have no intention to press you, only come soon 
 to see us, — to see me." She kissed his forehead tenderly 
 as she spoke the last word, and glided rapidly from the 
 room. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 Kate O'Donoghue was more deeply affected by Herbert's 
 failure than she had let appear to the youth, or even con- 
 fessed to herself. It was not that the character of his 
 ambition enlisted her sympathies or engaged her interest. 
 Far from it; 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 trumpet, the tramp of marching hosts, and the 
 proud clangor of war. It was a time when the soldier was 
 everything. There was but one path in life by which to 
 win honor, rank, fame, and fortune. Even the humblest 
 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 hdton de marechal. 
 
 All she had ever seen of foreign society partook of this 
 character; for, strangely enough, on the ruin of an aristoc- 
 racy a new 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 peace- 
 ful 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, 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 301 
 
 thought no ambition above their daring; and she 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 percep- 
 tible 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- 
 nacurra 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 Hems- 
 worth entered the room a gentlemanlike person, of about 
 five-and-forty, tall and well-formed, with regular features, 
 rather melancholy in their expression than otherwise, 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 with- 
 out the slightest trace, that she could discover, of anything 
 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 affectation. 
 On the contrary, he seemed affable, like one who felt him- 
 self 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 surprised 
 Kate by the absence of any violent or exaggerated tone, 
 speaking of the people in terms of kindliness and even af- 
 fection; lauding the native virtues of their character, and 
 dwelling with pleasure on the traits which advantageously 
 distinguish them from the peasantry of other lands. 
 
302 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 She listened at first with suspicion and distrust, then, by 
 degrees, with interested attention, and, at last, with actual 
 delight, to the narrative he gave of the social condition of 
 Ireland ; in which he labored to show that a mistaken esti- 
 mate of the people by England — a misconception 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 con- 
 dition of insulting depreciation on one side, and proud 
 defiance on the other, which the two people 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 un- 
 convinced, — who ever was when worsted ? — and Frederick, 
 chagrined at the favor 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 inferior 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 Hems worth's face so adequatel}^ expressed 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 obliter- 
 ate 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 firm- 
 ness 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 particular events, of which another 
 might judge differently. For all he advanced he was ready 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 303 
 
 to show his reasons, — they might be shallow, they might 
 be iucouclusive, — but they were his, aucl, fortuuatel}^ for 
 his chance of winning her favor, 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 reasons 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 dan- 
 gerous when left without a career or a road to their ambi- 
 tion ; and from them any peril that may now be apprehended 
 will certainly come. Many young men of the best families 
 of the country, whose estates are deeply encumbered, heavy 
 mortgages and large dowries weighing them down, are 
 ready to join in any bold attempt which promises a new 
 order of things. They see themselves forgotten in the dis- 
 tribution of all patronage, excluded from every office; 
 sometimes for reasons of religion, sometimes for family, 
 even for a mere namesake. They are ready to play a bold 
 game, where losing is only quicker ruin, 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 consoli- 
 dated as England ? " 
 
 "Little, perhaps, as regards the overthrow of a govern- 
 ment, but a world of injury to the prospect of future quiet. 
 The rebellion of a week — ay, a day — in Ireland, will sow 
 the seeds of fifty years of miser}^, 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 labor under. I have a very large Irish acquain- 
 tance in London, and pleasanter, happier fellows cannot 
 exist than they are." 
 
 •' All the young men of family in Ireland are not in the 
 
304 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 conversation? " said Hemsworth. "I am sure 
 neither Miss Travers nor 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 coun- 
 try 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 satis- 
 factorily 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 disparity 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 in his examination, and I have 
 promised to break the news to my uncle, — not so difficult a 
 task as the poor boy deems, but one to which he is himself 
 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 was in 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 305 
 
 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 examination, when 
 the following few lines, written with trembling hand, 
 appeared : — 
 
 "They say I shall gain it. H called my translation 
 
 of Horace a brilliant one, and asked the Vice-Provost to 
 listen 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 mis- 
 fortune. My dear cousin has failed." 
 
 She followed these few lines by a 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 honor 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 toilsome 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 or evil 
 on his future life; for myself, I feel the even current of 
 prosperity is but a sluggish dream that calls for no efforts 
 to stem its tide; and, were his grief over, I 'd rather rejoice 
 that he has found a conflict, because he may now discover 
 he has courage to meet it. 
 
 VOL. I. — 20 
 
306 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "Even I, to follow a theme so dispiriting, — even I grow 
 weary of pleasure, and tire of gayety. 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 Glen- 
 flesk. It is not that Dublin Is not very brilliant, 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 favor 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 ofteuer 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 
 inevitably 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 four- 
 score, guardsmen of twenty, dignitaries in the church, Ser- 
 jeants 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 rohe^ couleur de cerise, looped with white roses, and 
 my chapeau de paysane, 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 
 eyelashes 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. 
 
FIEST IMPRESSIONS. 307 
 
 " I have met Hemsworth, and, strange to say, found him 
 both pleasant and agreeable." 
 
 Such were the concluding lines of an epistle in which 
 few who did not possess Sii* Archy's acuteness could suc- 
 cessfully trace anything of the real character of the writer. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES. 
 
 At the time we speak of, Clontarf was the fashionable 
 watering-place of the inhabitants of Dublin; and, although 
 it boasted of little other accommodation than a number of 
 small thatched cabins could afford, and from which the 
 fishermen removed to give place to their more opulent 
 guests, yet thither the great and the wealthy of the capital 
 resorted in summer to taste the pleasures of a seaside, and 
 that not inferior one, the change of life and habit entailed 
 by altered circumstances and more restricted spheres of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 If, with all the aid of sunshine and blue water, waving 
 foliage and golden beach, this place had an aspect of 
 modest poverty in its whitened walls and net-covered gar- 
 dens in summer, in winter its dreariness and desolation 
 were great indeed. The sea swept in long waves the nar- 
 row road, even to the doors of the cabins, the muddy foam 
 settling on the window-sills, and even drifting to the very 
 roofs; the thatch was fastened down with strong ropes, 
 assisted by oars and spars, to resist the wild gale that 
 generally blew from the southeast. 
 
 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 
 
OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES. 309 
 
 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, everything was removed, and a 
 single melancholy dip-candle burned in the bar, as if keep- 
 ing 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 parlor 
 behind the bar a brisk fire was bm-ning, before which 
 stood a table neatly prepared for supper; the covers were 
 laid for two, but the provision of wine displayed seemed 
 suited to a larger number. The flashy-looking prints upon 
 the walls shone brightly in the rudd}^ blaze; the brass 
 fender and the glasses sparkled in its clear light, and even 
 to the small keen eyes of Billy Corcoran, the host, who 
 kept eternally running in and out, to see all right, every- 
 thing presented a very cheering contrast to the bleak 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 parlor 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 parlor, he had taken a half-glass out of each 
 decanter on the table, he had sharpened every knife in 
 turn, and, in fact, resorted to every device to cheat time, 
 when suddenly the sound of a carriage was heard on the 
 road, and the next moment he unbarred the door and 
 admitted two persons, whose dripping hats and soaked 
 greatcoats 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 '11 have 
 plenty of it. I was afeard something happened you, sir; 
 you're an hour behind the time you said yourself." 
 
310 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "Very true, — so I am. I was detained at a dinner 
 party, and my friend here also kept me waiting a few 
 minutes for him." 
 
 "It was not my fault," interposed the other; "I was 
 ready when — " 
 
 "Never mind, — it was of no consequence whatever; the 
 only misfortune was, we could find no coach, and were 
 forced to put up with a car, and got wet for our pains. 
 But the supper. Bill, — the supper." 
 
 "Is smoking hot on the table," was the reply; and, as he 
 opened the door into the parlor, the fact declared itself to 
 their senses. 
 
 The strangers were soon seated at the meal, and like men 
 who could relish its enjoyment not the less for the merit of 
 what they had quitted without doors. It is not necessary 
 to consume much time in presenting them to our readers; 
 they are both already known to him. One was Mr. Hems- 
 worth; the other no less a person than Lanty Lawler, the 
 horse-dealer. One only remark is necessary. Familiar as 
 these characters already are, they here appear in aspect 
 somewhat different from what they have hitherto exhibited. 
 Hemsworth, no longer the associate of fashionable com- 
 pany, 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, look abashed and sheepish, and seemed for all 
 the world as though he were in the hands of one who could 
 dispose of his destiny as he willed it. All the got-up 
 readiness of his wit, all his acquired frankness, were now 
 gone, and in their place a timid, hesitating manner that 
 bespoke the most abject fear and terror; it was evident, 
 too, that he struggled hard to conceal these signs of trepida- 
 tion. He ate voraciously of all before him, and endeavored, 
 by the preoccupation of the table, to cover his real senti- 
 ments 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 
 
 n 
 
OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES. 311 
 
 bank of the Guadalquivir for your own drinking at another 
 time, but now, if you please, let us have calm heads and 
 cool judgments. It is some time since we met, and it 
 may be longer ere we have another opportunity like the 
 present." 
 
 "Very true, sir," said Lanty, submissively, as he pushed 
 his untasted glass before him. '' It was the wetting I was 
 afeard of; my clothes were soaked through." 
 
 Hemsworth paid no attention to the excuse, but sat for 
 some minutes deeply sunk in his reflections; then lifting 
 his head suddenly, he said, — 
 
 "And so these papers have never been found? " 
 
 "Never, sir. I did my best to get them. I spent days 
 at the place, and had others looking besides. I said I 'd 
 give five guineas — and you know what a reward that is 
 down there — to the man who would bring them to me ; but 
 from that hour to this I never set eyes on them." 
 
 While he was speaking these words, Hemsworth' s eyes 
 never turned from him. They were fixed on him, not with 
 any expression of severity or harshness, neither did the 
 glance indicate suspicion. It was a steady, passionless 
 stare, rather like one seeking an explanation than prejudging 
 a motive. 
 
 "You were quite certain that they were the papers we 
 wanted ? " 
 
 "Sure I opened them, — sure I read the writing myself 
 when I took them out of the old man's desk." 
 
 " They had better have remained there, " said Hemsworth 
 to himself, but loud enough for the other to hear. Then, 
 rallying quickly, he added, "No matter, however; we have 
 evidence enough of another kind. There are the letters 
 Mark wrote to the Delegates." 
 
 "I think Mr. Morrissy has most of them, sir," said 
 Lanty, hesitating; "he is the man that keeps all the 
 writings." 
 
 "So he may be, Lanty; but you have some of them your- 
 self. Three or four are as good as thirty or forty, and you 
 may have as many as that — ay, and here in your pocket, 
 too, this minute. Come, my worthy friend, you may cheat 
 me in horseflesh whenever I *m fool enousrh to deal with 
 
312 THE O'DOXOGKUE. 
 
 you, but at this game I 'm your master. Let me see these 
 letters." 
 
 " How would I have them, captain, at all ? " said Lanty, 
 imploringly; "sure you know as well as me that I'm not 
 in the scheme at all." 
 
 "Save so far as having a contract to mount five hundred 
 men of the French on their landing in Ireland, the money 
 for which you have partly received, and for which I hold 
 the check, countersigned by yourself. Master Lanty. Very 
 pretty evidence in a court of justice, — more than enough 
 to hang you, that's all." 
 
 "There's many a one sould a horse, and didn't know 
 what use he was for," replied Lanty, half rudely. 
 
 "Very true; but a contract that stipulates for strong 
 cattle, able to caiTy 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 some- 
 thing to earn your own indemnity, or, by G — d, I '11 let 
 them hang you as I'd see them hang a dog." 
 
 Lanty became lividly pale as Hemsworth was speaking; 
 a slight con\'Tilsive 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 j^ou 
 to that hour to make up your mind, whether j^ou 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 deter- 
 mined to let the minutes elapse without speaking ; his head 
 
OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES. 313 
 
 slightly sunk on bis cliest, bis eyes bent downwards, he sat 
 perfectly motionless. Hemswortb meanwhile refilled his 
 glass, crossed bis arms before him, and seemed awaiting, 
 without impatience, the result of the other's deliberation. 
 At length the hand approached the figure; it wanted but 
 about half a minute of the time, and Hemsworth, 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 ap- 
 proached the fireplace and rang the bell. In doing so, he 
 turned his back to the horse-dealer, but commanded a view 
 of him through means of the little glass above the chimney. 
 He stood thus for a few seconds, when Lanty, in whose 
 flashing eyes and darkened color inward rage was depicted, 
 suddenly thrust his arm into the breast of his coat. Hems- 
 worth turned round at once, and seizing the arm in his 
 powerful grasp, said, in a cool, determined voice, — 
 
 "No, no, Lanty; I'm armed too." 
 
 "It was the pocket-book I was feeling for, sir," said 
 Lanty, with a sickly effort at a smile, while he drew forth 
 a black leather case, and handed it towards Hemsworth. 
 "They are all there, — seventeen letters, — besides two 
 French commissions signed by young Mark, and a receipt 
 for four hundred pounds in French gold." 
 
 "You must find it hard to get bullets for those pistols I 
 gave you, Lanty," said Hemsworth, in a tranquil voice. 
 "I forgot to let you have the bullet-mould with them. 
 Remind me of it to-morrow or next day." 
 
 Lanty muttered a faint "I will," but looked the very 
 picture of abject misery as he spoke. 
 
 "Let me see them, Lanty," said Hemsworth, in a manner 
 as calm and unconcerned as could be. "If I don't mis- 
 take, they are nearly a quarter of an inch in the bore." 
 
 "About that same, sir,'* replied Lawler, while he drew 
 
314 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 as wide as 
 the bore of a musket. Lanty gazed in astonishment and 
 terror at the murderous implement, into which the hand 
 fitted by a handle like that of a saw. Hemsworth played 
 the spring by which the barrels moved with a practised 
 finger, and seemed to exult in the expression of Lanty' s 
 terror as he watched them. Then, quickly replacing the 
 weapon, he resumed, " Well, I am glad, for your own sake, 
 that you are more reasonable. You ought to know that I 
 never place dependence on only one man for any single 
 service. Such would be merely to play the part of slave 
 instead of master. But, first of all, how did you become 
 possessed of these letters?" 
 
 "I was charged by Mark to deliver them to the Delegates, 
 and as they never saw his handwriting, I just copied the 
 letters, and kept all the originals, so that he has re- 
 ceived 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 would n't say but that he 's a Protestant this 
 minute." 
 
 "You appear to be greatly shocked at your suspicion, 
 Lanty," said Hemsworth, smiling. "Well, well; we must 
 hope for the best. And now, as to this other fellow: where 
 and how can I see him, — this Talbot, I mean? " 
 
 "Ay, that's the puzzle,' replied Lanty, with a greater 
 appearance of ease in his manner than before. "You never 
 can meet him when you look for him; but he's at your 
 elbow every day twenty times if you don't want him." 
 
OLD CHARACTERS WITH NEW FACES. 315 
 
 "Could you not manage a meeting for me with him down 
 here, Lanty? — I'll take care of the rest." 
 
 "I don't think so; he's a wary fellow. He gave me a 
 fright once or twice already, by a word he let drop. I am 
 not easy in his company at all." 
 
 "False or true, he would be an immense service to us," 
 said Hemsworth, musingly. "If I only could see and 
 speak with him, I 'd soon convince him that he incurred no 
 risk himself. It 's a bad sportsman shoots his decoy duck, 
 Lanty," and he pinched his cheek good-humoredly as he 
 spoke. Lanty endeavored to laugh, but the effort was a 
 feeble one. Meanwhile, the host, now summoned for a 
 second time, made his appearance, and by Hemsworth's 
 orders the car was brought round to the door; for, severe 
 as the night was, he determined to return to the city. 
 
 "You are coming back to town, too, Lanty?" said he, in 
 a tone of inquiry. 
 
 "No, sir; I'm going to stop here with Billy, if your 
 honor has no objection." 
 
 "None whatever. Remember to let me see you on 
 Tuesday, when I shall have everything in readiness for 
 your journey south; till then, good-bye." So saying, and 
 handing Corcoran two guineas in gold, for he paid liberally, 
 Hemsworth mounted the car and drove off. 
 
 Lanty looked after him till the darkness shut out the 
 view, and then, buttoning his rough coat tightly around his 
 throat, set out himself towards town, muttering, as he went, 
 *'I wish it was the last I was ever to see of you." 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT. 
 
 We must beg of our reader to retrace his steps once more 
 to the valley of Gleuflesk, but only for a fleeting moment. 
 When last we left Carriguacurra 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 anything 
 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 humor on him who crossed him. It was an 
 account of debtor and creditor then with him how he should 
 act; on the one side lay the penalties, on the other the 
 rewards of his venture : how was he to escape the one and 
 secure the other? A moment's reflection suggested the 
 plan. 
 
 "I'll not go in, divil a step, but I '11 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 f aymale fishes in the bay ; and sure if I only say that 
 there 's an Act of Parlimint agin doin' it, she '11 not only 
 believe it all, but she '11 keep the saycret to her dying bed." 
 And with this profound reflection on Mrs. Branaghan'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 fol- 
 lowed; we have merely adverted to the fact, inasmuch as 
 that on the trivial circumstances of Kerry's resolve depended 
 the discovery of a plot which, if once known to M'Xab, 
 
SOME HINTS ABOUT HARKY TALBOT. 317 
 
 would immediately have been communicated to the Govern- 
 ment. The fates willed it otherwise; and when the party 
 separated in the old tower, Sir Archy was as little satislied 
 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 arrange- 
 ments with Swaby, was to place at Mark's disposal a sum 
 of five hundred pounds, an amount far greater than ever the 
 young man had at any time possessed in his life. Talbot, 
 to whom the circumstance was told by Mark, readily per- 
 suaded him to visit Dublin, not merely for the pleasures 
 and amusements of the capital, but that he might person- 
 ally be made known to the Delegates, and see and confer 
 with those who were the directors of the threatened rebel- 
 lion. 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 unquestion- 
 ably be restored, not only stimulated his ardor 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 everything He made no secret to his new friend 
 of his present unhappiness, nor did he conceal that an 
 unpaid debt of vengeance with respect to young Travers 
 weighed heavily on his spirits. It was the first time in his 
 life he had tasted the bitterness of an insult, and it worked 
 like a deadly poison within him, sapping the springs of his 
 health, and rendering miserable the hours of his solitude. 
 The thought rarely left him day or night, — how was he to 
 wipe out this stain? When Talbot, therefore, spoke of a 
 visit to the capital, Mark cheerfully acceded, but rather 
 from a secret hope that some opportunity might arise to 
 gratify this cherished passion than from any desire of wit- 
 
318 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 nessing the splendor of the metropolis; and while the one 
 pictured the glittering scenes of festive enjoyment to which 
 youth and money are the passports, the other darkly rumi- 
 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 
 Carrignacurra that they drew near the capital, and after a 
 promise from Mark that in everything 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 honor. An humble and quiet 
 hotel will best suit us for the present; but the hour is not 
 very distant, my boy, when the proudest mansion of the 
 capital will throw wide its doors to receive us. The Saxon 
 has but a short tenure of it now." 
 
 "I don't see any reason for secrecy," said Mark, half 
 doggedly. "We have good names, and a good purse: why, 
 then, must we betake ourselves to this gloomy and desolate 
 quarter ? " 
 
 "Because I am the guide," said Talbot, laughing; "and, 
 if that 's not reason enough, that 's the only one I will give 
 you just now. But come, here we are, and I do not think 
 you will complain of your entertainment." And, as he 
 spoke, the carriage entered the spacious court-yard of an 
 old-fashioned inn, which, standing in Thomas Street, com- 
 manded 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 com- 
 fortable house of the old school, with large, low-ceilinged 
 rooms, wide stairs, and spacious corridors; the whole fur- 
 
SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT. 319 
 
 nished 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 cour- 
 teous urbanity due to an old acquaintance, the landlord 
 himself appearing to do the honors of the house, and wel- 
 come a valued guest. 
 
 '• We must get our host, Billy Crossley, to sup with us, 
 Mark. No one can tell us so much of how matters are 
 doing here; for, however it happens, Billy knows all the 
 gossip of the day: fashionable, political, or sporting, he 
 keeps himself up to what is going forward everywhere." 
 And so saying, Talbot at once hastened after the landlord 
 to secure his company for the evening. 
 
 Billy was somewhat fastidious about bestowing his 
 agreeability in general, but on the present occasion he 
 acceded at once; and in less than half an hour the three 
 were seated at a meal which would not have disgraced an 
 hotel of more pretentious exterior, Mr, Crossley doing the 
 honors 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 anything 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 favorable specimen of private tuition, 
 there's no doubt of it," said Crossley, laughing; "and I 
 have reason to be proud of jou. Did Mr. O'Donoghue 
 
320 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ever hear of your clearing out Hancey Hennessy at hazard, 
 — the fellow that carried the loaded dice?" 
 
 "Have done, Bill. None of these absurd stories now." 
 
 " Nor what a trick you played Corny Mehan at the spring 
 meeting with the roan cob that knew how to limp when you 
 wanted him? — as great a devil as himself, Mr. O'Dono- 
 ghue. You 'd swear the beast had a bad blood spavin if 
 you saw him move, and he all the time a three-quarter bred 
 horse, without a stain or a blemish about him." 
 
 Talbot seemed for a second or two somewhat uneasy at 
 these familiar reminiscences of his friend Crossley, not 
 knowing precisely how Mark might take them; but when 
 he saw that a hearty laugh was the reception they met with, 
 he joined in the mirth as freely as the others. 
 
 "The best of all was the Wicklow steeple-chase; sorrow 
 doubt about it, that was good fun? " and Crossley laughed 
 till his eyes streamed again with the emotion. 
 
 "You must tell me that," said Mark. 
 
 "It was just this: Mister Henry there had a wager with 
 Captain Steevens, of the staff, that he 'd reach the course 
 before him, each starting at the same moment from Quin's 
 door, at Bray. Well, what does he do but bribes one of 
 the boys to let him ride postilion to Steevens' s 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 with a horseshoe wig, and in the full dress of 
 a bishop. 
 , "'Who is he at all?' said Talbot. 
 
 "'The Bishop of Cloyne,' whispered the boy; 'he 's going 
 up to the levee.' 
 
SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT. 321 
 
 " 'By my conscieuce he is not,* said Talbot; for at that 
 momeut 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 knowledge of that gentleman leading 
 him to a very different estimate of his taste and pursuits. 
 Indeed, he only knew Talbot from his own lips, and from 
 them he learned to regard him as the emissary despatched 
 by the Irish party in France to report on the condition of 
 the insurgents in Ireland, and, if necessary, to make prep- 
 arations for the French landing on the Irish shores. Mark 
 could not well understand how any one charged with such 
 a mission could have either wasted his time or endangered 
 his safety by any ridiculous adventures, and did not scruple 
 to show his astonishment at the circumstance. 
 
 Talbot smiled significantly at the remark, and exchanged 
 a glance with Crossley, while he answered, — 
 
 " Placed in such a position as I have been for some years, 
 Mark, many different parts have been forced upon me ; and 
 I have often found that there is no such safe mask against 
 detection as following out the bent of one's humor in cir- 
 cumstances of difficulty. An irresistible impulse to play 
 the fool, even 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 
 
 VOL. I. — 21 
 
322 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 an actor, a smuggler, a French officer, an Irish refugee, a 
 sporting character, a man of pleasure, and a man of in- 
 trigue ; and however such features may have blended them- 
 selves into my true character, my real part has remained 
 undetected. Master Crossley here might furnish a hint or 
 two towards it; but — but, as Peachem says, 'we could 
 hang one another ' — eh, Bill ? " 
 
 A nod and a smile, more grave than gay, was Crossley's 
 answer, and a silence ensued on all sides. There was a 
 tone of seriousness, even through the levity of what Talbot 
 said, very unlike his ordinary manner; and Mark began, 
 for the first time, to feel that he knew very little about his 
 friend. The silence continued unbroken for some time; 
 for while Mark speculated on the various interpretations 
 Talbot's words might bear, Talbot himself was reflecting 
 on what he had just uttered. There is a very strange, but 
 not wholly unaccountable, tendency in men of subtle minds 
 to venture near enough to disclosures to awaken the sus- 
 picions without satisfying the curiosity of others. The 
 dexterity with which they can approach danger, yet not 
 incur it, is an exercise they learn to pride themselves upon; 
 and as the Indian guides his canoe through the dangerous 
 rapids of the St. Lawrence, — now bending to this side and 
 to that; each moment in peril, but ever calm and col- 
 lected, — so do they feel all the excitement of hazard in the 
 game of address. Under an impulse of this kind was it 
 that Talbot spoke, and the unguarded freedom of his man- 
 ner showed, even to so poor an observer as Mark, that the 
 words convej'ed 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 favor here. 
 Every one spending his money and character — " 
 
 "Like gentlemen. Bill, — that's the phrase," interrupted 
 Talbot; "and a very comprehensive term it is, after alL 
 But what is the Parliament doing?" 
 
 "Voting itself into Government situations." 
 
 *'And the Viceroy? " 
 
SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT. 323 
 
 "Snubbing the Parliament." 
 
 *'Aud the Government in England?" 
 
 *' Snubbing the Viceroy." 
 
 "Well, they are all employed, at least; and, as the 
 French say, that 's always something. And who are the 
 play-men 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 negotiations, 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 companion ; 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 '11 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 six- 
 pence,' said the old gentleman; and he drew his nightcap 
 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 postilion drew up for fresh horses at Carrick's, they 
 
32^ THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 winnings along 
 with them." 
 
 "Cleverly done, by Jove! " cried Talbot, in an ecstas}^ of 
 admiration. 
 
 "What a contemptible fellow your friend Sandy must 
 be!" exclaimed Mark, in the same breath. "Man to man, 
 — I can't conceive the thing possible." 
 
 "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 very far from questioning his knowl- 
 edge 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 ni the 
 contemplated rising, he felt convinced that a cooler judg- 
 ment, and a more calculating head than his, were indispen- 
 sable 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'Don- 
 oghue were not those of fashionable life, 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 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 address and engaging manners than 
 from any circumstance of previous acquaintance. Mark 
 was astonished at this, as well as that, although now several 
 weeks in Dublin, Talbot had made no advance towards intro- 
 ducing him to the leading members of the insurgent party. 
 
SOME HINTS ABOUT HARRY TALBOT. 825 
 
 aud latterly had even but very rarely alluded to the prospect 
 of the contemplated movement. 
 
 The young O'Donoghue was not one to harbor any secret 
 thought long unuttered in his breast, and he briefly expressed 
 to Talbot his surprise — almost his dissatisfaction — at the 
 life they Avere leading. At first, Talbot endeavored 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 young 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 thi'own 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 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 sometimes incon- 
 sistent, 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 ? " 
 
 " But how do you mean to go there? You do not surely 
 expect an invitation? " 
 
326 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ''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 public assembly, to which all presented 
 at the levee 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. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A PRESAGE OF DANGER. 
 
 When the long-wished-for evening drew nigh in which Tal- 
 bot had pledged himself to reveal to Mark the circumstan- 
 ces of their enterprise, and to make him known to those 
 concerned in the plot, his manner became flurried and ex- 
 cited ; he answered, when spoken to, with signs of impa- 
 tience, 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 in- 
 curred at play, forbore in any way to notice the circum- 
 stance, and from his silence Talbot became probably more 
 indifferent 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 him- 
 self of some unwelcome reflections. 
 
 "It is almost time to dress, Mark," said he, with an 
 effort to seem easy and unconcerned. " Let us have an- 
 other flask of Burgundy before 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 drunk 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 cannot 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. 
 
328 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Talbot made no answer, but leaned his head on the chim- 
 ney-piece, and seemed buried in deep thought ; then, recov- 
 ering 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 w^as set- 
 tling with the marker? Oh ! I forgot, — you were not there. 
 Well, there was such a one, — a flashy-looking, vulgar fellow, 
 with that cast of countenance that betokens shi*ewdness and 
 cunning. I met him yesterday in the Park, and this even- 
 ing, as I came to dinner, I saw him talking to the land- 
 lord's nephew, 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 yours? Let us begin to take fright at shad- 
 ows, and we shall make but a sorry hand of it when real 
 dangers approach us." 
 
 " The shadows are the warnings, Mark, and the wise man 
 never neglects a warning." 
 
 "He who sees thunder in every dark cloud above him is 
 but the fool of his ow^n 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 
 the 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 muflfled 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, 
 
A PRESAGE OF DANGER. 329 
 
 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 country ; 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 entered, and closed the 
 door behind him. 
 
 " Good evening to you, Mr. Talbot. I hope I see your 
 honor well," said 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 I 'd call you by your 
 name also." 
 
 "I'm Lanty Lawler, sir, — that man that sold your honor 
 the dark chestnut mare down in 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?" 
 
 " It was, sir, — there 's no doubt of it. Your honor paid 
 like a gentleman, 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 would n't pass any more of it till I seen your- 
 self, 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 
 w^as just as convenient to you as English," said he, smiling 
 good-humoredly, " and from the company I met you in, I 
 found no difficulty in believing 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, — ■ 
 
 I 
 
330 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *' Very well, Lant}^ ; if j^ou will come here to-morrow, I '11 
 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 bash- 
 ful diffidence. "There was another little matter, sir, but 
 I 'd be sorry to trouble you about it — and sure you could n't 
 help it, besides." 
 
 " And that is — Let us hear it, Lanty." 
 
 " AVhy, 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 postboy, can swear to her; and as I bought 
 her myself at Dycer's, they are calling me to account 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 give a guarantee that the rider is 
 honest." 
 
 "Devil a lie in it, but that's just it," said Lanty, who 
 laughed heartily at the notion. 
 
 " Well, we must look to this for you, Lanty ; for although 
 I have 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 little inn in the square in lieu 
 or my score." 
 
 " See, now, what liars there 's in the world ! " said Lanty, 
 holding up 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 knew 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 
 
A PRESAGE OF DANGER. 331 
 
 more to say to you, if I could only remember it." He 
 passed liis hand across his brow as he spoke, and looked 
 like one laboring 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 
 intelligence 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 '11 give you the money." 
 
 "Done, then!" cried Lanty, grasping his hand; "and 
 you '11 ask no more than his name ? " 
 
 " Nothing more. I pledge my word ; and here 's the 
 money." 
 
 " Captain Hemsworth, the agent to the rich Englishman 
 at Glenflesk." 
 
 " 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." And with a shake-hands of affected cordiality they 
 parted. 
 
 " 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's just as I feared, Mark; there is danger brewing for 
 me in some quarter, but how, or in what shape, I cannot 
 even guess. This same horse-dealer, this Lanty Lawler — '* 
 
 " Lanty Lawler, did you say ? " 
 
 " Yes. You know him, then? " 
 
 " To be sure I do. We've had many dealings together. 
 He's a shrewd fellow, and not over-scrupulous in the way 
 
332 THE O'DOXOGHUE, 
 
 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 yes- 
 terday 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 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 possible 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 '11 give you all your instruc- 
 tions. And now to dress as quickly as may be." 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE ST. Patrick's ball. 
 
 Much as O'Donoghue marvelled at the change effected in 
 his own appearance by the court dress, he was still more 
 surprised at finding 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 appar- 
 ent age, and totally changed the character of his countenance. 
 
 " I see by your face, Mark," said he, laughing, " that the 
 disguise is complete. You could scarcely recognize 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 jeal- 
 ous, 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 necessity there existed to avoid any, 
 even the most trivial, sign of astonishment 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 recognized by his 
 cousin Kate, if by any accident he should be near her. 
 
 In the midst of these directions, Talbot was interrupted 
 by the sudden stoppage of the carriages in the line, already 
 extended above a mile from the Castle gate. 
 
 " Here we are at last, Mark, in the train of the courtiers, 
 
 — does your patriotism burn for the time when your hom- 
 age shall be rendered to a native sovereign ? Ha ! there 
 goes one of the privileged class, — that carriage, with the 
 
334 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 noticed, dashed forward. Such manifestations of 
 public feeling were then frequent, 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, notwithstand- 
 ing the strong force of mounted police that kept the street 
 clear, some adventurous spirit was always ready to rush for- 
 ward to the carriage window, and in a moment announce 
 to the others the name of its occupant. By all this Mark 
 was greatly amused ; he had few sympathies with those in 
 little favor 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 members 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, bo3^s, — 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 member, and even shook hands with the foot- 
 men behind the carriage. 
 
 "Here's Luttrel, here's Luttrel ! " cried out several to- 
 gether ; and in a moment the excitement, which before was 
 all joy, assumed a character of deepest execration. 
 
 Aware of the popular feeling towards him, this gentle- 
 man's carriage was guarded by two troopers of the horsfe 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 335 
 
 police. Nor was the precaution needless, for no sooner was 
 he recognized 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 trai- 
 tor ! " shouted a savage-looking fellow, who stood a head 
 and shoulders above the crowd. 
 
 " Could n'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 
 — he 's only stopping the way of his betters ! " 
 
 " Here's the man that knows how to spend his money, — 
 three cheers for the Englishman from Stephen's Green, — 
 three cheers for Sir Marmaduke Travers ! " And the cheers 
 burst forth with an enthusiasm that showed how much more 
 a character for benevolence and personal kindness con- 
 ciliated mob estimation than all the attributes of political 
 partisanship. 
 
 "Bring us a lamp here, bring us a lamp! " cried a mis- 
 erable 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 tri- 
 umphal 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 humoring the eccentricities of the peo- 
 ple, lowered the glass to permit them to see in. A respect- 
 ful silence extended over that crowd, motley and miserable 
 as it was, and they stood in mute admiration, not venturing 
 upon a word nor a remark, until, as it were, overcome by a 
 spontaneous 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 favor, the car- 
 riage 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 
 
336 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 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 I " 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, lean- 
 ing his head out, whispered a few words in a low voice ; 
 whatever their import, their effect was magical, and a hurrah, 
 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 a while ; ' and, somehow, it would seem a very sig- 
 nificant intimation to Irishmen." 
 
 The carriage moved on, and the two friends alighted in 
 the brilliantly illuminated vestibule, now lined with battle- 
 axe-guards, and resounding with the clangor of a brass 
 band. Mixing with the crowd that poured up the stair- 
 case, they passed into the first drawing-room without stop- 
 ping to write their names, as was done by the others, Tal- 
 bot telling Mark, in a whisper, to move up and follow him 
 closely. 
 
 The distressing impression that he himself would be an 
 object of 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 daunt- 
 less 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 b}" rank and personal ap- 
 pearance, in reality their characters had little claim to his 
 respect. With suc-h success did he demolish reputations, — 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 337 
 
 80 fatally did bis 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, un- 
 relenting tyrant ; that the bishop, whose simple bearing and 
 gentle quietude of manner were most winning, was in real- 
 ity 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 a land nor an age when prof- 
 ligacy 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 re- 
 marked. This pillar can always be our rallying spot. 
 Whenever you want me, come here ; " and so saying, and 
 with a slight pressure of his 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 brilliant scene around him ; but 
 when once more alone, the magnetic influence of a splen- 
 dor 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 cur- 
 rent of his blood, and his pulse beat high and madly. All 
 the bitter thoughts he had harbored against his country's 
 enemies could not stand before his admiration of that gor- 
 geous 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 captivating. 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 
 
 VOL. I. — 22 
 
338 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 familiar circles, all in the full enjoyment of the brilliant 
 festivity. Like a child roaming at will through some beau- 
 teous garden, heightening enjoyment 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 remembering this, he endeavored to find 
 out the place, and in doing so was forced to pass through 
 a card-room, where 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 over- 
 heard 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? " 
 
 " 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 adversar}^ 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 
 Clangoff 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 splendor of a gold snuff- 
 box surrounded by enormous diamonds, evinced the taste 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 339 
 
 for magnificence for which he was celebrated. There was 
 an air of dignity with w^hich he took his seat, saluting the 
 acquaintances he recognized about him, very strikingly in 
 contrast with the familiar 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, smiling. " They have just told me that you 
 have vanquished our best players." 
 
 " The caprice of Fortune, my Lord, that so often favors 
 the undeserving," said Talbot, with a gesture of extreme 
 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 favor 
 with the softer sex. 
 
 '•According to that theory, my Lord, I have the advan- 
 tage over you at present." 
 
 This adroit flattery at the other's earlier reputation as a 
 gallant seemed to please Mm 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 bystanders 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 Clan- 
 goff's 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 
 
340 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Studied insults had been a theme he was familiar with from 
 boyhood. All fear of his being recognized himself was 
 merged in the savage pleasure he felt in staring fixedly at 
 the man he hated. 
 
 He would have given much to be able to whisper the name 
 into Talbot'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 attention was concen- 
 trated on Talbot, never turned his eyes towards any other 
 quarter. The moment seemed favorable for Mark, and 
 gently retiring througli the crowd, he at last disengaged 
 himself, and sat down on a bench near a doorway. His 
 mind was full of its own teeming thoughts, — thoughts that 
 the hated presence of his enemy sent madly thronging upon 
 him ; he lost all memory of where he was, nor did he remark 
 that 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 could 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 ej^es 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-Lieu- 
 tenant, 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 '11 take care that noth- 
 ing unpleasant shall arise in consequence. Just remain here 
 for a moment." 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 341 
 
 *' Stay, sir," said Mark, as Travers rose from his seat; 
 *' I hate accepting favors, even should they release me from 
 a position as awkward as this is. Here comes my friend 
 Talbot, and he '11 perhaps explain what I cannot." 
 
 "I've lost my money, Mark," said Talbot, coming for- 
 ward, 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 'm 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 explanation ? " 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 impertinence of office." 
 
 Travers's face flushed up, and his lips quivered, as, in an 
 equally low tone of voice, he said, — 
 
 "Where and when, sir, will you dare to repeat these 
 words?" 
 
 "To-morrow morning, at seven o'clock, on the strand 
 below Clontarf, 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 accepting Travers's arm to return to the ball-room. 
 Their glances met for a second, but with how different a 
 meaning ! — in hers^ 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 honor 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. 
 
342 THE O'DOKOGHUE. 
 
 "" Because, if I don't mistake much, you will not have 
 the opportunity of wiping out your old score with him. 
 I '11 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? for see how the people 
 are staring and whispering as we pass ! " 
 
 The observation was not made without reason, for al- 
 ready the two young men were regarded on all sides as 
 they passed, — the different persons 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 downstairs. 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, however, a task of more difficulty than it seemed, 
 for already a number of persons blocked up the doorway, 
 eager to hear something which a gentleman 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 Emperor of Austria presented him with, — he 
 missed it after leaving the card-table, — the presumption is, 
 that we are favored 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 
 mstant every eye was directed to Mark O'Donoghue. 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 penalty for the rest : his blood boiled at the insult- 
 ing glances that fell upon him, and he was in the very act 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 
 
 143 
 
 of giving his temper vent, when an arm was slipped within 
 his, and Frederick Travers 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 together ; " 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 yonder, 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 ! " 
 
344 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 he exclaimed, as they issued forth into the street; " a little 
 longer would have suffocated me." 
 
 *' It was with Travers you parted at the head of the 
 stairs?" said Talbot, inquiringly. 
 
 "Yes; he was polite enough to come up when j^ou 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 questionable 
 civility, 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." 
 
 " 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 temptation was devilish 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?" 
 
 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 expended 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 Travers ; before nine I must be on 
 the way to P'rance, 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." 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 345 
 
 " 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 ensure you the possession of your 
 property and estate, as it was left to you by your grand- 
 father, 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 money can buy, — the reckless courage of men will- 
 ing 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 influence property and position would confer, taking your 
 place in the movement, 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 brilliant 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 
 impatience. 
 
 "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 j^ou 
 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 weak- 
 ness I scarcely ever thought to feel. AYe shall soon be 
 separated; who knows when we shall meet again, if ever? 
 
346 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Now, if men should speak of me in terms unworthy of one 
 who has been your friend, laying to my charge acts of 
 dishonor — " 
 
 "Who will dare to do so before me?" said Mark, in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 " It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your 
 defence of me when absent, as much as that you will your- 
 self reject all belief in these calumnies. I 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 suspicion. 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 of 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, show- 
 ing him the superscription. 
 
 " I know that handwriting," said Mark, gazing fixedly at 
 it; " that is Father Rourke's." 
 
 "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 of December, same year, by me, Nicholas Rourke, P.P., 
 Ballyvourney and Glengariff. Witnessed by us, Simon Gaffney, 
 steward, and Sam. Wylie, butler.' " 
 
 "And what of all that?" said Mark, with a voice of 
 evident disappointment. "Do j-ou think I wanted this 
 certificate of birth or baptism to claim my name or my 
 kindred ? " 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 347 
 
 " 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, 1773." 
 
 Mark's countenance became perfectly bloodless, his lips 
 grew livid, while his nostrils were alternately distended 
 and contracted violently as he breathed with a heaving 
 effort. 
 
 "You have your choice, therefore," said Talbot, flip- 
 pantly, "to believe your father a man of honor, 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 '11 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 feelings, Mark. Yery 
 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 
 mone}^ 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 illegal and un- 
 just. If Hemsworth be the rightful owner of that estate, 
 your birth is illegitimate — nay, nay — I am but putting the 
 alternative, 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 
 
348 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 those they have ever looked up to and revered. But remem- 
 ber, 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 
 money to the repak of his shattered fortunes. Of his affec- 
 tion 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." 
 
 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 honored 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 hi& 
 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 knowledge 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 the purchase without a 
 title must needs yield to any conditions you think fit to 
 impose. You have but to threaten — " 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 349 
 
 "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 honor of my house in the other, — that I 
 will truck the name and credit of my race against the acres 
 that were theirs. No, no; you mistake me much; you 
 know little of the kind of vengeance 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 hin- 
 drance; follow me, — I'll show you the way." 
 
 Talbot knew in a moment the intention of the speaker, 
 and recognized in Crossley' s vehemence an urgent warning 
 to himself. 
 
 "I'm tracked, Mark," cried he; "there, take that key; 
 burn the papers in that desk, — all of them. At seven to- 
 morrow, meet me on the strand; if all be safe, I '11 be true 
 to time; if not — " 
 
 The remainder of the sentence was cut short by the hurry- 
 ing sounds of feet upon the stairs and Crossley' 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 cir- 
 
350 
 
 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 cumstance, for scarcely had he applied the lighted candle 
 to the papers when the door was burst violently open, and 
 three strange men, followed by Lanty Lawler, entered the 
 room, while Crossley, whom he had pushed roughly aside, 
 stood without, on the lobby, still talking as loudly as before. 
 "Is that him? " 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 ? " replied Mark, as he continued to feed the 
 flames with the letters and papers before him. 
 
 "You shall see my warrant when you have answered my 
 question. Meanwhile these may be of some consequence," 
 
THE ST. PATEICK'S BALL. 351 
 
 said the other, as, approaching 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 '11 dash your head against the wall." 
 
 The insolence of his threat might have been followed by 
 ill consequences, had not Lanty sprung hastily forv\'ard, 
 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, passionately. "If he obstructs the King's waiTant 
 for the aiTest of a traitor or a felon, I value him no more 
 than the meanest beggar in the street. Those papers there, 
 for all I know, 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 apart- 
 ment and the bedroom which opened into it, during which 
 Mark seated himself carelessly in an 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 was n'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 — " 
 
352 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 "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 equally so that you know of his 
 place of concealment. I tell you plainly, sir, if you con- 
 tinue to refuse information concerning him, I '11 take you 
 as my prisoner. I have two warrants against him, — one 
 for highway robbery, the other for treason." 
 
 "AVhy 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. "Who- 
 ever he is you are looking for seems to have a clear 
 conscience." 
 
 " Master Mark knows nothing at all about him, I '11 go 
 bail to any amount." 
 
 "We don't want your bail, my good friend, we want the 
 man who calls himself Harvey Middletou in Herts, Godfrey 
 Middleton in Surre}", the Chevalier Duchatel in France, 
 Harry Talbot in Ireland, but who is better known in the 
 police sheet;" and here he opened a printed paper, and 
 pointed to the words, "full description of John Barrington, 
 convicted at the Maidstone assizes, and sentenced to fifteen 
 years' transportation." 
 
 The smile of insolent incredulity with which Mark lis- 
 tened to these imputations on the honor 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; his time is not yet come, and you'll get little 
 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 collected 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 information against Talbot? what is he 
 accused of? " 
 
THE ST. PATRICK'S BALL. 353 
 
 "Sure didn't j^ou hear yourself," replied Lanty, in a 
 simpering, mock bashful voice. "They say he's Barring- 
 ton the robber, and faith, they 've strong evidence that 
 they 're not far out. 'T is about a horse I sold him that I 
 came here. I didn't want to harm or hurt anybody, 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 that Talbot 
 is an agent of the French Government; that he is over here 
 to report on the condition of our part}^, and arrange for the 
 rising? " 
 
 " Is it in earnest you are ? " cried Lanty, with an expres- 
 sion of admirably 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. The horse-dealer looked confused, and for a 
 second seemed undetermined how to act ; but suddenly re- 
 covering his composure, he smiled significantly at Mark, 
 wished him a good night, and departed. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 TOL. I. — 23 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter Paob 
 
 XXXIV. The Daybreak on the Strand . • . . 1 
 
 XXXV. The Wanderer's Return 14 
 
 XXXVI. Suspicions on Every Side 27 
 
 XXXVII. Hemsworth's Letter 37 
 
 XXXVIII. Tampering and Plotting 44 
 
 XXXIX. The Brothers 55 
 
 XL. The Lull before the Storm 62 
 
 XLI. A Discovery 69 
 
 XLII. The Shealing 81 
 
 XLIII. The Confederates 91 
 
 XLIV. The Mountain at Sunrise 95 
 
 XLV. The Progress of Treachery 107 
 
 XLVI. The Priest's Cottage 116 
 
 XLVIL The Day of Reckoning 125 
 
 XL VIII. The Glen and the Bay 139 
 
 XLIX. The End 156 
 
 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 The First Era 171 
 
 The Second Era 196 
 
 The Third Era 283 
 
^ 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 Volume Two. 
 
 "Mark made a dash at the soldiers'* . • • • . 147 
 
 The Kescue • • , , 173 
 
 miustratuins in tfje SEeit. 
 
 The Wanderer's Return « . 20 
 
 Hemsworth visits Lanby in Prison 50 
 
 The Shealing » . 89 
 
 Mark Recognized by an Old Acquaintance ... * 163 
 
OF THE 
 
 uiMlVERSlTY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE O'DONOGHUE: 
 
 A TALE OF IRELAND FIFTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND. 
 
 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 await- 
 ing 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 escaiDe also stimulated his anxi- 
 ety to meet with him ; not that any, even the faintest, sus- 
 picion of his friend's honor ever crossed Mark's mind, 
 but he wished to warn him of the dangers that were gather- 
 ing 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 of a character long to brood over doubtful circum- 
 stances, and seek an explanation for difficulties which only 
 assumed the guise of suspicions. Too prone always to be 
 led by first impressions of everybody and everything, he 
 hated and avoided whatever should disturb the opinions he 
 thus hastily formed. When matters too complicated and 
 knotty for his immediate comprehension crossed him, he 
 
 VOL. II. — 1 
 
 Lt. 
 
2 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 turned from them without an effort, and rather satisfied 
 himself that it was a point of honor to "go on believing,'* 
 than harbor 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 honor; 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 incapable he himself would have been to play 
 so many different parts, the same reason prevented his 
 questioning the necessity of such subterfuges. That Harry 
 Talbot had personated any or all of the persons mentioned 
 by the constable, he little doubted, and therefore he re- 
 garded their warrant after him as only another evidence of 
 his skill and cleverness ; but that his character was 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 keeping his appointment with 
 Frederick Travers ; and what a world of conflicting feelings 
 were here ! At one moment a sense of savage, unrelenting 
 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 imbittered 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 forever prevent 
 such a catastrophe? Such were some of the harassing 
 reflections which distracted Mark's mind, and to which his 
 
THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND. 3 
 
 own wayward temper and natural excitability gave addi- 
 tional 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 so palpable to his mind before; his very patriotism, 
 the attachment he thought he felt to his native country, his 
 ardent desire for liberty, his aspirations for national great- 
 ness, all sprang from this one sentiment of hate to the 
 Saxon, and jealousy of the man who was his rival. Fred- 
 erick 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 noAv reduced there seemed no possible 
 issue to his difficulties. Mark was not, however, one of 
 those who chalk out their line in life 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 life 
 as he would have done those of battle, with a heart un- 
 daunted 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 life 
 with no other star to guide them! 
 
 At last the gray 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 favor of Billy Crossley could 
 have procured him so admirable a mount. 
 
4 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 •'He has never left the stable, sir," said Billy, as he held 
 the stirrup himself, — '' 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 would n't take a hundred guineas for him from any 
 man living, save Mr. Talbot himself; but if it were a ques- 
 tion of saving him from danger, or any man he deems his 
 friend, then, then, sir, I tell you fairly, Billy Crossley is n'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 Billy, "for I see two fel- 
 lows 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 inter- 
 pose 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 hus- 
 banded the qualities of the noble animal 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 revolv- 
 ing 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 
 
I 
 
 THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND. 5 
 
 from side to side to gaze on the stately public edifices, now 
 sleeping in their own shadows, 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 in- 
 surgent masses, as with long-pent-up but now loosened fury 
 they poured into the devoted streets ; he fancied the swell- 
 ing clangor which denoted the approach of troops, ringing 
 through the various approaches, and the clattering sounds 
 of distant musketry as post after post in different 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 
 muttered, 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 noonday 
 the wealth and the life of the city poured. A single figure 
 here appeared, — a poor miserable object in tattered black, 
 who was occupied in fixing 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 were, to labor while others were 
 sunk in sleep. He drew near, and as the paper was un- 
 folded before him, read, in large letters, the w^ords " 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 
 his arms folded leisurely on his' breast, and his ragged hat 
 set sideways on his head, he apostrophized his handiwork. 
 
 "And why so, my good fellow?" said Mark, replying to 
 his words. 
 
 He turned round rapidly, and, pulling off his hat, ex- 
 claimed, in an accent of unfeigned delight, "Tear an' ages, 
 
6 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 captain, is it yourself? Och! ocb! no," added he, in a 
 tone of great despondency; "it is the black horse that 
 deceived me. I beg your honor's pardon." 
 
 " And you know this horse ? " said Mark, with some 
 anxiety of manner. 
 
 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 
 the 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 '11 never forget the night he got his head 
 laid open for me on the bridge there beyant. The polls 
 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 like a man! 
 I '11 give you five minutes fair start of them, anyway.' 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 fel- 
 low 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 he had 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 im- 
 pugned the honor of his friend, he felt obliged to believe 
 that, for some object of intrigue, Talbot had assumed the 
 name and character of this celebrated personage. The very 
 fact of his rescuing the bUl-sticker strengthened this 
 impression. Such an act seemed far more in unison with 
 
THE DAYBREAK OX THE STRAND. 7 
 
 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 supplies to fur- 
 nish arguments for its own conviction, Mark fancied how 
 readily Talbot might have made this personation of Bar- 
 riugton a masterstroke of policy; and while thus he rumi- 
 nated, 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 ap- 
 pointed 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 mainland, 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 of 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-cui'rent 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, fol- 
 lowed 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 a moment, and was then lowered again. 
 Mark's experience of a smuggling life taught him at once 
 to recognize these signs as signals, and he turned his gaze 
 towards the laud 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 feeling a 
 fresher breeze and beginning to bend beneath it. The 
 white curl that broke from her bow, and rushed foaming 
 
8 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 shook out their main- 
 sail more fully, and continued at every moment to spread 
 sail after sail. The hollow tramp of a horse's feet gallop- 
 ing on the strand made Mark turn quickly round, and he 
 saw the rider, whom he had observed before, bending his 
 course directly towards him. Supposing it must be Talbot, 
 Mark turned to meet him, and the horseman, who never 
 slackened his speed, came quickly within view, and dis- 
 covered the features of Frederick Travers. He was unac- 
 companied 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, Travers ad- 
 dressed him ; — 
 
 '•I half feared that it might not be you, Mr. O'Dono- 
 ghue," 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 unac- 
 companied 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; "per- 
 haps we should better call him by the name he is best 
 known by." 
 
 "And do you concur in the silly notion 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 informations 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 
 
THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND. 9 
 
 confederated, — all these are at this raoinent 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 own principles of honor. 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 horse-dealer named 
 Lawler, — Lanty Lawler." 
 
 "And he has sworn informations against me? '* 
 
 "He has done more; he has produced letters written by 
 your hand, and addressed to different leaders of the United 
 Irish party, — letters whose treasonable contents do not 
 admit of a doubt." 
 
 "And the scoundrel has my letters ? " said Mark, as his 
 face grew purple with passion. 
 
 "He has them no longer," said Travers. "Here they 
 are, sir. They were shown in confidence to my father, by 
 one who certainly is not your friend. Sir Marmaduke 
 asked permission to let me see them, and I have taken on 
 myself, without permission, to give them back to you." 
 
 "At whose suggestion," said Mark, proudly, "comes 
 this act of grace? Is it your father, who extends his pro- 
 tection to a tenant, or is it yourself, whose wish is to 
 humble me by an obligation?" 
 
 "There is none," said Travers, frankly. "I believe that 
 scoundrels, without heart or courage, have laid a trap for a 
 man who has both one and the other. I do not desire you 
 should accept my conduct as a favor, still less as offering 
 any bar to such a reckoning between us as two gentlemen 
 of equal place and standing may demand or expect from 
 one another." 
 
 "Say you so, indeed!" cried Mark, as his eyes flashed 
 with joy. "Is that your meaning?" 
 
 "There's my hand on it," said Travers, "as friend or 
 foe!" 
 
 Mark grasped his hand, and wrung it with a convulsive 
 pressure. 
 
 "Then you are aware that you owe me such a repara- 
 tion ? " said he, in a voice tremulous with emotion. " You 
 do not forget the day at Carrignacurra ; beside the hearth 
 — before my brother ? " 
 
10 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "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 candor. 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 but feel ashamed, and 
 wherein you could have no pride. If we are not to be 
 friends, — and I seek no man's friendship who is not as 
 willing to accept of mine, — if we are not to be friends, let 
 our enmity be ratified on some better cause; we surely can 
 have little difficulty in finding one." 
 
 Mark nodded assentingly, and Travers resumed, — 
 
 " There is something still more pressing than this. My 
 father will be able to defer the issue of the warrant against 
 you for three days, when the Privy Council will again be 
 summoned together. Until that time you are safe. Make 
 good use of it, therefore. Leave the capital — reach some 
 place of security; and, after some time, when the excite- 
 ment of the affair has passed away — " 
 
 "By a due expression of sorrow and penitence I might 
 be fortunate enough to obtain the King's pardon. You 
 were about to say so much. Is 't not so?" 
 
 "Not exactly," said Frederick, smiling; "but now that 
 the Government are in possession of the secret details of 
 this plot, and thoroughly aware of the men engaged in it, 
 and what their objects are, to persist in it would be hope- 
 less foll3\ Believe me, the chances were never in your 
 favor, 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 honor 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 
 
THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND. H 
 
 personal daring and heroism are surer roads to distinction 
 than influence and patronage ; no prize will be too high for 
 your aspirations." 
 
 Mark was silent, and Travers, conjecturing that his 
 words were sinking into his heart, with a persuasive power 
 went on to re-picture the adventurous life which should open 
 to him if he would consent to leave his country, and seek 
 fortune beyond the seas. As he continued to speak, they 
 rode along side by side, and at last came to that part of 
 the 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 future, because I have no confidence in anything. 
 Nay, nay, — don't speak of that again. I will not go to 
 India; I will not accept of favors from a country that has 
 been the enemy of my own. The epaulette which you wear 
 with honor would be a badge of disgrace upon my shoulder. 
 Good-bye ; I can afford to thank you, because you have not 
 made a service take the form of an amende.'' 
 
 Travers forbore to press him further. He wisely judged 
 that enough had been done for the present, and that, his 
 safety being provided for, time and opportunity would both 
 present themselves for the remainder. He shook his prof- 
 fered hand with cordiality, and they separated, Frederick 
 to return to Dublin, Mark to wander wherever chance might 
 incline him. 
 
 "He said truly," exclaimed Mark, as soon as he once 
 more found himself separated from his companion, — "he 
 said truly, the chances were never in our favor, and at 
 present we have not a single one left. The cause which 
 depends upon such elements as these is worse than hope- 
 less." 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 
 
12 THE ODONOGHUE. 
 
 had fallen into. "Had there been but one true to me!** 
 exclaimed he, in accents of misery, "I could have stood 
 against the shock, stout-hearted; but to find all false — 
 all!" 
 
 Seeking out some of the least frequented lanes, he rode 
 on for several miles, caring little which way, so long as he 
 tni-ned 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 ni}^ actions be displa^^ed 
 to her? Is it as the miserable dupe of such a wretch as 
 Lawler, or is it as the friend and chosen companion of 
 Barrington, I would be known? And yet, what have I to 
 fear, to whom no hope is left?" 
 
 Among the many sources of his sorrow one recurred at 
 every moment, and mingled itself with every other thought: 
 " What would their 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? " 
 
 For the deceit practised on the people he felt bitterly. 
 He knew with what devotedness they followed the cause; 
 the privations they had borne in silence, awaiting the time 
 of retribution; how they had forborne all ebullitions of 
 momentary passion, in expectation of the day of a greater 
 reckoning ; with what trust they obeyed their leaders ; how 
 implicitly they confided in every direction given for their 
 guidance. Can patriotism like this survive such a trial? 
 Will they ever believe in the words of their chief again? 
 — were questions which his heart answered despondingly. 
 
 The day wore over in these sad musings, and by evening 
 Mark, who had made a wide circuit of the country, arrived 
 at the village of Lucan, where he passed the night. As 
 day was breaking, he was again on the road, directing his 
 steps towards Wicklow, where, in the wild district near 
 Blessington, he had acquaintance with several farmers, all 
 sincerely devoted to the "United Party." It was as much 
 to rescue his own character from any false imputations that 
 might be cast on it, as from any hope of learning favorable 
 
THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND. 13 
 
 tidings, that be turned hither. The mountain country, too, 
 promised security for the present, and left him time to 
 think what course he should follow. 
 
 Mark did not miscalculate the good feeling of the people 
 in this quarter. No success, however triumphant, would 
 have made him one-half so popular as his disasters had 
 done. That he had been betrayed, was an appeal stronger 
 than all others to their best affections ; and had the deliver- 
 ance of Ireland depended on his safety, there could not 
 have been greater efforts to provide for it, nor more heart- 
 felt solicitude for his own comfort. He found, too, that 
 the treachery of individuals did not shake general confi- 
 dence 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, 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 con- 
 fidently formed, he was equally far from feeling disposed 
 to throw any damper on them; and at length, as by daily 
 intercourse these hopes became familiarized to his mind, he 
 ended by a partial belief in that future to which all still 
 looked, undismayed by past reverses. And in this way 
 time rolled on, and the embers of rebellion died not out, 
 but smouldered. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE wanderer's RETURN. 
 
 It was about two months after the events detailed in the 
 last chapter, on the evening of a bright day in midsummer, 
 that a solitary traveller was seen descending one of the 
 mountain passes which lead from Macroom to Glengariff, 
 and which were only known to those well acquainted with 
 the place. He led his horse by the bridle, for the ground 
 did not admit of riding; but were it otherwise, the beast 
 showed too many signs of a hard journey not to make the 
 course advisable, and, in this respect, both horse and rider 
 well agreed. The man, though young and athletic, was 
 emaciated and weary-looking. His clothes, once good, 
 seemed neglected, and his beard, unshaven and uncared 
 for, gave an air of savage ferocity to a face pale and care- 
 worn, while his horse, with as many evidences of better 
 days, exhibited unquestionable signs of fatigue and bad 
 feeding. The path by which he descended was the cleft 
 worn by a mountain torrent, a rough and rugged road, with 
 many spots of difficulty and danger; but neither these nor 
 the scene which unfolded itself in the glen beneath, attracted 
 any share of his attention ; and yet few scenes were fairer 
 to look upon. The sun was just setting, and its last glories 
 were lighting up the purple tints upon the mountains, and 
 shedding a flood of golden hue over lake and river. The 
 bright yellow of the furze, and the gay colors of the fox- 
 glove, contrasted with the stern grandeur of the dark rocks, 
 while in the abundance of wild holly and arbutus which 
 grew from even the most precipitous places, the scene had 
 a character of seeming cultivation to an eye unpractised to 
 the foliage of this lovely valley. The traveller, who, for 
 
I 
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 15 
 
 •above an hour, had pursued bis way, treading with the 
 skill of a mountaineer over places where a false step might 
 have perilled life, and guiding his horse with a caution that 
 seemed an instinct, so little of his attention did it exact, at 
 last halted, and leaning his arm over his saddle, stood for 
 some time in contemplation of the picture. From the spot 
 on which he stood, one solitary cabin was discernible on 
 the side of the road that wound through' the valley, and 
 from whose chimney a thin blue smoke slowly curled, and 
 floated along the mountain side. On this little habitation 
 the traveller's eyes were fixedly bent, until their gaze was 
 dimmed by a passing emotion. He drew his hand roughly 
 over his face, as if angry at his own weakness, and was 
 about to proceed on his way, when a shrill whistle from a 
 cliff above his head arrested his step. It was a mountain 
 recognition he well knew, and was about to reply to, when 
 suddenly, with a bounding speed that seemed perilous in 
 such a place, a creature clad in the most tattered rags, but 
 with naked legs and bare head, came springing towards 
 him. 
 
 *'I knew you from the top of Goorhaun Dhub, — I knew 
 you well, Master Mark. There 's not many with a good 
 coat on their back could venture over the way you came, 
 and I said to myself it was you," cried Terry the Woods, 
 as, with his pale features lit up in smiles, he welcomed the 
 young O'Donoghue to his native hills. 
 
 "How are they all yonder?" asked Mark, in a voice 
 scarcely above a whisper, pointing with his finger up the 
 glen in the direction of Carrignacurra, but which was not 
 visible from where they were. 
 
 "I saw the master yesterday," replied 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? ' 'Faix,' says I, *I have n't 
 the heart to do it. Since Master Mark was gone, I did n't 
 like the place; ' and the master wiped his eyes, and the 
 
16 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 young girl made a sign to me not to speak about that any 
 more." 
 
 " And who is at the Lodge now ? " asked Mark, endeavor- 
 ing to restrain 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 '11 wonder to see the illigaut place it is now, wid towers 
 and spires all over it, — the ground all gardens, with grass 
 walks as fine as a carpet, and the beautifullest flowers 
 growin' against the walls and up against the windows, and 
 a fountain, as they call it, of cool water spouting up in the 
 air, and coming down like rain." 
 
 "And my brother, — where is he? " 
 
 "He 's over in England with the family from the Lodge; 
 the black-eyed girl. Miss Kate, would n't go. They say — 
 but there 's no knowing if it 's true — they say she likes 
 Hemsworth better than the captain ; and, truth, if she does, 
 it 's a dhroll choice." 
 
 "Likes Hemsworth! Do they say that my cousin likes 
 Hemsworth?" said Mark, whose anger was only kept down 
 by gazing on the tranquil features of the poor witless object 
 before him. 
 
 "They do," said Terry, quietly, "and it's rasonable, too, 
 seein' that he 's never out of the house from morning till 
 night." 
 
 "What house, — where do you mean? " 
 
 "What house but Carrignacurra, — 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 forebod- 
 ings had never conjured up the thought of such a rival as 
 Hemsworth, nor did he now credit it. His indignation 
 was, however, scarcely less to think that this man should 
 now be received on terms of intimacy, perhaps of friend- 
 ship, by those he so long pursued with insult and oppres- 
 sion. 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 
 
THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 17 
 
 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, compas- 
 sionately, for the terror depicted in his face too plainly 
 indicated the return of some hallucination. 
 
 "They 're there, now," said Terry, in a faint whisper, 
 "watching for me. They're five weeks waiting to catch 
 me, but if I keep in the mountains I needn't care." 
 
 •'And who are they, Terry?" 
 
 "The soldiers," said Terry, trembling all over. "I ran 
 away from them, and they want to shoot me for desarting." 
 
 '"And there are soldiers quartered at Mary's now? " 
 
 "Ay, and at Macroom, and at Bantry, and Kinsale, — 
 they have them all round us ; but divil a one o' me cares ; 
 so long as they keep to the towns, I '11 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 then she 's pining 
 away every day; but I must be going. I '11 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, sprang 
 lightly up the mountain, from whence his voice was heard 
 gayly carolling as he went, long afterwards. 
 
 Mark looked after him for a few moments, and probably 
 amid the compassionate feelings with which he regarded 
 the poor creature, there 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 gray 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 
 
 VOL. II. — 2 
 
18 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 tale and many a merry story had lie listened to there. 
 Beneath that roof it was he first imbibed the proud thoughts 
 of his house and family, and learned to know the estima- 
 tion 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 I 
 
 the coarse revelry of the soldiers who caroused within. j 
 
 Their very laughter smote upon his ear like derision, and I 
 
 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 i 
 
 most men who attribute their failures in life to evil desti- | 
 
 nies that sway them, and not to their own faults and follies, j 
 
 his fatalism urged him to a recklessness of the future, and |^ 
 
 in place of hope there sprang 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 knowing that his son had detected his 
 criminality, was the suggestion of his better and purer 
 feeling, and even though his leaving 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 to bring beneath its shadow a heavy and sor- 
 row-struck heart, never had he passed it so deeply depressed 
 as now. 
 
 "Come on, good beast," he said, patting the wearied 
 horse, " you shall have rest here ; and that," said he, with a 
 sigh, — " that is more than I can promise to myself." 
 
THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 19 
 
 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 mellow sounds of 
 a harp which came floating 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 never 
 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 fastening 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 harshly 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 distinctly 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 stand- 
 ing 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 ad- 
 vanced 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. 
 
20 
 
 THE O'DONOGIIUE. 
 
 springing from his chair, and, with a strength that seemed 
 at once to defy age and infirmity, rushed towards him, and 
 threw his arms about him. '*He's here — he's with us 
 ' " said he, in accents half choked by sobs — 
 
 once more 
 
 *' my son ! my hope ! my pride ! " And while the old man 
 poured forth these words of happiness, the young one stood 
 
 
 pale, cold, and seemingly apathetic. His eyes bent on 
 vacancy, and his features devoid of all expression of passion, 
 he turned from Sir Archy, who grasped one 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 con- 
 sciousness out of some long-fevered sleep than the healthful 
 aspect of waking life. 
 
 **You are not ill, 3Iark — you're only fatigued," said 
 Kate, as a tear slowly trickled down her cheek, and fell upon 
 his hand. 
 
THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 21 
 
 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 and 
 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 influenced the youth's demeanor. 
 
 "Supper!" said the O'Donoghue. "Ay, faith, every 
 bottle in the cellar would be too little to celebrate the boy's 
 return! Ring that bell, Archy. 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 remember me," said Hemsworth, with a deferential 
 bow. '' And I hope the time is coming when I may be 
 permitted to renew m}^ acquaintance. For the present, I 
 feel how unsuited the presence of a stranger is, on an occa- 
 sion like this, and cannot better show how deeply I appre 
 ciate feeling than by taking m}^ 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 per- 
 mit me to add my welcome also." 
 
 " You do the honors of this house too early, sir," was 
 Mark's savage 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 spoke them humble even to humility. 
 When they were uttered, he bowed deeply, and with a look 
 towards the others that seemed to indicate the absence of 
 any feeling of offence, withdrew. 
 
 " You are unco severe on Mister Hemsworth, Mark," said 
 Sir Archy, gravely. "If his politeness was na altogether 
 correct, it was weel intended." 
 
22 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " Mark was all right, whatever he said," cried the old 
 man, exultiugly. "Egad! I'll not dispute with the boy 
 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 understand each other. He neither thinks 
 better nor worse of me than he did before." 
 
 " D — n Hemsworth ! " said the O'Donoghue. " Why are 
 we talking of him at all ? Sit down beside me, Mark. Let 
 me see you again, ray bo}', 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 hae 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 I 
 and is it himself 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 bonfires 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, suddenly 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 an3'thing he desired to do. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said the O'Donoghue, "how pale and 
 careworn 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 
 
I 
 
 THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 23 
 
 young girl turned away her bead, and affected to assist in 
 arranging the table. 
 
 " Mind, Archy," said the O'Donoghue, eagerly ; " remem- 
 ber, not a word about bis absence, — no questioning what- 
 ever; the boy has gone 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, be seemed at least 
 easier, if not happier than before. The cloud that Hems- 
 worth's presence threw over him had passed away, and he 
 feit anxious to show himself in more favorable colors than 
 his first appearance had displayed. While, therefore, he did 
 bis 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, be took a 
 formal leave of her, and seemed relieved by her departure. 
 This was not remarked by the O'Donoghue ; but Sk Archy 
 was a shrewd observer, and noted the circumstance with 
 displeasure : still, too careful of consequences to show that 
 he had observed it, be reserved bis interference for another 
 and more favorable 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 bear from you. There 
 have been many things during your absence I must tell 
 you of." 
 
 " And first of all," said Mark, rapidly, " bow comes that 
 man Hemsworth so intimate here? What claim has be 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 
 
24 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 Traverses might have taken, in revenge 
 for their disappointment about Kate — " 
 
 '' Speak more plainly, I beg you, sir, and, above all, 
 please to remember 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 marriage. Young Travers made your cousin 
 a brilliant offer, as far as money was concerned, which Kate 
 refused. There was some negotiation about leaving the 
 thing open ; something about the future, — I forget ex- 
 actly 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 Trav- 
 erses soon after left Ireland in high indignation with us, 
 and determined, as we soon found, to let us feel their en- 
 mity. Then it was that we learned to appreciate Hems- 
 worth, 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, — all," said the old man, in a low 
 whisper, as he stole a prying glance through the room to 
 satisfy himself that they were not overheard. 
 
 " Once more, sir, speak out, and intelligibly, — say what 
 this man assumes to know of me." 
 
 " He knew Talbot — Barrington, rather," said the O'Don- 
 oghue, 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 Cur- 
 ragh, and saved you, without your knowing it, from being 
 there. But for him, Mark, your name would have figured 
 in the 'Hue and Cry.' A reward for your apprehension 
 was actually deliberated at the Privy Council. Hemsworth 
 rescued you from this — " 
 
THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 25 
 
 '' The scoundrel, — the base, black-hearted villain," ex- 
 claimed Mark, "did he dare to speak thus of me?'' 
 
 "You mistake, Mark, he never said you were culpable, 
 he only deplored the fatal accident of your intimacy with 
 Harrington, — a man twice convicted and sentenced; that 
 in company with this man you frequented certain houses of 
 high play, where more than one large robbery was effected. 
 Then came the Castle ball, — was it not true that you went 
 there? AVell, the diamond snufif-box stolen from Lord 
 Clangoff , at the card-table — " 
 
 "Hell and confusion! you will drive me mad," cried 
 Mark, stamping his foot with passion. " This infernal mix- 
 ture of truth and falsehood, — this half-fact and all-lying 
 statement, — is more than my brain can bear. What does 
 this scoundrel mean, — is it that I am guilty of a robbery ? " 
 
 "Heaven forbid, boy; but that you lived on terms of 
 closest friendship with one branded as a felon, and that 
 information of your intimacy with him was obtained by the 
 police, who, for political reasons, — you are aware of what 
 I mean, — would strain a point to have caught you within 
 their grasp. There were letters, too, Mark, written by you, 
 and of such a character as would, if proved against you, 
 have cost your life; these Hemsworth, by some means, 
 obtained and destroyed." 
 
 "Ah! did he so?" cried Mark, eagerly, for now a sud- 
 den 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 ren- 
 dered you," said the old man, who began at last to be satis- 
 fied that conviction was coming home to Mark's mind. 
 
 ''I do," replied he, calmly; "I believe that I can appre- 
 ciate his kindness, and I believe also I may promise that 
 I shall not prove ungrateful. And Kate, sir, what said she 
 to those revelations concerning me?" 
 
 "What we all said, Mark, — that nothing dishonorable 
 would ever lie at your door; there might be rashness, im- 
 prudence, and folly, but guilt or dishonor, 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 
 
26 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 his affected freedom from prejudice, he nourishes his old 
 notions about Hemsworth as strong as ever, and persists 
 in thinking the Travers family everything amiable and 
 high-minded; indeed, he forced me to let Herbert accom 
 pany them to England, for I let him take the boy into his 
 own hands; and so, as the invitation had been made and 
 accepted before Kate had refused the captain's offer, I 
 thought it would look better even to suffer matters to take 
 their course quietly, as if nothing had happened." 
 
 "It was well done," said Mark, assentingly; "and now 
 I have heard enough to dream over for one night at least, 
 and so I '11 to bed." 
 
 "Remember, Mark," said the O'Donoghue, grasping his 
 son's arm, — "remember, I am solemnly pledged to HemS' 
 worth never to tell j^ou anything of these matters. It was 
 a promise he exacted from me; I rely upon you, Mark, not 
 to betray me." 
 
 " My discretion is above price, sir," said Mark, smiling 
 dubiously, and left the room. 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 SUSPICIONS ON EVERY 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 weariness and 
 exhaustion could induce sleep. He did not, indeed, know 
 the full depth of the treachery practised against him; but 
 in what he had discovered there were circumstances that 
 portended a well-planned and systematic scheme of villany. 
 The more Mark reflected on these things, the more he saw 
 the importance of proceeding with a certain caution. 
 Hemsworth's position at Carriguacurra, 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 alterca- 
 tion 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 consequence of a sense 
 of rivalry on his part, and anger that his cousin had pre- 
 ferred him to himself. This thought was intolerable; the 
 great effort he proposed to his heart was to eradicate every 
 sentiment of affection for his cousin, and every feeling of 
 interest. To be able to regard her as one whose destiny 
 had never crossed with his own, — to do this was now 
 become a question of self-esteem and pride. To return her 
 indifference as haughtily as she bestowed it, was a duty he 
 thought he owed to himself, and therefore he shrank from 
 
28 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 anything which would have the faintest semblance of 
 avenging his own defeat. 
 
 Such were some of the difficulties of his present position, 
 and he thought them over long and patiently, weighing well 
 the consequences each mode of acting might entail, and 
 deliberating with himself as to what course he should fol- 
 low. His first resolve, then, which was to fasten a hostile 
 meeting upon Hemsworth, was changed for w^hat seemed a 
 better line of procedure, — which was simply to see that 
 gentleman, to demand an explanation of the statements he 
 had made concerning him, calling upon him to retract 
 whenever anything unfounded occurred, and requiring him 
 to acknowledge that he had given a coloring and semblance 
 to his conduct at total variance with fact. By this means 
 Mark calculated on the low position to which Hemsworth 
 would be reduced in Kate's estimation, the subterfuges and 
 excuses he would be forced to adopt, all the miserable 
 expedients to gloss over his falsehood, and all the con- 
 temptible straits to conceal his true motives. To exhibit 
 him in this light before Kate's eyes, she whose high sense 
 of honor never brooked the slightest act that savored of 
 mere expediency, would be a far more ample revenge than 
 any which should follow a personal rencontre. 
 
 "She shall see him in his true colors," muttered he to 
 himself, as he went along; "she shall know something of 
 the man to whom she would pledge honor and affection; 
 and then, w^hen his treachery is open as the noonday, and 
 the blackness of his heart revealed, she shall be free to 
 take him, unscathed and uninjured. I '11 never touch a hair 
 of his head." 
 
 Mark had a certain pride in thus conducting himself on 
 this occasion; to show that he possessed other qualities 
 than those of rash and impetuous courage, that he could 
 reason calmly and act deliberately, was now the great 
 object he had at heart. Nor was the least motive that 
 prompted him the desire he felt to exhibit himself to Kate 
 in circumstances more favorable 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 Hems- 
 
SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE. 29 
 
 worth to escape his difficulties, by converting the demand 
 for explanation into an immediate cause of quarrel. Such 
 a tactique he thought it most probable Hemsworth would at 
 once adopt as the readiest expedient in his power. 
 
 "No," said Mark to himself, "he shall find that he has 
 mistaken me; my patience and endurance will stand the 
 proof. He must and shall avow his own baseness, and 
 then, if he wish for fighting — " 
 
 The clinched lip and flashing eye the words were accom- 
 panied by, plainly confessed that if Mark had adopted a 
 more pacific line of conduct, it certainly was not in 
 obedience to any temptations of his will. 
 
 Immersed in his reveries, he found himself in front of 
 the Lodge before he was aware of it; and, although his 
 thoughts were of a nature that left him little room for 
 other considerations, he could not help standing in surprise 
 and admiration at the changes effected in his absence. 
 The neat but unpretending cottage had now been converted 
 into a building of Elizabethan style; the front extended 
 along the lake side, to which it descended in two terraced 
 gardens. The ample windows, thrown open to the ground, 
 displayed a suite of apartments furnished with all that 
 taste and luxury could suggest, — the walls ornamented by 
 pictures, and the panels of both doors and window-shutters 
 formed of plate glass, reflecting the mountain scenery in 
 every variety of light and shadow. The rarest flowers, the 
 most costly shrubs, brought from long distances at great 
 risk and price, w^ere here assembled to add their beauties 
 to a scene where nature had already been so lavish. 
 
 While Mark was yet looking about in quest of the 
 entrance to the building, he saw a man approach, with 
 whose features he was well acquainted. This was no other 
 than Sam Wylie, the sub-agent, the same he had treated 
 so roughly when last they met. The fellow seemed to 
 know that, though in certain respects the tables were now 
 turned, yet, 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 j^our master, — can I see him? " 
 
30 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "Master!" said W3'lie, and his sallow face grew sal- 
 lower and sicklier. ''If ye mean Mr. Hemsworth, sir — " 
 
 '"Of course I do. If I spoke of Sir Marmaduke Travers, 
 I should mean his inaster. 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 "Wj^lie'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 disappoint- 
 ment, 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 j'oung O'Donoghue said there, 
 as he passed ? " said Wylie to a laboring man, who stood 
 gazing after the youth. 
 
 "I did, faix," replied the other; "I heerd it plain 
 enough." 
 
 "Tell me the words, Pat; I 'd like to hear them." 
 
 " 'T is what he said, — 'He 's escaped me this time; but, 
 by G — , he '11 not have the same luck always.' " 
 
 "It was Mr. Hemsworth he was after," said Wylie. "It 
 was him he meant." 
 
 " To be sure it was ; did n't I hear him asking after 
 him? " 
 
 "All right, — so you did," added Wylie, nodding. 
 
SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE. 31 
 
 "Take care you don't forget the words, that's all, and 
 here 's the price of a glass to keep your memory fresh." 
 
 And he chucked a sixpence to the man, who, as he caught 
 it, gave a look of shrewd intelligence that showed he felt 
 there was a compact between them. 
 
 Mark moved homewards in deep thought. There was a 
 time when disappointment would have irritated him rather 
 than have suggested any new expedient for success. Now 
 he was changed in this respect. If baffled, he did not feel 
 defeated. His first anger over, he began to think how 
 best he should obtain a meeting with Hemsworth, and a 
 retractation of his calumnies against himself. To venture 
 back to Dublin would have been unsafe on every account. 
 The informations sworn against him by Lant}" Lawler might 
 be at any moment used for his capture. In Glenflesk alone 
 was be safe ; so long as he remained there, no force Gov- 
 ernment 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 circum- 
 stances. He must await Hemsworth's return, since, with- 
 out 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 sur- 
 prise, from the train of dust upon the road, that the man 
 was coming from Carrignacurra. Slight as the incident 
 was, he turned his thoughts from his own fortunes to fix 
 them on those of his cousin Kate. B}' what magic this 
 man Hemsworth had won favor in her e^^es 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 for- 
 give and forget the tyrannies with which his name was 
 associated, — she whose spirit no sordid bait could tempt, 
 
32 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 nor any mean object of personal ambition bias, — this was, 
 indeed, inexplicable. Twice or thrice a thought flashed 
 across him, if it should not be true — if it was merely one 
 of those rumors which the world builds on circumstances — 
 that Hemsworth's intimacy was the sole foundation for the 
 report, and the friendly interchange of visits the only 
 reason for the story. 
 
 " £ must know this," said Mark; "it may not be too late 
 to save her. I may have come back in the very nick of 
 time, and, if so, I shall deem this piece of fortune more 
 than enough to requite all the mischances of my life." 
 
 As he spoke thus he had reached the little flower-garden, 
 which, in front of the tower, was the only spot of cultiva- 
 tion around the old building. His eye wandered over the 
 evidences of care, few and slight as they were, with pleas- 
 ant 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 pre- 
 ceding 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 3^our room when day was break- 
 ing." 
 
 "An old convent habit," said she, smiling. "Our matins 
 used to be as early." 
 
 A low, soft sigh followed this speech. 
 
 "Yes," said Mark, "you have reason to regret it: your 
 life was happier there; you had the pleasure of thinking 
 that, many a mile away in this remote land, there were 
 relatives and friends to whom you were dear, and of whom 
 you might feel proud. Sad experience has told you how 
 unworthy we are of your affection, how much beneath your 
 esteem. The cold realities that strip life of its ideal hap- 
 piness are only endurable when age has blunted our affec- 
 tions 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 
 
SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE. 33 
 
 think that in your speech there is any want of affection for 
 me. I will take it as you mean it, that it had been better 
 for me; and, even on your own showing, I tell you, nay. 
 If I have shed some tears within these old walls, yet have 
 my brightest hours been passed within them. Never, until 
 I came here, did I know what it was to minister to another's 
 happiness; never did I feel before the ecstasy of being able 
 to make joy more pleasurable, and sorrow less afflicting. 
 The daughter feeling has filled up what was once a void in 
 my poor heart ; and when you pity me for this life of loneli- 
 ness, my pulse has throbbed with delight to think how a 
 dut}^, rendered by one as humble and insignificant as I am, 
 can ennoble life, and make of this quiet valley a scene of 
 active enjoyment." 
 
 "So you are happy here, Kate," said he, taking her hand, 
 *'and would not wish to leave it? " 
 
 "No, Mark, never. There would be no end to my ambi- 
 tion were the great world open to me, and the prizes all 
 glittering before me, — ambitions which would take the 
 shape, not of personal aggrandizement, but high hope for 
 objects that come not within a woman's sphere. Here, 
 affection sways me; there, it might be prejudice or passion.'* 
 
 "Ambition!" muttered Mark, catching at the word, — 
 "ambition! The penalty you pay for it is far too high; 
 and, were the gain certain, it is dearly bought by a heart 
 dead to all purer emotions, cold to every affection of 
 family and kindred, and a spirit made suspecting by 
 treachery. No, Kate, no; the humblest peasant on that 
 mountain, whose toil is for his daily bread, whose last hope 
 at night is for the health that on the morrow shall sustain 
 more labor, 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 some^ 
 
 VOL. II. — .3 
 
34 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 thing else. Tell me of Herbert, Kate. What success has 
 he met with in the University?" 
 
 "He failed the first time, but the second trial made ample 
 amends for that defeat. He carried away both prizes from 
 his competitors, Mark, and stands now, confessedly^, the 
 most distinguished youth of his day; disappointment only 
 nerved his courage. There was a failure to avenge, as well 
 as a goal to win, and he has accomplished both." 
 
 '' Happy fellow, that his career in life could depend on 
 efforts of his own making; who needed but to trust his own 
 firm resolve, and his own steady pursuit of success, and 
 cared not how others might plot, and plan, and intrigue 
 around him." 
 
 "Very true, Mark; the prizes of intellectual ambition 
 have this advantage, that they are self- won. But, bethink 
 you, are not other objects equally nol^le ; are not the efforts 
 we make for others more worthy of fame than those which 
 are dictated by purely personal desire of distinction? " 
 
 Mark almost started at the words, whose direct applica- 
 tion to himself could not be doubted, and his cheek flushed, 
 partly with pride, partly with shame. 
 
 "Yes," said he, after a brief pause, "these are noble 
 themes, and can stir a heart as sorrow-struck as mine ; but 
 the paths that lead upwards, Kate, are dark and crooked, 
 the guides that traverse them are false and treacherous." 
 
 "You have, indeed, found them so," said Kate, with a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 " How do you mean, I have found them so? " cried Mark, 
 in amazement at the words. 
 
 "I mean what I have said, Mark; that betrayal and 
 treachery have tracked you for many a day. You would 
 not trust me with your secret, Mark, nor yet confide in me, 
 when an accident left it in my possession. Chance has 
 revealed to me many circumstances of your fortune, and 
 even now, Mark, I am only fearful lest your own prejudices 
 should hazard your safety. Shall I go on? May I speak 
 still more plainly?" 
 
 Mark nodded, and she resumed : — 
 
 "One who never favored the cause you adopted, probably 
 from the very confederates it necessitated, yet saw with 
 
SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE. 35 
 
 sympathy how much truth and honor were involved in the 
 struggle, has long watched over you, stretching out, unseen, 
 the hand to help, and the shield to protect you. He saw in 
 you the generous boldness of one whose courage supplies 
 the nerve, that mere plotters trade upon but never possess. 
 He saw that, once in the current, you would be swept along, 
 while they would watch you from the shore. He, I say, 
 saw this, and with a generosity the greater because no feel- 
 ings 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 nc 
 right to ask — perhaps not to accept of such a confidence." 
 
 "Be it so, then," said she, proudly, "we will speak of 
 this no more ;" and, with a slight bow, and a motion of her 
 hand, she turned into another alley of the garden, and left 
 Mark silently musing over the scene. Scarcely, however, 
 had she screened herself from his view by the intervening 
 trees, than she hastened her steps, and soon gained the 
 house. Without stopping to take breath, she ascended the 
 stairs and tapped at Sir Archy's door. 
 
 "Come in, my sweet Kate," said he, in his blandest 
 voice; "I should know that gentle tap amid a thousand. 
 But, my dear child, why so pale? what has agitated you? 
 Sit down and tell me." 
 
 "Read this, sir," said she, taking a letter from the folds 
 of her handkerchief; "this will tell you all, shorter and 
 more collectedly than I can. I want your advice and coun- 
 sel, and quickly too, for no time is to be lost." 
 
 "This is Mr. Hemsworth's writing," said Sir Archy, as 
 he adjusted his spectacles to read. " When did you receive 
 it?" 
 
 "About an hour ago," answered Kate, half impatient at 
 the unhurried coolness of the old man's manner, who at last 
 
36 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 proceeded to examine the epistle, but without the slightest 
 show of anxiety or eagerness. His apath}^ 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 '11 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 
 reconsider its contents. 
 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 HEMSWORTH S LETTER. 
 
 The letter over which Sir Archy bent in deep thought was 
 from Hemsworth. It was dated 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 con- 
 sideration in its composition. Statements seemingly clear 
 and open, were in reality confused and vague; assertions 
 were qualified, and, in lieu of direct and positive informa- 
 tion, there were scattered throughout hopes and fears, 
 wishes and expectations, all capable of being sustained, 
 whatever the issue of the affair they referred to. 
 
 The letter opened with a respectful apology for address- 
 ing 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 3^our family may be 
 misconstrued, and whether the prejudices which were once 
 entertained to my disadvantage might not now be evoked 
 to give a false coloring to my actions. These doubts I 
 have resolved, by reflecting that they are for the most part 
 personal, and that if I succeed in rendering real service, 
 the question is comparatively indifferent what light or 
 shadow it may seem to throw on my conduct. A candid 
 and impartial judgment I certainly look to from you^ and I 
 confess myself at liberty to lay less store by the opinions 
 of others." 
 
38 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 alternative but to venture on this correspond- 
 ence, 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 in- 
 volved 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 friendl}' interference, — this was 
 dubiously and delicately put by Hemsworth, — and partly 
 from the fact that his extreme youth and ignorance of the 
 real views of the insurgents were pleaded in his favor, 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 line to be followed. He 
 was immediately to be apprehended, and sent up under a 
 sufficient escort to Dublin, to take his trial, with five 
 others, for high treason. The proofs of his guilt were un- 
 questionable, consisting of letters written and received, 
 conversations to which witnesses could depose, as well as 
 an intimacy, for months long, with Barringtou, whose 
 active participation in the schemes of rebellion was as well 
 known as the notorious fact of his being a convicted felon. 
 To found a hope upon his innocence was thus shown to be 
 perfectly impossible. His most trusted associates were the 
 evidence against him; documents in his handwriting 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 
 
HEMSWORTH'S LETTER. 39 
 
 interference had been beneficial, was one of those intrusted 
 with Mark's arrest, should he ever dare to reappear 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 3'our 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 neigh- 
 borhood connected by ties of kindness and goodwill. I 
 had to choose between the alternative of this, or else, by a 
 palpable avoidance of my duty, criminate mj^self, 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, nominally 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 gen- 
 tleman, or to those who would serve and befriend him. 
 One is, by a free and unlimited confession to the Govern- 
 ment 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, with every detail of date 
 and time, to sue for a pardon for himself, — a grace which, 
 I need scarcel}^ say, I will use all my influence to obtain. 
 The other mode is, by a temporary exile, to withdraw him- 
 self 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 
 
40 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 private feeling, no surrender of honor. 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 banishment 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 lengthened 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 feature of the plot, and may call forth measures 
 of stringent severity. The proclamation offering a reward 
 for the apprehension of four persons, 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 dishonor, and a great house with obloquy 
 and shame; for there has been no struggle, no efifort, no 
 bold and generous exposure to danger, to palliate treason 
 and gloss over its faults. All has been plotting and con- 
 triving for alien assistance and foreign help; no self- 
 reliance, no patriotism, which, if mistaken, was still 
 sincere and manly. Reflect on all this, and think a life 
 offered up in such a cause has no martyrdom to throw lustre 
 
HEMSWORTH'S LETTER. 41 
 
 on the grave shared with the felon and the highwayman. 
 Forgive 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. 
 
 " I have written hurriedly, and I doubt not, in some 
 respects, unadvisedly; 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 im- 
 posed 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 sub- 
 ject of his son's indiscretion; 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. 1 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 defending 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 unworthily of 
 
 "William Hemsworth." 
 
 Sir Archy studied this letter with the patient care a 
 lawyer bestows upon a brief. He thought over each sen- 
 tence, and weighed the expressions in his mind with deep 
 thought. It had been his fortune, in early life, to have 
 been thrown into situations of no common difficulty, and 
 his mind had, in consequence, acquired a habit of shrewd 
 
42 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 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 light 
 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 dislike 
 which subsisted between these two men : how then account 
 for this sudden change on Hemsworth's part? to what attri- 
 bute this wonderful interest concerning him? 
 
 "Let us see," said the old man to himself, — "let us see 
 the fruit, and then we may pronounce upon the tree. Where 
 and to what does Hemsworth's benevolence point? Dis- 
 honor or banishment! Such are 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 feelings very different indeed? What 
 benefit might he derive from Mark's expatriation? — that 
 is the question. Does he anticipate easier terms with the 
 old man for the little remnant of property that still per- 
 tains 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 brilliancy 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 mysteri- 
 ous good nature?" 
 
 This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than Sir Archy 
 recalled to mind all the circumstances of Hemsworth's 
 recent behavior; the endeavors he had made to recommend 
 himself to their favorable notice; all his acts to ingratiate 
 himself with Kate; the ample views he affected in politics; 
 the widespread generosity of his plans for the amelioration 
 of the people. That his conduct was unreal, that his prin- 
 ciples 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 3'ears was so 
 far in his favor, as she could not but feel flattered by the 
 notice of one so conversant with the world and its v.'ays. 
 
HEMSWORTH'S LETTER. 43 
 
 who had travelled and seen so much, and might in every 
 respect be deemed a competent judge in matters of taste. 
 A.ny 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 com- 
 petitor for the half-educated and slovenly youth, whose 
 awkward and bashful manner seemed rather ill-temper than 
 mere diffidence. Mark was himself conscious of the disad- 
 vantages he labored under, and although Sir Archy had few 
 fears that such an admirer was likely to win favor with the 
 gay and capricious girl whose foreign habits had taught her 
 to value social qualities 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, perfectly possible that this was 
 his game, and that in withdrawing Mark from the scene, he 
 both calculated on the gratitude his generosity w^ould evoke, 
 and more securely provided for his own success. 
 
 While Sir Archy thus pondered over Hemsworth' s 
 motives, he did not neglect the more pressing consideration 
 of Mark's danger. It was evident that he had taken an 
 active part in the insurrectionary movement, and without 
 the slightest precautious 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 '11 
 answer for it the peril may be averted." 
 
 '•I have come to do so, sir," said a voice behind him, 
 and Mark O'Donoghue was standing at the door. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 TAMPERING AND PLOTTING. 
 
 While they who meditated the invasion of Ireland were 
 thoroughly informed on the state of parties and the condi- 
 tion of public opinion in that kindgom, the English Gov- 
 ernment were satisfied with vague and insufficient rumors 
 of those intentions, derived from sources of questionable 
 accuracy, or communicated by persons in the pay of their 
 opponents. Certain it is, neither the magnitude of the 
 peril was appreciated, 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 mal- 
 contents at home to enforce compliance with their demands. 
 The event itself was to show how unfounded were all these 
 calculations, and how little reason 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 have been easier than to have ample knowl- 
 edge of all the projects. The men in high situations were 
 newly elevated to power from positions of very humble pre- 
 tension, 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, 
 
TAMPERING AND PLOTTING. 45' 
 
 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 prosecu- 
 tions 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 overlooked, no pains were spared to 
 track out the narrow path where some insignificant treason 
 was plotting, 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 consequence of intrusting 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 favorite 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 interested. 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 put- 
 ting 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 history of 
 Mark O'Donoghue's complicity. The information came 
 well-timed. The Crown lawyers were desirous of exhibit- 
 ing 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 pardou 
 and a reward, had been repeatedly examined by the Attor- 
 ney and Solicitor-General, and his statement found per- 
 fectly accurate and consistent. He narrated the various 
 interviews he had been present at among the Delegates in 
 
46 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Dublin; the messages he had conveyed from them to differ- 
 ent individuals tlirough the country; the depots where pikes 
 and muskets were stored, and the several places of rendez- 
 vous 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 dis- 
 couraged by delay, and believed themselves betrayed by 
 France; while others were full of hope and confidence, 
 eager for the time to come, and ready to inctir any peril. 
 While in all these disclosures he was most candid and 
 explicit, he never once betrayed the name of Mary M'Kelly, 
 nor even alluded in any way to her cabin as a resort of 
 the French spies and the secret depot of arms and ammuni- 
 tion. 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 explanation of his conduct; for, strange as it 
 may seem, the vilest actions are sometimes conceived with 
 a reserve of conscience that shows what casuistry guilt 
 requires, and how much the spirit of evil lacks of courage, 
 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 con- 
 sent 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 evidence 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 believe 
 that such depended solely on him, — that at any moment he 
 could give information of a character sufficient to convict 
 
TAMPERING AND PLOTTING. 47 
 
 him; 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 life. 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 jail of Newgate, strict orders being given 
 that nobody was to be admitted to converse with him with- 
 out the special leave of the law officers of the Crown. 
 Now, although Hemsworth had personally little to fear from 
 any disclosure Lanty might make, yet his information 
 might thwart all the plans he had so artfully devised regard- 
 ing the O'Donoghues, the events impending that family 
 being up to that moment perfectly at his own discretion 
 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 
 hostile part would form an impassable obstacle to any suc- 
 cess 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 endeavors 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 the visit to the jail 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 jailer 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 
 
48 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 been in confinement several mouths, 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 — t 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 any more time." 
 
 Hemsworth laid his hand on the jailer's arm as he 
 extended it with the key. "One second, — just wait one 
 second," said he, as he pressed his finger 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 attention was too much engaged to notice it, Lanty 
 never stirred nor looked round as the heavy door was un- 
 barred and fastened again behind Hemsworth. Seated in 
 a recess of the window, and with his face pressed against 
 the iron bars, he was watching with interest the movement 
 in the street below, where a considerable number of people 
 w^ent past, 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 with- 
 out 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 off to-morrow." 
 
 "Two of whom, sir?" asked Lanty, as, starting at the 
 voice, his face became the color of death. 
 
 "I thought you knew!" said he, affecting astonishment; 
 
TAMPERING AND PLOTTING. 49 
 
 *'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 Sallius 
 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 '11 never treat their own 
 friends that way?" 
 
 "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!" exclaimed Lanty, his eyes growing 
 wider with terror. 
 
 "To be sure it is; and a devilish ugly scrape, too, my 
 friend. Have n't you given information to the Attorney- 
 General against the young O'Donoghue?" 
 
 Lanty nodded, and he went on. 
 
 "Have n't you confessed the whole of the plot, and told 
 them everything?" 
 
 "Very nearly, faix!" 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 
 are bringing yourself to? What will be your claim when 
 the trial of the young O'Donoghue is over? The Crown 
 lawyers will have you up in the witness-box till they 've 
 drained you dry. Devil a drop they'll leave in you; and 
 when they say, 'Go down,' take my word for it, it 's down 
 you '11 go in earnest, and all the world would n't lift you up 
 afterwards. " 
 
 Hemsworth permitted the words to sink into his heart for 
 a few seconds in silence, and then went on, — 
 
 " So long as you trusted me^ you were safe. I 'd never 
 expose you in open court." 
 
50 
 
 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *'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 intelligence. " I asked them for a copy, to read 
 it over before I signed it, 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, carelessly 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 would n'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 
 
TAMPERING AND PLOTTING. 51 
 
 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 Hems- 
 worth, with a smile of deadly malice; "but I 've thought of 
 that part, my honest Lanty. I 've already given informa- 
 tion 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 7jou ; you, a paid 
 spy of France, a sworn United Irishman, who have admin- 
 istered the oaths to eighteen soldiers of the Roscommon 
 militia, and are at this moment under a signed and wit- 
 nessed contract, bound to furnish horses for a French cavalry 
 force on their lauding here in Ireland. Are these truths, 
 Mr. Lanty, or are they mere matters of fancy?" 
 
 "I'm a Crown witness," said Lawler, sturdily, "and if I 
 speak out all I know, they 're bound to protect me." 
 
 "Who is to bind them?" 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 'm curious on 
 the point." 
 
 Lanty turned a fierce look upon him ; his eyeballs glared, 
 and his nether lip shook convulsively, while his hands were 
 firmly clinched together. Hemsworth watched these evi- 
 dences of growing anger, but without seeming to regard 
 them, when the key grated roughly in the lock, the door 
 opened, and the jailer called out, with a savage attempt at 
 laughter, — 
 
 *' Time 's up. I must turn you off, sir." 
 
 *' A short reprieve," said Hemsworth, humoring 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. 
 
52 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 The interruption seemed to offer a favorable opportunity 
 to Hemsworth of giving an amicable turn to the interview, 
 for, with a changed voice, and a look of well-assumed friend- 
 ship, he said, — 
 
 "I have misspent my moments here sadly, Lanty. I 
 came to befriend 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 perilous 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." 
 
 ' ' Could n'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 nothing 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 to 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 a presence his conscience smote him. 
 
 *' 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 '11 
 just say that I dar' n't do it. I '11 not tell why nor where- 
 fore — 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 '11 say, — that Father Kearney put me under a 
 vow^ ; and so they may. They '11 scarcely get him to say 
 much about it, and I '11 take care they won't make me." 
 
 " That thought was worthy of you, Lanty," said Hems- 
 
TAMPERING AND PLOTTING. 53 
 
 worth, laughing, " but take care that you don't swerve from 
 your deter rniuat ion. Remember that there is no accusation 
 against you, — not a word nor a syllable of testimony. Of 
 course, they '11 threaten you with tlie worst consequences. 
 You '11 be told of prosecutions for perjury, and all that. 
 Never mind, — wait patiently your time. When the hour 
 arrives, I'll 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. Cock- 
 ayne got four thousand pounds and a free pardon. Your 
 services will rank far higher." 
 
 "If they won't bring me up in open 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 '11 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 
 sullenness. He felt it as a bribe rather than a gift, and he 
 measured the services expected 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 returned to his hotel. "They'll stop at nothing to 
 terrify him into signing the informations, and if the prosecu- 
 tion 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 moment that I prevented a marriage between 
 Travers and the girl if I 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 Traverses here on 
 the very spot I destine for myself. No, no. I must take 
 care that they never see Ireland more. Indeed, this breaking 
 
54 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 off the marriage will prove a strong obstacle to their return- 
 ing." Thus did he review his plans, sometimes congratulat- 
 ing himself on the success of the past, sometimes fearing 
 for the future, but always relying with confidence on the 
 skill of his own negotiations, — an ingenuity that never yet 
 had failed him in his difficulties. 
 
 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 Hemsworth loitered in one of the offices 
 of the Castle, where the gossip of the morning was dis- 
 cussed, in no common anxiety to hear how his i/rotege had 
 acquitted himself. As the clerks and underlings conversed 
 among themselves on the dress or equipage of the officials 
 who at intervals drove off 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 informa- 
 tions. 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 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 '11 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 b}^ a threat 
 of consequences to himself as an accomplice, and the point 
 went very far with the jury in Jackson's favor." 
 
 Hemsworth 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 an idle man. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Among the unexplained phenomena of the period is one 
 very remarkable and, doubtless, pregnant circumstance, — 
 the species of lull or calm in the movements of the United 
 Irish party, which was conspicuous throughout 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 embarrass- 
 ments of England promised favorably for their cause ; and 
 many who wavered before were found now willing to em- 
 brace the enterprise. To this state of ardent feeling suc- 
 ceeded an interval of doubt and uneasiness ; conflicting 
 statements were circulated, and men's 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 intercourse 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 addressfes of those to whom 
 he had formerly written, and had not a single acquaintance 
 to whom he could look for advice and assistance. 
 
 All Sir Archy's endeavors 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 honor of others was 
 concerned ; and however disposed to seek advice for him- 
 
56 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 self, 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 Archy 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 however artfully conceived, the experience his own 
 career opened displayed the dishonesty of the writer at every 
 sentence. 
 
 "I am the obstacle to his plans, — my presence here is 
 somehow a thwarting influence against him," said he, as 
 he folded up the paper. " 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 clear 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 for 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 with 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 nor depression. The tone of his mnid was 
 indeed sad, but it was the sadness that indicated strength 
 and constancy to endure, fully as much as it betrayed the 
 
I 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 57 
 
 pain of suffering. The altered features of his character im- 
 pressed themselves on everything he did ; and there was an 
 air of quiet gentleness in his demeanor quite foreign to his 
 former rough and abi'upt 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 
 was the first step towards freedom of a mind enthralled by 
 its own strong passions. 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 anything save fear ! How sad 
 to think that energy like his should be suffered to wane, and 
 flicker, and die out for want of the occasion to display its 
 blaze. She could not avoid communicating these thoughts 
 to Sir Archy, who for some time past had watched the 
 growing change in the youth's manner. The old man lis- 
 tened attentively as she spoke, and his glistening eye and 
 heightened color showed how her girlish entluisiasm moved 
 him ; and while some reminiscence of the past seemed to 
 float before him, his voice trembled, as he said, — 
 
 "Alas! my sweet child, the world offers few opportu- 
 nities 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 purposes of every-day life. Gifts 
 that make mankind wiser and happier, these bring fame and 
 honor ; 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 
 
58 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 deficient in ability, if he but suffer himself to rely upon it, 
 rather than on the casual accidents of fortune. If Herbert 
 were but here — " 
 
 " Herbert comes home to-night. I had thought to keep 
 my secret for a surprise, but j^ou have wrested it from me." 
 
 "Herbert coming home ! Oh, how happy you have made 
 me I 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 determination and resolve 
 as certain to win success. But here he comes : may 1 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 delight her 
 pleasant news. 
 
 Mark listened with pleasure to the intelligence. Any 
 little jealousy he once felt for acquirements and attain- 
 ments 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, for she felt how the allusion might be taken. 
 
 A slight tinge of red colored Mark's cheek, and his eye 
 was lighted with a look of pleasure. He felt the flattery in 
 all its force, but did not dare to trust himself with a reply. 
 
 "I wonder," said he, after a lengthened 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, and 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, 
 
THE BROTHERS. 59 
 
 to hear the humble estimate they have of our poor land. 
 I came back here like the mariner whose bark puts back 
 shattered by the storm and baffled by the winds, unable to 
 stem the tide that leads to fortune. Yes, shipwrecked in 
 everything." 
 
 *' 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 surprise was the very counterpart of Mark's 
 own feeling on beholding Herbert. Time had worked 
 favorably 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 com- 
 posure to his air; while with Herbert, his career of study 
 alternating with a life passed among cultivated and polished 
 circles, had converted the unformed stripling into a youth 
 of graceful and elegant demeanor. 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 
 ver3" accent were changed ; yet through this his old nature 
 beamed forth, bright, jo3^ous, and affectionate as ever. It 
 was the same spirit, although its flights were bolder and 
 more daring, — the same mind, but its workings more power- 
 ful and more free. The 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 
 ardor of his temper. A winner in the race of intellect, he 
 experienced that thrilling ecstasy which acknowledged su- 
 periority confers ; he knew what it was to feel the mastery 
 
60 THE O'DONOGBX^E. 
 
 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?" said Mark, as he leaned 
 his arm affectionately on his shoulder. 
 
 "You would think but poorly of my triumphs, Mark," 
 replied Herbert, with a smile. "The lists I fight in peril 
 not life or limb." 
 
 " Still, there is honor in the game," said Mark. "Wher- 
 ever 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? AYhat have you been doing since we met? " 
 
 Mark colored 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 pre- 
 miums? Then I must gie you twa hands, my dear boy," 
 said he, pressing him in a fond embrace. " Were the com- 
 petitors able ones? Was the victor}^ a hard one? Tell me 
 all, everything about it." 
 
 And the j^outh, 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 followed." 
 
 And Herbert resumed in the same tone as before. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 61 
 
 " Ha ! " cried Sir Archy, in an accent of irrepressible 
 delight, " so they said your Latin smacked of Scotland. 
 They scented Aberdeen in it. Well, boy, we beat them, — 
 they canna deny that. The prize is ours ; the 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 telling of the pride that filled his heart, 
 while Herbert poured forth in 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 like ye." 
 
 The young men smiled at the flattery, and arm-in-arm 
 took their way towards the house. 
 
CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. 
 
 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 ; 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 tranquillity 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 monoton}?^ of enjoyment, so de- 
 licious to all whose minds have ever been tortured by the 
 conflicting cares of the world. 
 
 For many a year long the O'Donoghue had not been so 
 free from troubles. The loan he had contracted on Kate's 
 fortune had relieved him from his most pressing embarrass- 
 ments, and left him money enough to keep other creditors at 
 bay. Sir Archy felt already he had received the earnest of that 
 success he so ardently desired for Herbert, and in the calm 
 of political life hoped that the rash scheme in which Mark 
 had embarked 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 argued most favorably for the future. But of all 
 
THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. 63 
 
 those on whom happier prospects shone, none revelled in the 
 enjoyment 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 con- 
 fide 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 avoid- 
 ance 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 farther than usual, — " how singular 
 is this silence respecting the Traverses I 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 deeph^ and muttered something about old 
 and half-remembered grudges, but he interrupted her quickly, 
 saying, — 
 
 " This can scarcely be the reason; at least, their feelings 
 show nothing 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. 
 
 " J/y 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 Hemsworth is somehow at the 
 bottom of it all. Sybella told me what persuasions he em- 
 ployed to prevent her father returning to Glenflesk ; and 
 when everything like argument failed, that he actually, 
 under pretence of enlarging the house, rendered the existing 
 part uninhabitable." 
 
 " But what object could he have in this? " said Kate, who 
 
64 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 felt that Herbert was merely nourishing the old prejudices 
 of his family against Hemsworth. "He is anxious for the 
 peace and welfare of this country ; he grieves for the pov- 
 erty and privations of the people; and, whether he be 
 correct or not, deems the remedy the residence among them 
 of a cultivated and wealth}^ proprietary with 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 eulogize 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 influence which property 
 confers, benefits from his hands became suspected, and 
 measures of mere justice were regarded as acts of cruelty 
 and oppression." 
 
 "Well, 1 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 
 has got a long lease of part of the estate, which they desire 
 to have back again on any terms. The land was let at a 
 nominal rent, as being almost 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 expla- 
 nation of Frederick's dislike, but she did not dare to hint 
 at it. 
 
 "You are too favorable in your opinion of Hemsworth, 
 Kate. Sybella said as much to me herself." 
 
 " Sybella said so?" said Kate, as a flush, half of shame, 
 half of displeasure, mantled her cheek. 
 
 "Yes,'' cried Herbert, for he felt that he was in a diffi- 
 
THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. 65 
 
 culty, and there was no way out save the bold one, of right 
 through it — "yes, she saw what you did not, that Hems- 
 worth had dared to lift his eyes to you, — that all his dis- 
 plays of patriotic sentiment were got up to attract your 
 favorable 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 impressions." 
 
 " 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 oppor- 
 tunities to entice Frederick into discussion before you, well 
 knowing the theme 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 favorably 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 ot 
 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 
 VOL. II. — 5 
 
66 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 up at the moment, had overheard the last words. " You 
 were right to call it so, — where 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!" cried Kate, starting with terrified 
 surprise. 
 
 "Going 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 apprehension 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 Mountain. At least, for the present I shall 
 remain there." 
 
 "But is this necessary, Mark? Are you certain that 
 anything more is meant than to threaten ? " said Kate. 
 
 " I believe that Carrignacurra 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 — " 
 
 
THE LULL BEFORE THE STORM. 67 
 
 "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 
 anything 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 running 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 tranquillity. 
 
 " My guide and my host both," said Mark, gayly. " It's 
 the only invitation I have received for Christmas, and I 
 accept it most willingly, I assure you." 
 
 A 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, — 
 
 u 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 ask- 
 ing the way : that 's it, I 'm sure. Well done ! — my bless- 
 ing 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 ; 
 
68 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 nor did he turn his head round until distance enabled him 
 to look down unnoticed, when again he cried out, " Fare- 
 well ! Remember the west side of Hungry ! " and waving 
 his cap, disappeared, while Herbert and his cousin wended 
 their sorrowful way homeward. 
 
 h 
 
CHAPTER XU. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. 
 
 When Kate arrived at home, she found a note awaiting 
 her, in Hemsworth's handwriting, 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 far more grave and menacing than 
 either of us anticipated, at least so far as I can collect from the 
 information before me. The Privy Council was determined on 
 arresting him at once. Orders to support the warrant by a mili- 
 tary force 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 cour- 
 age, 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!" ex- 
 claimed Kate, as she finished reading the note. "He who 
 
70 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 jeopardies his own station and character for the sake of 
 one actually his enemy ! Well, their injustice shall not in- 
 volve 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." 
 
 " Xo, — 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 delayed him, and he wrote this note, and sent 
 me on, instead of coming himself." 
 
 " 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 willing adviser ; but 
 now the time was come when not only must she act inde- 
 pendently of his aid, but, perhaps, in actual opposition 
 to his views, — taking for her guidance one distrusted by 
 almost every member of her family. Yet what alternative 
 remained? — how betray Hemsworth's conduct in a case 
 which, if known, must exhibit him as false to the Govern- 
 ment, and acting secretly against the very orders that were 
 given to him? This she could not think of; and thus, by 
 the force of circumstances, was constrained to accept of 
 Hemsworth as an ally. Her anxious deliberations on this 
 score were suddenly interrupted by the sound of horses 
 galloping on the road, and as she looked out the individual 
 in question rode up the 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 Hemsworth entered, heated by ^ long and fast ride. 
 
 '' Is your son at home, sir, — your eldest son? " said he, 
 as soon as a very brief greeting was over. 
 
 " If you '11 kindly ring that bell, which my gout won't 
 permit me to reach, we '11 inquire," said the old man, with 
 a well-affected indifference. 
 
 '* I must not create any suspicion among the servants," 
 said Hemsworth, cautiously; "I have reason to believe 
 that some danger is impending over him, and that he had 
 better leave this house for a day or two." 
 
A DISCOVERY. 71 
 
 The apparent frankness of the tone in which he spoke, 
 threw the O'Donoghue completely off his guard, and, taking 
 Hemsworth's hand, he said, — 
 
 '' Thank you sincerely for this. The poor boy got wind of 
 it this morning, 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 advise us to do? I'm 
 really so bewildered by all I hear, and so doubtful of what 
 is true and w^hat 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 to 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 honor not to expose me to the consequences." 
 
 The O'Donoghue listened without thoroughly comprehend- 
 ing the distinction the other aimed at, and then, as if dis- 
 liking the trouble of a thought that puzzled him, he shook 
 his head and muttered, " Ay, very well, — be it so; my niece 
 knows these matters better than I do." 
 
 " I agree with that opinion perfectly," said Hemsworth, 
 in an undertone; "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 understanding of the case." 
 Kate smiled assentingly, and Hemsworth moved towards 
 the door and opened it ; and then, as if after a momentary 
 struggle with his own diffidence, he offered her his arm. This 
 Kate declined, and they w^alked 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 magistrates, has stimulated 
 them to the utmost. There are spies over the whole coun- 
 try, — he will inevitably be taken." 
 
 Kate re-echoed the last words in an accent of deep an- 
 guish, and was silent. 
 
 "Yes," resumed he, "escape is all but impossible; for 
 
72 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 even if he should get to sea, there are two cruisers on the 
 look-out for any suspicious sail." 
 
 '* Aud what if he were to surrender and stand his trial? " 
 said Kate, boldly. 
 
 Hemsworth shook his head sorrowfully, but never spoke. 
 
 "What object can it be with any Government to hunt 
 down a rash, inexperienced youth, whose unguarded bold- 
 ness 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 intercourse 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 
 dreadful result of this young man's capture." 
 
 Kate shuddered at these words, which were uttered in a 
 faint tone, tremulous through emotion. " O God ! " she 
 cried, " do not let this calamity fall upon us. Poverty, 
 destitution, banishment, anything save the death of a 
 felon ! " 
 
 Hemsworth pressed his handkerchief to his e3'es, and 
 looked away, as the young girl, with upturned face, mut- 
 tered a brief but fervent prayer to Heaven. 
 
 "But you, so gifted and experienced in the world's 
 ways," cried she, turning on him a glance of imploring 
 meaning, "can you not think of an\'thing? Is there no 
 means, however difficult and dangerous, by 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, 
 
A DISCOVERY. 73 
 
 resumed : " Do not, I beseech you, tempt me to utter what, 
 if once spoken, decides the destiny of my life ? " 
 
 He ceased, and she bent on him a look of wondering 
 astonishment. She thought that 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. Per- 
 haps the mere expression of doubt her features assumed, 
 was more chilling than even a look of displeasure, for 
 Hemsworth's self-possession, for several minutes, seemed to 
 have deserted 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 counsels 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 memor3\ 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 parent," 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. 
 
74 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " I fear, Miss O'Donoghue," said he, " that my hope was 
 but like the straw which the drowning hand will grasp at ; 
 but, tortured as my mind has been by expedients, which 
 more mature thought has ever discovered to be impracti- 
 cable, I suffered myself to believe that possible which my 
 own heart forbids me to hope for." 
 
 He waited a few seconds to give her an opportunity of 
 speaking, but 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 recog- 
 nizance for this 3'oung man's conduct, and truck the payment 
 of his own services for a free pardon." 
 
 ' ' And Tyho 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 ecstasy, 
 she fixed her tearful eyes upon him, — " you would do that? " 
 Then, growing suddenly pale, as a sick shudder came over 
 her, she said, in a deep and broken voice, "At what price, 
 sir?" 
 
 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 re- 
 pay. 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 fortunes 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 forever." His hands dropped 
 
A DISCOVERY. 75 
 
 powerless at his side, his head fell forward ou 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 compact." 
 
 The proud look of scorn she threw upon him evoked no 
 angry feeling 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 
 intercession should be purchased. Humble as I am, I should 
 be still more unworthy, had I harbored such a thought. My 
 hope was this : to make my intervention 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 inter- 
 est was at stake, and where my fortune — all I possessed in 
 the world — was in the scale, if you consented." Here he 
 hesitated, faltered, and finally became silent ; then, passing 
 his hands across his eyes, resumed more rapidly, *' But I 
 must not speak of this ; alas that my tongue should have 
 ever betrayed it ! You have forced my secret from me, and 
 with it my happiness forever. Forget this, I beseech you, — 
 forget 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 ; I will do m}" utmost to save this youth ; 
 I will spare no exertion or influence I possess with the 
 Government ; I will make his pardon the recompense due to 
 myself : but if that be impossible, I will endeavor 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 him, 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?" 
 
 f OF THE 
 
 H UNIVERSITY 
 
 V OF 
 
76 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 " The shealing at the foot of Hungry Mountain, he men- 
 tioned to Herbert as the rendezvous for the present." 
 
 ''Is he alone, — has he no companion ? " 
 
 "Xone; save, perhaps, the idiot boy who acts as his 
 guide in the mountains." 
 
 " Farewell, then," said Hemsworth ; " you shall soon hear 
 what success attends my effort, — 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 a few moments lost in thought, and as the 
 sound of the retreating hoofs aroused her, she looked up, 
 and muttering to herself, "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, — 
 "mine, in spite of every obstacle! Fortune is seldom so 
 kind as this, — vengeance and ambition both gratified to- 
 gether ; me, whom they despised for my poverty and my low 
 birth, — that it should be my destiny to crush them to the 
 dust ! " These words were scarcely uttered, when his horse, 
 pressed beyond his strength, stumbled over a rut in the road, 
 and 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 Hems- 
 worth was laid, and brought back to the Lodge. Before he 
 reached 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 en- 
 joining rest and quiet, as, in the event of any unusual excite- 
 ment, the worst consequences might ensue. Hemsworth 
 bore up under the injunction with all the seeming fortitude 
 he could muster, but in his heart he cursed the misfortune 
 that thus delayed the hour of his long-sought vengeance. 
 
 " This may continue a week, then?" cried he, impatiently. 
 
 The doctor nodded an assent. 
 
A DISCOVERY. 77 
 
 '* Two — three weeks, perhaps ? " 
 
 '' 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 dangers you apprehend, in the event of my not 
 submitting?" 
 
 " There are several, and very serious ones, — inflamma- 
 tion 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 agonizing thoughts that 
 will not cease to torture me all this while? or can you 
 promise that events will stand still for the moment when I 
 can resume my place once more among men?" 
 
 The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only 
 a more certain evidence of the truth of the medical fears; 
 and, without venturing on any direct reply, the doctor gave 
 some directions for his treatment, 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 daybreak he was quite delirious. 
 
 No sooner did the news reach Carrignacurra than Kerry 
 was despatched to bring back tidings of his state; for, 
 however different the estimation in which he was held by 
 each, one universal feeling pervaded 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 un- 
 varying condition 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 slum- 
 bering 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 ineffectual 
 search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards 
 towards Tralee, and soon after returned to headquarters. 
 Still, with all these signs of security, Mark, whose short 
 experience of life taught him caution, rarely ventured near 
 
78 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Carrignacurra, and never passed more than a few 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 illness. She saw the time 
 gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, and yet 
 knew not how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, 
 coupling the activity with which Mark's pursuit was first 
 undertaken with the sudden visit of Hemsworth to the coun- 
 try, and the abandonment of all endeavors to capture him 
 which followed on Hemsworth's accident, felt strong sus- 
 picion 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 con- 
 jectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, and 
 how far his motives tallied with honorable intentions, the 
 old man plodded wearily on, weighing every word he could 
 remember that bore upon events, and carefully endeavoring 
 to divest his mind of everything 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 remem- 
 bered as belonging to the former building. The sash was 
 open, but the curtains were drawn closely, so as to inter- 
 cept any view from within or without. He observed these 
 things as, fatigued by an unaccustomed 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, accompanied as it was by long-drawn sighs. 
 
A DISCOVERY. T9 
 
 There were voices, also, of persons 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 laboring 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 fol- 
 lowed him to the last with ungenerous doubt — forgive me, 
 Heaven; 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 
 sudden 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 are the 
 anguish-wrung notes of suffering, how little do they seem 
 in comparison with the sounds of mirth from the lips of 
 madness! 
 
 "There — there," cried a voice he at once knew as Hems- 
 worih'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 now;" and 
 again the savage laughter rang out. "Yes, madam," con- 
 tinued 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 honey- 
 moon, 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, — ay, 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 
 
80 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 sigh, whose groaning accent spoke of great debility, and 
 then, starting up in bed, shouted, — 
 
 "It is, it is the King's warrant; who dares to oppose it? 
 Ride in faster, men, — faster; keep together here, the west 
 side of the mountain. There, there, yonder, near the beach. 
 Who was that spoke of pardon? Never; if he resists, cut 
 him down. Ride for it, men, ride! " and in his mad excite- 
 ment he arose from his bed and gained the floor. "There 
 — that's him yonder; he has taken to the mountains; five 
 hundred 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 expres- 
 sion of his features actually 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 laboring 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 everything 
 to persuade him to surrender, — to accept the gracious favor 
 of the Crown; 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 bestow- 
 ing a thought on the sufferer, he hastened down the path, 
 and with all the speed of which he was capable, returned to 
 Carrignacurra. 
 
CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE SHEALING. , , 
 
 Sir Archy's manner, so precise and measured in every 
 occasion of life, had undergone a very marked change 
 before he had arrived at Carrignacurra; exclamations broke 
 from him at every moment, mingled with fervently ex- 
 pressed hopes that he might not be yet too late to rescue 
 Mark from his peril. The agitation of his mind and the 
 fatigue of his exertions completely overcame him; and 
 when he reached the house, he threw himself down upon a 
 seat, utterly exhausted. 
 
 "Are you unwell, my dear uncle?" broke from Kate and 
 Herbert together, as they stood at either side of his chair. 
 
 "Tired, wearied, heated, my dear children; nothing 
 more. Send me Kerry here; I want to speak to him." 
 
 Kerry soon entered, and Sir Archy, beckoning him to his 
 side, whispered a few words rapidly into his ear. Kerry 
 made no repl}^ but hastened from the room, and was soon 
 after seen hurrying down the causeway. 
 
 "I see, my dear uncle," whispered Kate, with a tremu- 
 lous accent, — "I see you have bad tidings for us this 
 morning; he is worse." 
 
 '• Waur he canna be," muttered Sir Archy, with a signifi- 
 cance that gave the words a very equivocal meaning. 
 
 "But there is still hope. They told us yesterday that 
 to-morrow would be the crisis of the malady, — the twen- 
 tieth day since his relapse." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" said the old man, who, not noticing her 
 remark, pursued aloud the track of his own reflections. 
 *' Entrapped — ensnared — I see it all now. And only eight 
 days given! — and even of these to be kept in ignorance. 
 Poor fellow! how you have been duped." 
 
 VOL. II. — 6 
 
82 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ''But this delirium may pass away, uncle," said Kate, 
 who, puzzled at his vague expressions, sought to bring him 
 again to the theme of Hemsworth's illness 
 
 "Then comes the penalty, lassie," cried he. energetically. 
 "The Government canna forgie a rebel, as parents do 
 naughty children, by the promise of doing better next time. 
 When a daring scheme — But wait a bit, here 's Kerry. 
 Come to the window, man, — come over here ; " and he 
 called him towards him. 
 
 Whatever were the tidings Kerry brought, Sir Archy 
 seemed overjoyed by them; and taking Herbert's arm, he 
 hurried from the room, leaving the O'Donoghue and Kate 
 in a state of utter bewilderment. 
 
 "I'm afraid, my sweet niece, that Hemsworth's disease 
 is a catching one. Archy has a devilish wild, queer look 
 about him to-day," said the O'Donoghue, laughing. 
 
 *' I hope he has heard no bad news, sir. He is seldom so 
 agitated as this. But what can this mean? Here comes a 
 chaise up the road. See, it has stopped at the gate, and 
 there is Kerry hastening down with a portmanteau." 
 
 Sir Archy entered as she spoke, dressed for the road, 
 and approaching his brother-in-law's chair, whispered a few 
 words in his ear. 
 
 "Great Heaven protect us!" exclaimed the O'Donoghue, 
 falling back, half unconscious, into his seat. While, turn- 
 ing to Kate, Sir Archy took her hand in both of his, and 
 said, — 
 
 "My ain dear bairn, I have no secrets from you, but 
 time is too short to say much now. Enough, if I tell you 
 Mark is in danger, — the greatest and most imminent. I 
 must hasten up to Dublin and see the Secretary, and, if pos- 
 sible, the Lord Lieutenant. It may be necessary, perhaps, 
 for me to proceed to London. Herbert is already off to the 
 mountains, to warn Mark of his peril. If he can escape 
 till I return, all may go well yet. Above all things, how- 
 ever, let no rumor of my journey escape. I 'm only going 
 to Macroom, or Cork, mind that, ana to be back to-morrow 
 evening, or next day." 
 
 A gesture from Kerry, who stood on the rock above the 
 road, warned him that all was ready; and, with an affec- 
 
THE SHEALING. 83 
 
 tionate but hurried adieu, he left the room, and gaining 
 the high road, was soon proceeding towards Dublin, at the 
 fastest speed of the posters. 
 
 " Them 's the bastes can do it," said Kerry, as he watched 
 them with the admiration of a connoisseur; ''and the little 
 one wid the rat-tail isn't the worst either." 
 
 "Where did that chaise come from, Kerry?" cried the 
 O'Donoghue, who could not account for the promptitude of 
 Sir Archy's movements. 
 
 "'Twas with Dr. Dillon from Macroom it came, sir, and 
 it was to bring him back there again; but Sir Archibald 
 told me to give the boy a pound note to make a mistake, 
 and come over here for himself. That 's the way of it." 
 
 While we leave the O'Donoghue and his niece to the 
 interchange of their fears and conjectures regarding the 
 danger which they both concurred in believing had been 
 communicated to Sir Archy by Hems worth, we must follow 
 Herbert, who was now on his way to the mountains, to 
 apprise Mark that his place of concealment was already 
 discovered, and that measures for his capture were taken 
 in a spirit that indicated a purpose of personal animosity. 
 
 Herbert knew little more than this, for it was no part of 
 Sir Archy's plan to impart to any one his discovery of 
 Hemsworth's treachery, lest, in the event of his recovery, 
 their manner towards him would lead him to a change of 
 tactique. Hemsworth was too cunning an adversary to 
 concede any advantage to. Indeed, the only chance of 
 success against him lay in taking the opportunity of his 
 present illness to anticipate his movements. Sir Archy, 
 therefore, left the family at Carrignacurra in ignorance of 
 this man's villany, as a means of lulling him into security. 
 The expressions that fell from him half unconsciously in 
 the drawing-room, fortunately contributed to this end, and 
 induced both the O'Donoghue and Kate to believe 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, 
 
84 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 further to unsettle his notions and increase the 
 discontent he felt with his condition. If Herbert did not 
 look up to Mark with respect for his superior qualities of 
 mind, there were traits in his nature that inspired the sen- 
 timent 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 pos- 
 sessor. 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 base of the mountain, and as he was 
 endeavoring to decide on the path, a low 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 j^ou before I let you pass, 
 Master Herbert," cried he, "for I could n't see your face, 
 the way your head was 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 quarter of a mile 
 or so, till you reach three stones, one over another. From 
 that spot you '11 see the shealing down beneath you." 
 
 *'My brother is there now?" said Herbert, inquiringly. 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 n 
 
THE SHEALING. 85 
 
 "Ay. just so; but with an English flag flying. She 
 landed ten men at the point, and then got out to sea as fast 
 as she could. She was out of sight before dark." 
 
 "And the men, — what became of them? " 
 
 "They sta^'ed an hour or more with blaster Mark. One 
 ot 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, — I don't know w^hat 
 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 cor- 
 rectness 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, however, 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 mountain, perceived 
 the little shealing at the 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 band. 
 
 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 
 
86 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 on a large map which lay widespread before him. The 
 figure was indeed Mark's. The massive head, on either 
 side of which, in flowing waves, the long and locky hair 
 descended, there was no mistaking. But the costume was 
 one Herbert saw for the first time. It was a simple uni- 
 form of blue and white, with a single silver epaulette, and 
 a sword, hilted with the same metal. The chako was of 
 dark fur, and ornamented with a large bouquet of tri- 
 colored ribbons, whose gay and flaunting colors streamed 
 with a strange contrast along the dark earthen floor. Amid 
 all his terror for what these emblems 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 im- 
 patience 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?" said Mark, anxiously. 
 
 *'Yes; but for his directions I could never have dis- 
 covered the path." 
 
 "All 's well, then. Until I hear a certain signal from 
 him, I fear nothing. The fellow seems neither to eat nor 
 to 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 like mine." 
 
 "Poor fellow! he is but half-witted at best," said 
 Herbert. 
 
 "The more reason for his fidelity now." said Mark, bit- 
 terly. "The men of sense are traitors lo 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 
 
THE SHEALING. 87 
 
 come ever me after long and weary thoughts. I am tired 
 to-day. Tell me, how are they all at Carrignacurra?*' 
 
 "Well, and 1 would say happy, Mark, were it not for 
 their anxieties 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 fragments 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 reveal to you what our oath for- 
 bids me, — but here I must remain." 
 
 "And this dress, Mark; why increase the risk you run 
 by a uniform which actually designates treason? " 
 
 "Who will dare 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 arms 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 labored 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 valor?" 
 
 "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 
 
88 THE O'DONOGHUB. 
 
 betrayed her! Oh, m}^ brother, the brother of my heart, 
 how would I kneel iu 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 1 hear you aright? " 
 
 "You did. I am a Protestant." 
 
 Mark fell back as his brother spoke; a cold leaden tinge 
 spread over his features, and he seemed like one laboring 
 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. 
 
 "Who will tell me I have not been tried now?" con- 
 tinued 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 Her- 
 bert looked up, and their eyes met. 
 
 "What of our father, Mark? " 
 
 "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 awhile 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 whole night through they talked together. It was 
 
THE SHEALING. 
 
 89 
 
 the first moment for many a long year since they had un- 
 burdened 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 
 mentioned, 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 
 
 I 
 
 accepted a commission in the French army, on the under- 
 standing 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 
 theirs, 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 endeavor 
 
90 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 to persuade 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 differ- 
 ent ambition was displayed. Herbert had entered the lists 
 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. 
 
 I 
 
CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THE CONFEDERATES. 
 
 The paroxysm which Sir Archibald had witnessed formed 
 the crisis of Hemsworth'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 excessive debility was 
 now the only symptom of great danger remaining. With 
 the return of his faculties came back his memory, clear 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 excite- 
 ment 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 shows how insignificant our 
 existence is, and how independently of us the work of 
 life goes on. 
 
 When Wylie was summoned to his master's bedside, the 
 first question put to him was, what day of the month it 
 was? and his astonishment was, indeed, great as he heard 
 it was the 16th of December, and that he had been above 
 two months on a sick-bed. 
 
 "Two months here! " cried he; "and what has happened 
 
 since r 
 
 9„ 
 
 "Scarcely anything, sir," said Wylie, well knowing the 
 meaning of the question. "The country is quiet — the 
 people tranquil. Too much so, perhaps, to last. The 
 
92 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 young O'Donoghue has not been seen up the glen for 
 several weeks past; but his brother passes frequently from 
 Carrignacurra to the coast, and back again, so that there is 
 little doubt of his still being in his old hiding-place. 
 Talbot — Barringtou, 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 1 was at 
 Macroom." 
 
 "That piece of boldness bodes us no good," said Hems- 
 worth. "What of the others? Who has called here from 
 Carrignacurra ? " 
 
 "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 postboy 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 rumors 
 of an accusation against himself, for intriguing with the 
 United People, and thought best to go over to Scotland for 
 a while." 
 
 "That 's folly; what is the other rumor? " 
 
 "A more likely one," said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd 
 glance beneath his half-closed eyelids. "They say that he 
 determined to go up to Dublin, and see the Lord Lieutenant, 
 and ask him for a free pardon for Mark." 
 
 Hemsworth sprang up in the bed at these words, as if he 
 had been stung. 
 
 "And who says this, Wylie? " 
 
THE CONFEDERATES. 93 
 
 "I believe I was the first that said so myself," said 
 Wylie, affecting 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." 
 
 "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. Prob- 
 ably never did glances more rapidly reveal the sentiments 
 of two hearts. Each well knew the villany 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 different light from his under-bred associate, and he 
 made no gesture to take them from his hand. 
 
 "This has an English post-mark," said Wylie, pur- 
 posely occupying himself with the letter to avoid noticing 
 Hemsworth's hesitation. 
 
 "You have not broken the seals, I hope," said Hems- 
 worth, faintly. 
 
 "No, sir; I knew better than that," replied Wylie, with 
 well-assumed caution. "I knew your honor had a right to 
 it if you suspected the correspondence was treasonable, 
 because you're in the commission, and it's your duty, but 
 I could n't venture it of m3^self." 
 
 "I'm afraid your law is not very correct. Master Wylie," 
 said Hemsworth, who felt by no means certain as to the 
 sincerity of the opinion. 
 
94 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "It 's good enough for Glenflesk, anyhow," said the fel- 
 low, boldly; for he saw that in Hems worth's present ner- 
 vous condition audacity might succeed where subserviency 
 would not. 
 
 "By which you mean that we have the case in our own 
 hands, AYylie. 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 whenever you like." 
 
 "You are a strange fellow, Sam," said Hemsworth, whose 
 nerves were too much shaken by illness to enable him to 
 act with his ordinary decision ; and he took up one of the 
 letters and perused it slowly. "This is merely an an- 
 nouncement 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 new 
 session; no excitement about the United party. What 
 tidings has the other? Ha! what's this?" and his thin 
 and haggard face flushed scarlet. "Leave 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, 
 while 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 ir 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 me," 
 said he, with a smile of contemptuous feeling; "let him 
 try it." 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE. 
 
 A LITTLE lower down the valley than the post occupied by 
 Terry as his look-out was a small stream, passable by step- 
 ping-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, regarding 
 it as the frontier of his little dominion. Beside this rivu- 
 let, as night was falling, Mark sat, awaiting with some 
 impatience his brother's coming, for already the third 
 evening had passed in which Herbert promised 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 
 Carrignacurra. Just then a sound caught his ear; he lis- 
 tened, 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 countenance; "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 honor 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." 
 
96 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Mark repelled every s^niiptom of impatience, for he well 
 knew how the slightest evidences of dissatisfaction on his 
 part would destroy every chance of the poor fellow regain- 
 ing 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 Kinsale over the mountains. Botheration to him, 
 why did n't he say more, and I would n't forget it now? " 
 
 "Have patience, you '11 think of it all by-and-by." 
 
 "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 your honor well, for he said, — 
 
 " 'How is the O'Donoghues, — don't they live here- 
 abouts ? ' 
 
 "'Yes,' says I, 'a few miles down that way.' 
 
 "*Is the eldest boy at home? ' says he. 
 
 '"Maj^be he is, and maybe he isn't,' says I, for I 
 would n't tell him 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 speaking 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 Googawu Barra, and I 
 seen him crossing the mountain afterwards. But here 
 comes Master Herbert." And at the same instant he was 
 Been coming up the valley at a fast pace. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE. 97 
 
 When the first greetings were over, Herbert informed 
 Mark that a certain stir and movement in the glen and its 
 neighborhood for the last few days had obliged him to 
 greater caution ; that several strangers had been seen lurk- 
 ing about Carrignacurra; and that, in addition to the mili- 
 tary 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 to our house," con- 
 tinued 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 difficulties were thickening 
 around us ; and yet this fear may only be the apprehension 
 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. 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 combated, and in mutual converse they 
 each grew lighter in heart; and when at last, wearied out, 
 they lay down upon the heather of the shealing, they slept 
 without a dream. 
 
 It was still dark as midnight when Mark awoke and 
 looked at his watch: it wanted a quarter to 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 sufficient trust in Terry's 
 version to draw any inference from it? Still, he resolved 
 to ascend the mountain, little favorable as the weather 
 promised for such an undertaking. It was not without 
 reluctance that Herbert found himself called upon to accom- 
 pany his brother. The black and dreary night, the swoop- 
 ing wind, the wet spray, drifting up to the very shealing, 
 were but sorry inducements to stir abroad ; and he did his 
 
98 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 utmost to persuade him to defer the excursion to a more 
 favorable 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, northing 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 mountains 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 favorably." 
 
 "And who is to say this is not that day? It is my birth- 
 day, Herbert, — 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 pre- 
 pared 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 and weary, and the tw^o brothers seldom spoke 
 as they plodded along the steep ascent. 
 
 Mark's deep preoccupation 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 
 to warn his brother of the danger of some precipice, or the 
 necessity to guard against the slippery 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, heavily charged with vapor, 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 diflflcult at every step; and although 
 
THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE. 99 
 
 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 precipices and gullies on 
 every side; and grant that we do reach the top for sun- 
 rise, what shall we be able to see amid the immense masses 
 of cloud around us ? " 
 
 "No, Herbert, the same turning-back policy it is which 
 thwarts success in life. Had you yourself followed such an 
 impulse, you had not gained the honors 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 way, 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 the leagues of coast and 
 sea, long winding valleys and wide plains, the prophetic 
 spirit fostered by such agencies looks out in life, and 
 images of the future flit past in cloudy shapes and chang- 
 ing forms. There, see that black mass that slowly moves 
 along, and seems to beckon us with giant arms. 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 until we reached the summit." 
 
 Herbert drained the little measure of whiskey, and 
 resumed his way more cheerily. 
 
 "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; 
 
100 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 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 mountain, 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 cliff. 
 
 "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!" 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 destruc- 
 tion? 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 forever 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, tak- 
 ing 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 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. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE. 101 
 
 "You are a poet, Herbert: tell me if you have faith in 
 those instinctive fancies which seem to shadow forth 
 events? " 
 
 "If you mean to ask me whether, from my present sen- 
 sations, I anticipate 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 for 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-colored visions," said Herbert, as he shook 
 the rain from his soaked garments; "m?/ imagination cannot 
 carry me to such a lofty tlight." 
 
 Mark was too intent upon his own thoughts to bestow 
 much attention 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 toilsome exertion 
 he reached the top, and seated himself on a little pile of 
 stones that marked the point of the mountain. The dark- 
 ness 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 booming noise arose, 
 as the caves along the shore re-echoed to the swelling 
 clangor of the waves. 
 
 Herbert at last reached the spot, but so exhausted by 
 the unaccustomed 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 westward; "the gray dawn always shows over the 
 
102 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 sea. I have seen the whole surface like gold, befoie the 
 dull mountains had one touch of light." 
 
 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 had 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 moun- 
 tain were high in his heart, already began 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 gray 
 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 peas- 
 ants, 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 sunlight 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." 
 
THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE. 103 
 
 "It is indeed beautiful! " exclaimed Herbert, all fatigue 
 forgotten in the ecstasy of the moment. "Is not that 
 Garran Thual, Mark, that rears its head above the others?" 
 
 But Mark's e^^es 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 continued to burn brilliantly in the gray 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 held on 
 her course up Bantry Bay. Even at the distance Mark's 
 experienced 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 and bearing bespoke a 
 frigate. 
 
 "She's a King's ship, Mark, in pursuit of some smug- 
 gler," said Herbert; "and the fires we have seen were sig- 
 nals to the other. How beautifully she sails along! and 
 see, is not that another? " 
 
 Mark made no reply, Init 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 frigate, and they 
 perceived that already she was abreast of Whitty Island, 
 where 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 
 
104 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Heaven ! in whose keeping the destinies of men and king- 
 doms lie, look favorably upon our struggle now! Yes, my 
 brother, I was right, — a brighter hour is about to shine 
 upon our country ! Look there, — think of those gallant 
 fellows that have left home and country 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 endeavor 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 
 colored 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, as he turned away, sad and sorrow-struck. 
 
 "You would not betray us," cried Mark, as he saw his 
 brother preparing 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 him- 
 self 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 
 
THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE. 105 
 
 second ship had arrived, — a large three-decker, with an 
 admiral's peuuon 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 officers in command of the expedi- 
 tion, and making known to them his name, and the place he 
 occupied in the confidence of his countrymen. His great 
 doubt was, whether he should not precede this act by meas- 
 ures 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 intimacy 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 willing 
 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 
 could 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 
 different farmers whom he remembered as true to the cause, 
 and on whose courage and readiness he depended at this 
 moment, he hastened on. 
 
 " Holt at the cross-roads promised eighteen, all armed 
 with firelocks. M'Sweeny has six sons, and stout fellows 
 they are, every man of them read3^ 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 
 0*Sullivan numbers nigh eighty, — pikemen every one of 
 them. Our French friends may smile at their ragged gar- 
 ments, but our enemies will scarce join in the laugh. Car- 
 
106 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 rignacurra must be occupied, — it is the key of the glen. 
 The Lodge we '11 burn to the ground, — but no, we must not 
 visit the sin of the servant 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 blood- 
 shed 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 enterprise — what spirit pre- 
 vailed among the officers, and what hopes of success ani- 
 mated the chiefs, — Mark moved along, eager for the horn- 
 to come when the green flag should be displayed, and the 
 war-cry of Ireland ring in her native valleys. 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY. 
 
 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- 
 nacurra, where life seemed to move on in the same unbroken 
 tranquillity. For several days past, Hemsworth, still weak 
 from his recent illness, had been a frequent visitor, and 
 although 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 deference and 
 respect, that, however little she might be disposed to en- 
 courage his addresses, the difficulty of repelling them with- 
 out 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 reality, to one of quick 
 intelligence, but so 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, everything promised success. It was 
 more than doubtful that the Traverses would ever return to 
 Ireland. Frederick would be unwilling to visit the neigh- 
 borhood 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 like- 
 lihood deter Sir Marmaduke from any wish to revisit his 
 
108 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 Irish property. This was one step gained. Ah-eady he was 
 in possession of a large portion of the Glentlesk estate, of 
 which he was well aware the title was defective, for he had 
 made it a ground of considerable 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 to 
 any other. Nothing, then, remained incomplete to the ac- 
 complishment 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, the 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 
 executive and the leaders of the United part}' in Ireland. 
 Far from communicating this information to the Govern- 
 ment, he treasured it as the source of his own future ele- 
 vation. From time to time, it is true, he made known cer- 
 tain facts regarding individuals whom he either dreaded for 
 their power, or suspected that they miglit themselves prove 
 false to their party and betray the plot ; but, save in these 
 few instances, he revealed nothing of what he knew, deter- 
 mining, at the proper moment, to make this knowledge the 
 groundwork 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 rumor of a French landing gains cur- 
 renc3^ 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 
 
THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY. 109 
 
 operation, their uumbers, 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 recovery, and such were the thoughts which engrossed 
 the first days of his returning health. 
 
 The latest letters he had seen from France announced that 
 the expedition 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 Carrignacurra, where he had passed the 
 preceding night, the severity of the weather having de- 
 tained 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 w^ere 
 destined to disconcert and destroy them. 
 
 The family were seated at breakfast, and Hemsworth, 
 whose letters had been brought over from the Lodge, was 
 reading aloud such portions 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 neighbor's ditch, or 
 a heifer is impounded, he always comes with this same press- 
 ing 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 
 
110 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 power," said Kate, far more desirous of offering consolation 
 to her uncle than satisfied in her own mind as to the state 
 of matters. ''He is in constant correspondence with Gov- 
 ernment. 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 dishonor. This will, I 
 hope, be got over soon." 
 
 While she was yet speaking, the door softly opened, and 
 Kerry, with a noiseless step, slipped in, and, approaching 
 the table unseen and unheard, was beside the O'Donoghue's 
 chair before he was perceived. 
 
 "Whisht, master dear, — whisht. Miss Kate," said he, 
 with a gesture 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 Hemsworth ; 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 preoccupa- 
 tion 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 perform- 
 ing a variety of very unnecessary acts and attentions about 
 the table, at last left the room, with a sigh over his in- 
 ability to protract his departure. 
 
 Hemsworth's 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 im- 
 portant. A number of the people have assembled in arms 
 in the glen, your son 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 become known. The Government never could forgive 
 
THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY. IH 
 
 such a proceeding on his part. I need not tell you that 
 this daring must be a mere hopeless exploit; such enter- 
 prises have but one termination, — the scaffold." 
 
 The old man and his niece exchanged glances, — vapid, 
 but full of intelligence. 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 invention ? 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 dis- 
 content, or have they concerted any movement with others 
 at a distance? " 
 
 " A mere isolated outbreak, — the rash folly of harebrained 
 boys, without plan or project." 
 
 "What is to become of poor Mark?" cried the O'Don- 
 oghue, all suspicions of treachery forgotten in the anxiety 
 of his son's safety. 
 
 " I have thought of that," said Hemsworth, hastily. 
 " The movement must be put down at once. As a magis- 
 trate, and in the full confidence 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 
 despatch them by some trusty messenger, saying that you 
 are aware of what has happened, — know everything, — and, 
 without wishing to interfere or thwart his designs, j^ou 
 desire to see and speak with him, here, at once. This he 
 will not refuse. Once here safe, and within these walls, 
 I '11 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 kidnapped thus, and by our contrivance, too? " said 
 Kate, on whom, for the first time, a dread of Hemsworth's 
 duplicity was fast breaking. 
 
112 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 '' I did not know Miss O'Donoghue's interest took so wide 
 a range, or that her sympathies were so catholic," said 
 Ilemsworth, 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 complaint for it." 
 
 Kate smiled gratefully in return, and felt angry with 
 herself for even a momentary injustice to the honorable 
 nature of Hemsworth's motives. 
 
 " Mr. Hemsworth's horse 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 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 colored and walked 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 m 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 
 
THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY. 113 
 
 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 land- 
 ing 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 Hems- 
 worth would neglect no measures for the safety of Carrig- 
 nacurra, he scrupled to announce tidings which might over- 
 whelm 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 delivering it with- 
 out 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 rang 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 
 honor and country demand his services? that I could plot 
 for life, when all that makes life worth having is in the 
 opposite scale?" 
 
 " You must find out Master Mark, Kerry," said the 
 O'Donoghue, "and give him this letter; there's 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. Awa}^ at once — the foot of 
 Hungry Mountain — the shealing — Bantry Bay — you can- 
 not have any difficulty in finding him now\" 
 
 Kerry waited not for further bidding, and though not b^? 
 
 VOL. II. — 8 
 
114 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 any means determined to make any unusual exertion, left 
 the room with such rapidity as augured well for the future. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Branaghan, 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 they 're wanting to kill. Here am I setting out wid 
 a letter, and where to, 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. Branaghan, who, affect- 
 ing to bestow a critical examination on the document, was 
 inspecting the superscription wrong side up. 
 
 " 'T is for blaster 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. 'T is a dhroU day when an O'Donoghue would n't 
 have a fight for his fathers' acres." 
 
 "Bad cess to the weak-hearted, wherever they are!" 
 exclaimed Mrs. Branaghan. " Don't give him the letter, 
 Kerry avich ; lie quiet in the glen till evening, and say you 
 could n'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 resolution wanted little prompting; "after I cross 
 the river, I '11 turn into the Priest's Glen, and never stir 
 out till evening." 
 
 AVith 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 fre- 
 quent gusts, snapped the large branches like mere twigs, 
 ^nd covered the road with fragments of timber ; the moun- 
 tain rivulets, too, were swollen, and dashed madl}^ down the 
 focky cliffs with a deafening clamor, while the rain, swoop- 
 ing past in torrents, concealed the sky, and covered the 
 earth with darkness. Muttering in no favorable spirit over 
 the waywardness of that sex, to whose peculiar interposi- 
 tion he ascribed his present excursion, Kerry plodded along, 
 
THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY. 115 
 
 turning, 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 the question, and so he at once deter- 
 mined 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 would n't wonder, now, if it was a lie of Sam Wylie's, 
 and the French wasn't here at all," said he to himself; 
 *' 't is often I heerd that Hemsworth could have the rebellion 
 break 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 which came 
 in with the morning's tide had all weighed anchor, and sailed 
 out of the bay before twelve o'clock, and that nobody knew 
 anything about them, what they w^ere, and w^hence from. 
 *' We thought they were the French," said the boy, " till w^e 
 seen them sailing away ; but then we knew it was n't them, 
 and some said it was the King's ships coming in to guard 
 Bantry." 
 
 " And they are not there now I " 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 tliis intelli- 
 gence 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 accordingly. 
 
CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THE PRIEST S COTTAGE. 
 
 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 man, 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 difficulties. To give notice of the 
 French landing, to apprise the magistrates of the approach- 
 ing 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 dis- 
 loyalty 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 conse- 
 quences ; Kate's opinions, vague and undefined as they were, 
 would be in direct opposition to his own ; Hemsworth he 
 dared not confide in. What, then, remained? There was 
 but one for miles round in w^hose judgment and honor 
 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 unable 
 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 religious belief which, although 
 secretly working for manj^ a year, had only reached its 
 accomplishment when absent from home. He was aware 
 how such a disclosure would aflSict his old friend, — how 
 
THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE. 117 
 
 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 indignit}' of de- 
 fence from such an accusation, and the pain of an interview, 
 where the matter should be discussed, he had preferred leav- 
 ing to time and accident the disclosure, which from his own 
 lips would have been a painful sacrifice to both parties. 
 These considerations, important enough as they regarded his 
 own happiness, had little weight with him now. The oraver 
 questions had swallowed up all others, — the safety of the 
 country ; his brother's fate. It was true the priest's sym- 
 pathies would be exclusively with one party ; he would not 
 view 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 devastated by civil war? Was it 
 not possible that he might judge unfavorably of success, 
 and prefer to endure what he regarded as evils rather than 
 incur the horrors of a rebellion, and the re-enactment of 
 penalties it would call down? 
 
 The hopes such calculations suggested were higher, be- 
 cause Mark had himself often avowed that the French 
 would only consent to the enterprise on the strict under- 
 standing of being seconded by the almost unanimous voice 
 of the nation. Their expression was, "We are ready and 
 willing to meet England in arms, provided not one Irish- 
 man be in the ranks." Should Father Rourke, then, either 
 from motives of policy or prudence, think unfavorably of 
 the scheme, his influence, unbounded over the people, would 
 throw a damper on the rising, and either deter 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 succor, 
 when all around seemed hopeless, or that the mind fertilizes 
 the fields of its owe 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, 
 
118 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 he diverged from the path, and at last reached a part of the 
 mountaiu where a tremendous precipice intervened, and 
 stopped all farther 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 all 
 before it. Vexed at his mistake, he resolved, if possible, 
 to discover some new way down the mountain ; but, in the 
 endeavor, he only wandered still farther 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 min- 
 utes the view ; but when, at last, he saw the bay, what was 
 his surprise to perceive that the French fleet was no longer 
 there. He turned his eyes on 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 the 
 coast, not a mast could be seen. 
 
 Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses, he 
 knelt down on the cliff, and bent his gaze steadily on the 
 bay ; and when, at length, reassured and certain that no 
 deception existed, he began to doubt whether the whole 
 bad not been unreal, and that the excitement of his intei 
 view with Mark had conjured the images his wishes sug- 
 gested. The faint flickering embers of an almost extinguished 
 fire on the Smuggler'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 afforded to rescue Mark 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 
 efforts of strength and endurance, and his courage ap- 
 peared 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 
 
THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE. 119 
 
 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 parlor 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 endeavoring to dis- 
 suade 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 to address the people, because I would 
 not see them fall, or even conquer, in an unjust cause. Raise 
 the banner of the Church — " 
 
 " 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 I " said Mark, 
 scoffingly. 
 
 "" Oiti, parhlpAt^ if he likes it." replied the Frenchman, 
 laughingly ; "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 did n't 
 
120 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 accomplishment of 
 our hopes ; such must this enterprise be, if now — " 
 
 "Now, or never!" interposed Mark, as he struck the 
 table violently with his clinched hand; " now, or never, — 
 for me, at least. You have shown me to these Frenchmen 
 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 farther, 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 
 certificate 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 how it becomes him who helped to rob me of 
 my inheritance to despoil me of my honor also." 
 
 " You must unsay these words, sir," said the priest, in 
 an accent as stern and 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 different 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 drag- 
 ging; you would not have the vessels go ashore on the 
 rocks : the next tide they '11 stand up the bay again. The 
 people that should have been ready to welcome them hold 
 back. The whole country round is become suddenly craven ; 
 of the hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seven- 
 
THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE. 121 
 
 teen appeared this morning, and they were wretches more 
 eager for pillage than the field of honorable warfare. It is 
 come, then, to this : you either come at once to harangue the 
 people and recall them to their sworn allegiance, or the expe- 
 dition 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 Eepublic 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, — ay, and all 
 night, too : the blazing chapels shall light the way ! " 
 
 "Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of out- 
 raged Heaven is more terrible than you think of. What- 
 ever 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 dishonor 
 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 ex- 
 cessive fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the 
 eventful moment was come, when, should the priest falter 
 or hesitate, Mark might succeed in his request, and all 
 hope of rescuing him be lost forever. 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 unhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not 
 her sons be found in 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 
 
122 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 he not an Irishman in heart and spirit? Is not the land as 
 dear to him as to us? " 
 
 "I give you joy upon the alliance, father," said Mark, 
 with a scornful laugh. " Herbert is a Protestant." 
 
 " What ! — did I hear aright? " said the old man, as, with 
 a face pale as death, he tottered forwards, and caught the 
 youth by 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 ??ie." 
 
 The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair ; 
 a livid hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew 
 glassy and lustreless. 
 
 " 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 fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, father. 
 Herbert, we '11 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, ap- 
 proaching the old man's chair, he said, — 
 
 "There is yet time to avert the danger. The people are 
 irresolute, — many actually averse to the rising. My brother 
 will fall by his rashness." 
 
 " Better to do so than survive in dishonor," said the 
 priest, snatching 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 with 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 chikl." 
 
 Herbert knelt at the priest's feet, when, placing his hand 
 
THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE. 123 
 
 on the young man's head, he muttered a fervent prayer over 
 him, saying, as he concluded, — 
 
 '• And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide 
 yours, aud briug 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 : he stole silently from the room, and, on 
 reaching the little porch, found Kerry O'Leary, who, wet 
 through and wearied, had reached the cottage, after several 
 hours' endeavor to cross the watercourses, swollen into 
 torrents by the rain. 
 
 "A letter from Carrignacurra, sir," said Kerry; for, 
 heartily sick of his excursion, he adopted the expedient 
 of pretending to mistake to which brother the letter was ad- 
 dressed, and thus at once terminate his unpleasant mission. 
 
 The note began, " My dear son," and, without the men- 
 tion 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, accom- 
 panied by Kerry, set out for Carrignacurra. 
 
 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 disguise it. That 's Sam W3'lie, and it 's not for anything 
 good he 's here." 
 
 Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang 
 down upon and seized them. 
 
 " This is our man," said one of the party, as he held 
 
124 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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. 
 
 
CHAPTER XLVn. 
 
 THE DAY OF RECKONING. 
 
 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 increased 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 masonry 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 shivering 
 flock of mountain sheep were gathered, with here and there 
 amidst them a heifer or a wild pony, all differences of habit 
 merged in the common instinct of safety. Within doors 
 everything looked sad and gloomy; the kitchen, where 
 several country people, returning from the market, had 
 assembled, waiting in the vain hope of a favorable moment 
 to proceed homeward, did not present any of its ordinary 
 signs of gayety. 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. Branaghan herself smoked her pipe in a state of moody 
 dignity that added its shade of awe to the solemnity of the 
 scene. 
 
 It was a strange feature of the converse, nor would it 
 be worth mentioning here, save as typifying the wonderful 
 
126 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 caution and reserve of the people in times of difficulty, but 
 no one spoke of the "rising," nor did any allude, except 
 distantly, to the important military preparations going for- 
 ward 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 ap- 
 pearance of a stranger, 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 
 countr}^ ; how the floods would carry awaj^ a bridge here, 
 or a mill there ; what roads would be impassable ; what 
 rivers would no longer be fordable ; 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 
 callow, 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 ship- 
 wreck 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 suspense 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 humble 
 obeisance, a muttered sound ran through them, in Irish, of 
 wonder and astonishment at her grace and beaut}^ ; for, 
 whatever be the privations 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 acknoM'ledgment 
 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 something 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 composedl}^ but perhaps with not less admiration ; 
 Mrs. Branaghan, at the same time, throwing a proud glance 
 
THE DAY OF RECKONING. 127 
 
 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 Frenchwoman. 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 did n'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 lets me have my own 
 way, — is it not true, Mrs. Branaghan ? " 
 
 Mrs. Branaghan'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." 
 
 Kate smiled at the speaker, not at all ungrateful for such 
 rude chivalry, and went on: "I wanted to know 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 himself, when at last an old man, with a head as white 
 as snow, answered, — 
 
 "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, 't is Limerick I heerd say," cried another. 
 
 "Limerick, indeed! sorra bit ; 't is 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 
 M'Carthy seen them going away, a little after twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 The man thus appealed to seemed in no wise satisfied 
 
128 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 with the allusion to him, aucl threw a quick, distrustful 
 look around, as though far from feeling content with the 
 party before whom he should explain, — a feeling that 
 increased considerably, as every eye was now turned towards 
 him. 
 
 Kate, w^ith a ready tact that never failed her, saw his 
 difficulty, and approaching close to where he stood, said, in 
 a voice only audible by himself, — 
 
 "Tell me what you saw in the bay, — do not have any 
 fear of me.'' 
 
 M'Carthy, who was dressed in the coarse blue jacket of 
 a fisherman, possessed that sharp intelligence so often 
 found among those of his calling, and seemed at once to 
 have his mind relieved by this mark of confidence. 
 
 " 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 more times 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 voyage 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. 
 
 " 'T is that you may call it. I never heerd such pleasant 
 gentlemen before ; and the sailors, too, were just the same, 
 — sorra bit would sarve them but making us drink a bottle 
 of rum apiece, for luck, I suppose. Devil a one had a sor- 
 rowful face on him but Master Mark, whatever was the 
 matter with him. He w^ould n't eat anything either, and 
 the only glass of wine he drank yow 'd think it was poison, 
 the face he made at it, — more by token he flung the glass 
 overboard when he finished it. And to be sure the French- 
 men were n'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 ? " 
 
THE DAY OF RECKONING. 129 
 
 " Faix, I'm ashamed, then; but 'tis true enough, — 
 saving your presence, 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 with gould 
 epaulets, 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 
 afterwards ? " 
 
 ' ' I put them ashore at Glengariff , 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 from Castletown and down thereabouts ; 
 but the O'Learys and the Sullivans, the M'Carthys — my 
 own people — and the Neals was n'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 ; 't is for pillage and robbery the 
 likes of ye comes down here. If the men that should have 
 heart and courage in the cause won't come forward, I '11 
 
 VOL. II. — 9 
 
130 THE O'DONOGHUE 
 
 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 M'Carthy, in a low, cautious 
 whisper, — "there's traitors that would rather earn blood- 
 money than live honestly ; there 's many a one among them 
 scheming to catch Master Mark himself, and he's 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 gallop 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 ec- 
 stasy of delight; and with trembling fingers withdrew the 
 heavy bolt, and undid the chain, while, with an effort of 
 strength the emergenc}^ 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 w^ere indeed meant for 
 me. Miss O'Donoghue, I should call this moment the hap- 
 piest 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 disappoint- 
 ment, 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 draw- 
 ing-room, he endeavored to reassure her on the score of 
 Mark's safety, while he hinted that the French, who that 
 
THE DAY OF RECKONING. 131 
 
 morning had entered Bantry Bay with eleven vessels, un- 
 prepared for the active reception his measures had pro- 
 vided, 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 cow- 
 ardice. 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 everyone who thought it 
 worth his while to trick and deceive him : he believed him- 
 self in the confidence 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 part}^, and unacknowledged 
 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 meaning, 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 had 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 heart-rending aflfliction. 
 
 "There is far worse. Miss O'Donoghue; the ruin that 
 threatens is that of a whole house, — a noble and honored 
 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 enterprise he is incapable : think 
 of his age — his infirmity. " 
 
132 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *' I am aware of both, young ladj^ but I am also aware 
 that for years past his pecuniary 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 countries, — concessions of 
 one kind or other, laws revoked and repealed, and confis- 
 cations withdrawn ; nor were the expectations, perhaps, 
 altogether 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 your 
 fortune; to prevent this — " 
 
 "Stay, sir, I may save you some trouble on ni}^ 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 consider- 
 able and a very valuable property." 
 
 "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 honor 
 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 Hems- 
 worth, leaving a pause between every word of the sen- 
 tence, while a look of malignant anger settled on his browo 
 
THE DAY OF RECKONING. 133 
 
 "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 un- 
 accustomed 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 
 Hemsworth 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 ? " 
 
 "Sir! " said Kate, as, drawing herself up, she stared full 
 at him, without another word of reply. 
 
 "I see it all," said Hemsworth, rapidly, and as if think- 
 ing 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 insult- 
 ing menace towards her, — "I have been the fool in your 
 hands all this time; and not content with thwarting my 
 views, you have endeavored to sap the source of my for- 
 tune. Yes, you need not affect ignorance; I know of Sir 
 Archibald's kind interference in my behalf. Sir Marma- 
 duke 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 Secre- 
 tary of State, whose warrant I possess. The young officials 
 of the Home Office will, doubtless, thank me for the amuse- 
 ment I have afforded them in its contents. The match- 
 making talents of Sir Archy, and his niece's fascinations, 
 have, however, failed for once. Tlie Guardsman seems to 
 have got over his short-lived passion." 
 
134 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 *' 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 succeeded in cap- 
 turing 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, doubtless, be satis- 
 factory to the surviving members of his 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 endeavored 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 was Mark, 
 splashed and dripping, his face flushed with violent exer- 
 tion, 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 a 
 proper time and place, to offer you every satisfaction." 
 
 "That time and place is here, sir," said Mark, as, with* 
 out 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; I am armed," said Hems- 
 worth, 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 him- 
 
THE DAY OF RECKONING. 135 
 
 self 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, Hemsworth seized the moment, and, drawing a 
 pistol from his bosom, aimed and fired. The ball grazed 
 Mark's shoulder, and made him stagger forwards; but in a 
 moment he recovered himself. The casualty saved him, 
 for, while falling, a second bullet whizzed after the first. 
 With a cry of vengeance that made 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 activity, 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, ere he could adjust it, Hemsworth 
 ceased to breathe. A cold, livid color spread over his 
 features, and a clammy sweat bedewed his forehead, — he 
 had fainted. 
 
 Mark dropped the uplifted weapon as he muttered, "It 
 was a fitting fate, — the death of a coward." Then, stand- 
 ing up, he approached the window that overlooked the road, 
 and threw it wide open. The storm still blew 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\^ 
 
136 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 Hemsworth 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, merci- 
 ful 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 rumor; 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 sup- 
 plied 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 1o meet all ditliculties. So thinks Tone, 
 and he 's a noble-hearted fellow, and ready for any peril." 
 
THE DAY OF RECKONING. 137 
 
 A loud knocking at the door of the tower now broke in 
 upon the converse, 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 Hems worth'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, w^ith 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 1 heerd him blasphamiug away as he 
 went along what he would n'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 bloodhounds ! " 
 
 "No, no; we are safe here; he dare not wreak his ven- 
 geance on us: but you are his greatest enemy." 
 
 "'Tis thrue she 's sayin'," cried Kerry, eagerly. "I 
 heerd Hemsworth say to Sam Wylie that Captain Travers 
 is up at Macroom with 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." 
 
138 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 It was some moments before the O'Doiioghue could rally 
 from the deep stupor grief and anxiety induced, and recog- 
 nize Mark as he leaned over his chair, and then, as he felt 
 his hands and clutched his arms, he seemed endeavoring to 
 persuade himself that it was not some passing dream he 
 labored under. 
 
 "The pursuit is too hot, father," said Mark, after two or 
 three efforts 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 cannot molest you, and, besides, 
 his time is brief now." 
 
 "And will you leave me, Mark, — will j^ou desert me, 
 now? " said the old man, with all the selfishness of age, for- 
 getting everj^thing save his own feelings. 
 
 ''Not if you wish me to remain; if you think there is 
 more honor in my being taken prisoner under your own 
 roof, I 'm just as willing." 
 
 "Oh, no, uncle," cried Kate, rushing forward; "do not 
 keep him. Say good-b^'e, 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. "An- 
 other! another! they 're landing, — they 're coming. You '11 
 see me again before da^^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 heav- 
 ing 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 sprang on the animal's back, and dashed down the 
 road at full speed. Meanwhile 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 black- 
 ness of the night. 
 
 "They're landing at last," cried Mark, as every report 
 set his heart bounding with eager hope, and forward he rode 
 throuofh the storm. 
 
CHAPTER XL VIII. 
 
 THE GLEN AND THE BAT. 
 
 Kerry O'Leary's intelligence was correct in every par- 
 ticular. Hemsworth was not only living, but, save some 
 burises and a cut upon his forehead, was little 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 
 stunned, 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 blood}^ 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 suddenly a twinkling light through the gloom apprised 
 him that he was near the little wayside 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. 
 
140 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "Rest I — I '11 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 "VYylie 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 Hems worth. "There are some rebel 
 tricks at work here." 
 
 At the same instant the light reappeared, 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 Hems worth, 
 who, having got off his horse, was now endeavoring with 
 his foot to force the strong door. 
 
 "It will take a better man than you to stave that panel 
 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 rudder of an Indiaman, and 
 was strong oak belted with iron. 
 
 "Put a light in the thatch! Snap your pistol, Wylie, 
 and set fire to it!" cried Hemsworth, savagely; for any 
 opposition to him at this moment called forth all the 
 malignity of his nature. 
 
 "Oh, is it you. Captain?" said Mar}^, with a voice 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 courtesy, saluted her guest. 
 
 Rudely pushing her aside, and muttering an oath. Hems- 
 worth entered the cabin, followed by the others. 
 
 "Why was the light put out," said he, "when you heard 
 us knocking at the door? " 
 
 "I did not hear the knocking," said Mary. "I was in 
 the little room there, and goin' to bed. The saints be good 
 to me! since the soldiers were here, the hearing is knocked 
 out of me, — the noise and the ballyragging they went on 
 with, from mornin' till night! And now that they are 
 gone, — thanks to your honor, that ordered them away two 
 days ago up to the Lodge, — I do be thinking they are here 
 still." 
 
THE GLEN AND THE BAY. 141 
 
 "Bring us some wine," said Hemswortb, *'and the best 
 in your bouse. 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 innocent — 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 burn my little place down, Captain?" said 
 Mary, with a look in which a shrewd observer might have 
 read a very different expression than that of fear. "You '11 
 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 bonfire, be off with you up the glen. I '11 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 
 rebellion met its first lesson." 
 
 " And who dares to say that there was any treason in this 
 house." 
 
 "If my oath," said Wylie, "won't satisfy you, Mrs. 
 M'lvelly — " 
 
 "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 's 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 Hemsworth, with a brutal laugh; for in this ebullition 
 of the woman's passion was the first moment of his 
 enjoyment. 
 
 AVith 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 forever. 
 
142 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ♦'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 
 is n't them that lights a bonfire 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 '11 hear the firing time enough to warn us. 
 And that party," said Hemsworth, mattering 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 Carrignacurra and Bantry 
 Bay?" 
 
 "I did, sir, and he set off the moment I gave the letter." 
 
 "Then the fellow Mark cannot escape me," said Hems- 
 worth. "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 '11 like well." 
 
 "If I don't do it nate," said Wylie, "the young gentle- 
 man 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?" 
 
 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 did n't say you were to get the premises in good 
 
THE GLEN AND THE BAY. 143 
 
 repair, however," said Hemsworth, with a bitter laugh, — 
 "I didn't boast much about the roof;" and at the same 
 moment he took a Hghted turf from the hearth, and thrust 
 it into the thatch, while Wylie, to curry favor 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 Hems- 
 worth, 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 '11 
 blow the lock to pieces! " And, so saying, he took the 
 pistol from Wylie's hand, and, having leisurely examined 
 the priming and the flint, 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 of 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 lightning flash itself, 
 a noise burst forth louder than thunder, and at the same 
 moment the house, and all that were 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 fol- 
 lowed, each accompanied by some new and fearful explosion, 
 until at length a great portion of the cliff was rent asunder, 
 and scattered in huge fragments across the road, where, 
 amid the crumbling masonry and the charred rafters, lay 
 
144 THE O'DOXOGHUE. 
 
 four black and lifeless bodies, without a trait which should 
 distinguish one from the other. 
 
 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 di-eadful 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, emitting 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, leav- 
 ing 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 
 clamor 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 clangor, and sending their solemn din into many 
 a far-otf 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 recognized the youth; "the French are landing! " 
 
 "They are not! " cried Terry, with a yell of despair; 
 "they are going off, leaving us forever, and the glen is full 
 of soldiers. The dragoons is there, — ay, not half a mile 
 from you," as he pointed through the gloom in the direction 
 of the glen. 
 
THE GLEN AKD THE BAY. 145 
 
 ''The dragoons there! — what treachery is this?" 
 
 ''I saw them coming round the head of the lake this 
 evening, and I thought it was after me they were coming; 
 but they never turned off the 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." 
 
 "I can't — I won't let go. 'T is cut to pieces you '11 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 armor of proof as 
 recklessness ! " 
 
 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 blazing fire beneath 
 the rock a party of dragoons were dismounted, vainly seek- 
 ing 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 power- 
 ful thorough-bred, trained and managed to perfection. 
 
 Without the slightest noise Mark dismounted, and un- 
 girthing his saddle, readjusted and fastened it further back. 
 He then looked carefully 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 advanced, therefore, at a slow walk, 
 
 VOL. II. — 10 
 
146 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 keeping the horse's feet in the deep ground, where no noise 
 was made. He counted seven flgures 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 mountain would delay him a day at least, and 
 a day now was a lifetime. Creeping noiselessly forward, 
 he came within a few yards of the outposts, and could dis- 
 tinctly 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 rang out at the instant, and, taking it for 
 a signal, Mark reined in his horse sharply, and then, dash- 
 ing the spurs to his sides, made 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 he should injure his comrade. 
 
 "Come on — follow me! " cried Mark, waving his hand 
 as if encouraging 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 another as Mark, leaning flat on his horse's mane, 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 
 
/k^'l-i 
 
 'A y.yyyz.6^ ^ ^^^^Ty^^^y 
 
^ OF THE 
 
 UiNIVERSlTY 
 
 OF 
 
THE GLEN AND THE BAY. 147 
 
 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 farther 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 life dearly. 
 
 "You are a prisoner, sir," called out the sergeant, as 
 with fearless step he marched towards him. 
 
 "Another pace nearer, and I '11 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 him- 
 self 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 this party. I knew of the plot by which you 
 were threatened. Hemsworth — " 
 
 "He is gone to his reckoning now," said Mark, who 
 never gave credit to Kerry's story. 
 
 "Not dead, — • you do not mean that? " 
 
 "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 with- 
 out directly attributing guilt to Mark, he feared the conse- 
 
148 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 quence of this dreadful event. "Keep in the mountain for 
 some little time, and when this mad enterprise has blown 
 over — " 
 
 "The country then will be in other hands," interrupted 
 Mark ; " ay, sir, you may look and feel incredulous, but the 
 time is, perhaps, not distant when I may be able 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 to your own, — Heaven knows they are enough." 
 
 The tone he spoke in appealed to Mark's feelings more 
 strongly than all he said before, and grasping Travers' s 
 hand, he said, — 
 
 " Oh, if I had but had your friendship once, how differ- 
 ent I might be 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 charge of treason, if not of worse." 
 
 Fortunately Mark heard not the last few words, which 
 rather fell from Travers inadvertently, and were uttered in 
 a low voice. 
 
 "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 
 
THE GLEN AND THE BAY. 149 
 
 will at least find a path where there is glory as well as 
 peril; there, — aAvay." 
 
 "They cannot have done this," cried Mark, in an agony 
 of passion; "they w^ould not desert the cause they have 
 fostered, and leave us to our fate here." 
 
 Mark vaulted on Travers's horse as he said this, all feel- 
 ing 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 in the saddle, pressed the spurs to 
 his horse, and started. 
 
 With the speed of one who cares for nothing less than 
 his own safety, Mark urged his horse onward, and, desert- 
 ing 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, blow- 
 ing with short and sudden gusts, sent the great waves thun- 
 dering against the rocks, and with fearful roar through the 
 caves and crevices of the coast. Riding 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 afflicting 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, run- 
 ning 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- 
 
150 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ing the white waves with vigorous chest, the noble beast 
 braved the 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 farther 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 laboring 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 was 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 m^^stery. He knew not what it might 
 portend, and hesitated between hope and despair, whether 
 these might prove the preparations for disembarking, 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 talk- 
 ing 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. 
 
THE GLEN AND THE BAY. 151 
 
 "It 's oue of the French officers, sir," said Tom M'Carthy ; 
 "he came ashore with us this moruing, 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 youth of not more than eighteen years. 
 There was no distortion whatever, and the features were 
 calm and tranquil, as if in sleep. 
 
 "Let us lay him in the earth, boys," said Mark, as his 
 voice trembled with emotion; "it is the least we can do to 
 let him sleep in the land he came to save." 
 
 The men lifted 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 the 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 the moment, — " and now, who 
 w411 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 sidelong glance towards the recent grave. 
 
152 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "And you," said Mark, turning fixedly round to Tom 
 M'Carthy, "what words of comfort have you for me?" 
 
 " B'aix, that I 'm ready and wiilin' 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 
 is n'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 '11 be the bow oar for you, an you '11 
 take me." 
 
 "And here 's .two more of us," said another, as he held 
 a comrade by the hand, " that will never see his honor 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 hurried to the beach to launch the boat, 
 and make ready for the enterprise. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "There'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 altogether! " 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, kneel- 
 ing in the bow, his eyes strained to catch any signal, 
 seemed perfectly delirious in the transport of his joy. 
 
 "Luff 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 
 
THE GLEN AND THE BAY. 153 
 
 redoubled vigor the stout fellows bent to their work, and 
 once more the boat sped on her course, while Mark cheered 
 them 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 moonlight sea; 
 But the darkening squall, 
 And the sea-bird's call, 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 " To see on the white and crested 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 with- 
 out 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, moun- 
 tains high, rolled past, and left them laboring in the deep 
 trough of the sea, while the lurid glare of sheet lightning 
 showed all the ships of the fleet, as, with topsails bent, they 
 stood out to sea. 
 
 ''There they go," said one of the fishermen; "and that 's 
 all the good they 've done us." 
 
 "Pull hard, boys!" cried Mark, passionately, "it may 
 not be yet too late ; strain every arm, — the fate of our coun- 
 try may rest upon those bending spars; together, men, 
 together! It is not for life now, it is Ireland is on the strug- 
 gle! " 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 for- 
 gotten; 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. 
 
154 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 ""Will the troops not land?" said Mark, as the officers 
 crowded eagerly around him; "is the expedition aban- 
 doned ? " 
 
 "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 of 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 person, 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 independence, 
 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 enterprise. There may be courage 
 enough among your 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 ship. "If you are going back to 
 shore, sir, let me advise you, for your own 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." 
 
THE GLEN AND THE BAY. 155 
 
 "I will never go back," said Mark; "I Lave looked at 
 my country for the last time." 
 
 With many a welcome speech the officers pressed round 
 and grasped his hands, and for a moment all their mis- 
 fortunes 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 difficulty, 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 forever! " 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 minute? after, the boat was cleaving 
 her way through the dark water, her prow turned to the land 
 which Mark had left forever. 
 
 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 stern 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. 
 
CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 The storm of that eventful night is treasured among the 
 memories of the peasantry of the South. None living 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 Carrignacurra did not escape the gen- 
 eral 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 ex- 
 tended its traces over man. The hurricane was recognized 
 as the interposition of Heaven, and the disaster 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 ver}^ escape of 
 the French ships from every portion of our Channel fleet, 
 which at first was deemed a favor of fortune, was now 
 
THE END. 157 
 
 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 was 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, under- 
 taken by the Government. 
 
 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; 
 but there are a sufficient number in every land, and 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 lib- 
 erated 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 " Artil- 
 lerie Leg^re," 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 Carrignacurra of 
 Mark's rencontre with the dragoons ; and while the O'Dono- 
 ghue and Kate were yet speculating in terror as to the result, 
 a small party of cavalry were seen coming up the causeway 
 at a brisk trot, among whom rode a person in colored 
 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 faint- 
 ness crept over her, and she stood almost breathless with 
 
158 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 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 
 to 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. 
 
 " 'T is the captain, Miss Kate, 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. "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, — w^here 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?" 
 
THE END. 159 
 
 "His life was la 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 danger was most imminent. The evidence against 
 him was conclusive and complete ; and although one of 
 the principal witnesses could not have appeared, Lauty 
 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 enter- 
 prise undertaken by such actors, her own indignant pride 
 revolted at the baseness of those with whom her cousin was 
 associated. 
 
 " Yes," said she, at length, and speaking unconsciously 
 aloud, " no cause could prosper with supporters like these. 
 There must be rottenness 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. 
 
 " There was one," said Travers, modestly. " Mr. O'Don- 
 oghue was noble-hearted enough, even in the hour of calam- 
 ity, 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. 
 
160 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 "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 
 subject I ought never to recall. It was Hemsworth per- 
 suaded me that my suit would not prove unsuccessful ; it 
 was by his advice and counsel I risked the avowal which has 
 cost me the happiness of my future life. I 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 hardi- 
 hood in one favored by every gift of fortune stooping to one 
 humble as I am ; but there w^ere 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 
 agreement aught else than a compromise between us." 
 
 "Might not time soften, if not obliterate, such differ- 
 ences ? " whispered 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 
 convictions." 
 
 "Do not speak so decisively, TMiss 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, dissi- 
 pate these false impressions, or give me, at least, the oppor- 
 tunity 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 
 
THE END. 161 
 
 to the old man, who, with an expression of stupid fatuity, 
 sat with his hands clasped, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. 
 ** Do 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 intelligence, 
 she pointed cautiously towards him. 
 
 "All the better, my sweet lassie," cried M'Nab, folding 
 her in his arms ; "his arm will not be the 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 terri- 
 fied 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 
 
 VOL. II. — 11 
 
162 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 August, in the year 1815, that two travellers, leaving the 
 postilion 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 characteristic 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 ; and although their looks met, and glance seemed to 
 answer glance, they neither of them spoke. From their 
 appearance, it might have been conjectured that they were 
 foreigners. The man, bronzed by weather and exposure, 
 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 remark- 
 ably 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 admira- 
 tion of the spot. Too much engrossed by his own thoughts, 
 or too deepl}^ 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 pre- 
 vented 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, uncovered 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 steadfastly on the travellers. 
 
 " Give her something, vion cher^'' said the lad}^ 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 nor 
 appeal to their compassion. 
 
 "This is Glenflesk, my good woman?" said he, at length, 
 with the intonation of a forei«:n accent on the words. 
 
THE END. 
 
 16S 
 
 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. " AYhen 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 Englishman, 
 that lived there beyant? and was n't he a member of Parli- 
 mint? 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 lives in the old castle of the family? " 
 
164 THE O'DONOGHUE. 
 
 " The crows and the owls lives in it now," said the woman, 
 with a 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 
 borne, — 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, low voice. She started, and was about to speak, 
 when he stopped her, saying, " Nay, nay, it is better not; " 
 then, turning to the woman, asked, "And were there, then, 
 oo others, whose fortunes you remember?" 
 
 "It is little 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 
 ciece w^ent back to the nunnery in France he stayed there 
 still alone b}^ 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 
 iady ; he was a hard-hearted old man, and it is n't eyes like 
 yours should weep tears for him ; if you want to pity any 
 one, ' pity the poor, that's houseless and friendless.' " 
 
 " And the Lodge," said the stranger, — "is not that the 
 name they gave the pretty house beside the lake ? " 
 
 " 'T is n't a pretty house now, then," said the hag, 
 laughing. " It 's a ruin like the rest." 
 
 "How is that? — does the Englishman never come to 
 it? " 
 
 "Why should he come to it? Sure it's in law ever since 
 that black-hearted villain Hemsworth was killed. Nobody 
 knows 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 endeavoring to 
 take some pieces of money from it by the aid of his single 
 
THE END. 165 
 
 remaining hand, she turned abruptly about, and, staring 
 him steadfastly in the face, said, — 
 
 '' I '11 not take your money, — 't is n't money will serve me 
 now ; 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 have n't," said the woman, sternly. " I know 
 you well, Mark O'Donoghue, — ay, and your wife, Misa 
 Kate there ; but it is n't by a purse full of gold you '11 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 io 
 black, and with all the semblance of a priest. '' Don't be 
 angry with her, su' ; poor Mary's senses are often wander- 
 ing ; and," added he, with a sigh, *' she has met sore trials, 
 and may well be pardoned if, in the bitterness of her grief, 
 she looks at the world with little favor or forgiveness. She 
 has mistaken you for another, and hence the source of her 
 anger." 
 
 END OF THE o'dONOGHUB. 
 
ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
TO MY CHILDREN, 
 
 My dear Children, — There are few things less likely than 
 that it will ever be your lot to exercise any of the rights or privi- 
 leges of landed property. It may chance, however, that even in 
 your humble sphere, there may be those who shall look up to you 
 for support, and be, in some wise, dependent on your will ; if so, 
 pray let this little story have its lesson in your hearts, — think that 
 when I wrote it, I desired to inculcate the truth, that prosperity has 
 as many duties as adversity has sorrows ; that those to whom Provi- 
 dence has accorded many blessings are but the stewards of His 
 bounty to the poor ; and that the neglect of an obligation so sacred 
 as this charity is a grievous wrong, and may be the origin of evils 
 for which all your efforts to do good through life will be but a poor 
 atonement. 
 
 Your affectionate father, 
 
 CHARLES LEVER. 
 Templeogue, March 1, 1845. 
 
It was on the l6th of March, the eve of St. Patrick, not 
 quite twenty years ago, that a little village on the bank of 
 Lough Corrib was celebrating in its annual fair "the holy 
 times," devoting one day to every species of enjoyment 
 and pleasure, and on the next, by practising prayers and 
 penance of various kinds, as it were to prepare their minds 
 to resume their worldly duties in a frame of thought more 
 seemly and becoming. 
 
 If a great and wealthy man might smile at the humble 
 preparations for pleasure displayed on this occasion, he 
 could scarcely scoff at the scene which surrounded them. 
 The wide valley, encircled by lofty mountains, whose swell- 
 ing outlines were tracked against the blue sky, or mingled 
 gracefully with clouds, whose forms were little less fantas- 
 tic and wild. The broad lake, stretching away into the 
 distance, and either lost among the mountain passes, or 
 contracting as it approached the ancient city of Galway : 
 a few, and but very few, islands marked its surface, and 
 these rugged and rocky ; on one alone a human ti-ace was 
 
172 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 seen, — the ruins of an ancient church: it was a mere 
 gable now, but you could still track out the humble limits 
 it had occupied, — scarce space sufficient for twenty per- 
 sons ; such were once, doubtless, the full number of con- 
 verts to the faith who frequented there. There was a wild 
 and savage grandeur in the whole : the very aspect of the 
 mountains proclaimed desolation, and seemed to frown de- 
 fiance at the efforts of man to subdue them to his use; 
 and even the herds of wild cattle seemed to stray with 
 caution among the cliffs and precipices of this dreary 
 region. Lower down, however, and as if in compensation 
 of the infertile tract above, the valley was marked by patches 
 of tillage and grassland, and studded with cottages ; which, 
 if presenting at a nearer inspection indubitable signs of 
 poverty, yet to the distant eye bespoke something of ru- 
 ral comfort, nestling as they often did beneath some large 
 rock, and sheltered by the great turf-stack, which even 
 the poorest possessed. Many streams wound their course 
 through this valley ; along whose borders, amid a pasture 
 brighter than the emerald, the cattle grazed, and there, 
 from time to time, some peasant child sat fishing as he 
 watched the herd. 
 
 Shut in by lake and mountain, this seemed a little spot 
 apart from all the world; and so, indeed, its inhabitants 
 found it. They were a poor but not unhappy race of 
 people, whose humble lives had taught them nothing of 
 the comforts and pleasures of richer communities. Poverty 
 had, from habit, no terrors for them ; short of actual want, 
 they never felt its pressure heavily. 
 
 Such were they who now were assembled to celebrate the 
 festival of their patron saint. It was drawing towards even- 
 ing ; the sun was already low, and the red glare that shone 
 from behind the mountains showed that he was near his set- 
 ting. The business of the fair was almost concluded ; the little 
 traffic so remote a region could supply, the barter of a few 
 sheep, the sale of a heifer, a mountain pony, or a flock of goats, 
 had all passed off, and now the pleasures of the occasion were 
 about to succeed. The votaries to amusement, as if annoyed at 
 the protracted dealings of the more worldly-minded, were some- 
 
Q 
 
 Le<i^'^c£-< 
 
OF 
 CALIFOJ 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 
 
 173 
 
 what rudely driving away the cattle that still continued to linger 
 about ; and pigs and poultry were beginning to discover that 
 
 of the bagpipe might now be heard, accompanied by the dull 
 shuffling tramp of heavily shod feet. 
 
 Various shows and exhibitions were also in preparation, 
 
174 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 and singular announcements were made by gentlemen in a 
 mingled costume of Turk and Thimble-rigger, of " wonder- 
 ful calves with two heads;" "six-legged pigs;" and an 
 '* infant of two years old that could drink a quart of spirits 
 at a draught, if a respectable company were assembled 
 to witness it," — a feat which, for the honor of young 
 Ireland, it should be added, was ever postponed from a 
 deficiency in the annexed condition. Then there were 
 "restaurants" on a scale of the most primitive simplicity, 
 where boiled beef, or " spoleen," was sold from a huge pot, 
 suspended over a fire in the open air, and which was invari- 
 ably surrounded by a gourmand party of both sexes ; gin- 
 gerbread and cakes of every fashion and evei-y degree of 
 indigestion also abounded ; while jugs and kegs flanked the 
 entrance to each tent, reeking with a most unmistakable 
 odor of that prime promoter of native drollery and fun, — 
 poteen. All was stir, movement, and bustle ; old friends, 
 separated since the last occasion of a similar festivity, were 
 embracing cordially, the men kissing with an affectionate 
 warmth no German ever equalled; pledges of love and 
 friendship were taken in brimming glasses by many, who 
 were perhaps to renew the opportunity for such testimonies 
 hereafter, by a fight that very evening ; contracts ratified 
 by whiskey, until that moment not deemed binding ; and 
 courtships, prosecuted with hopes which the whole 3'ear 
 previous had never suggested ; kind speeches and words of 
 welcome went round ; while here and there some closely 
 gathered heads and scowling glances gave token that other 
 scores were to be acquitted on that night than merely those 
 of commerce ; and in the firmly knitted brow and more 
 firmly grasped blackthorn a practised observer could foresee 
 that some heads were to carry away deeper marks of that 
 meeting than simple memory can impress ; — and thus, in 
 this wild sequestered spot, human passions were as rife as 
 in the most busy communities of pampered civilization. 
 Love, hate, and hope, charity, fear, forgiveness, and malice ; 
 long-smouldering revenge, long-subdued affection ; hearts 
 pining beneath daily drudgery, suddenly awakened to a 
 burst of pleasure and a renewal of happiness in the sight 
 of old friends, for many a day lost sight of ; words of good 
 
THE FIRST ERA. I75 
 
 cheer, half mutterings of menace; the whispered syllables 
 of love, the deeply uttered tones of vengeance ; and amid 
 all, the careless reckless glee of those who appeared to feel 
 the hour one snatched from the grasp of misery and devoted 
 to the very abandonment of pleasure. It seemed in vain 
 that want and poverty had shed their chilling influence over 
 hearts like these. The snow-drift and the storm might 
 penetrate their frail dwellings ; the winter might blast, the 
 hurricane might scatter their humble hoardings ; but still 
 the bold high-beating spirit that lived within beamed on 
 throughout every trial ; and now, in the hour of long-sought 
 enjoyment, blazed forth in a flame of joy that was all but 
 frantic. 
 
 The step that but yesterday fell wearily upon the ground, 
 now smote the earth with a proud beat, that told of man- 
 hood's daring ; the voices were high, the eyes were flashing ; 
 long pent-up emotions of every shade and complexion were 
 there ; and it seemed a season where none should wear dis- 
 guise, but stand forth in all the fearlessness of avowed 
 resolve ; and in the heart-home looks of love, as well as in 
 the fiery glances of hatred, none practised concealment. 
 Here went one with his arm round his sweetheart's waist, — 
 an evidence of accepted affection none dared even to stare 
 at ; there went another, the skirt of his long loose coat 
 thrown over his arm, in whose hand a stick was brandished, 
 — his gesture, even without his wild hurroo ! an open dec- 
 laration of battle, a challenge to all who liked it. Mothers 
 were met in close conclave, interchanging family secrets and 
 cares; and daughters half conscious of the parts they them- 
 selves were playing in the converse, passed looks of sly 
 intelligence to each other. And beggars were there too, — 
 beggars of a class which even the eastern Dervish can 
 scarcely vie with : cripples brought many a mile away from 
 their mountain-homes to extort charity by exhibitions of 
 dreadful deformity; the halt, the blind, the muttering idiot, 
 the moping melancholy mad, mixed up with strange and 
 motley figures in patched uniforms and rags, — some amus- 
 ing the crowd by their drolleries, some singing a popular 
 ballad of the time, — while through all, at every turn and 
 every corner, one huge fellow, without legs, rode upon au 
 
176 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 ass, his wide chest ornamented b}^ a picture of himself, and 
 a paragraph setting forth his infirmities. He, with a voice 
 deeper than a bassoon, bellowed forth his prayer for alms, 
 and seemed to monopolize far more than his proportion of 
 charity, doubtless owing to the more artistic development 
 to which he had brought his profession: " De prayers of 
 de holy Joseph be an yez, and relieve de maimed ; de prayers 
 and blessin's of all de saints on dem that assists de suf- 
 ferin' ! " And there were pilgrims, some with heads vener- 
 able enough for the canvas of an old master, with flowing 
 beards, and relics hung round their necks, objects of worship 
 which failed not to create sentiments of devotion in the 
 passers-by. But among these many sights and sounds, 
 each calculated to appeal to different classes and ages of 
 the motley mass, one object appeared to engross a more 
 than ordinary share of attention ; and although certainly not 
 of a nature to draw marked notice elsewhere, was here suffi- 
 ciently strange and uncommon to become actually a spectacle. 
 This was neither more nor less than an English groom, who, 
 mounted upon a thoroughbred horse, led another by the 
 bridle, and slowly paraded backwards and forwards, in 
 attendance on his master. 
 
 *' Them's the iligant bastes. Darby," said one of the 
 bystanders, as the horses moved past. "A finer pair than 
 that I never seen." 
 
 "They're beauties, and no denying it," said the other; 
 "and they've skins like a looking-glass." 
 
 " Arrah, botheration t' yez ! what are ye saying about 
 their skins?" cried a third, whose dress and manner be- 
 tokened one of the rank of a small farmer. " 'T is the 
 breeding that 's in 'em ; that 's the raal beauty. Only look 
 at theif- pasterns; and see how fine they run off over the 
 quarter." 
 
 "Which is the best now, Phil?" said another, addressing 
 the last speaker with a tone of some deference. 
 
 " The gray horse is worth two of the dark chestnut," 
 replied Phil, oracularly. 
 
 " Is he, then? " cried two or three, in a breath. " Why is 
 that, Phil?" 
 
 "Can't you perceive the signs of blood about the ears? 
 They 're long, and coming to a point — " 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 
 
 177 
 
 " You 're wrong this time, iny friend," said a sharp voice, 
 with an accent which in Ireland would be called English. 
 " You may be an excellent judge of an ass, but the horse 
 you speak of as the best is not worth a fourth part of the 
 value of the other." And so sajdng, a young and handsome 
 man, attired in a riding-costume, brushed somewhat rudely 
 through the crowd, and, seizing the rein of the led horse, 
 vaulted lightly into the saddle and rode off, leaving Phil to 
 
 the mockery and laughter of the crowd, whose reverence for 
 the opinion of a gentleman was only beneath that they 
 accorded to the priest himself. 
 
 *' Faix, ye got it there, Phil!" '''Tis down on ye he 
 was that time ! " " Musha, but ye may well get red in the 
 face ! " 
 
 Such and such-like were the comments on one who but 
 a moment before was rather a popular candidate for public 
 Jionors. 
 
 VOL. II, — 12 
 
178 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 " Who is he, then, at all? " said one among the rest, and 
 who had come up too late to witness the scene. 
 
 *''Tis the 5'ouug Mr. Leslie, the landlord's son, that's 
 come over to fish the lakes," replied an old man, reverentially. 
 
 *' Begorra, he 's no landlord of mine, anyhow," said Phil, 
 now speaking for the first time. "I hould under Mister 
 Martin, and his family was here before the Leslies was heard 
 of." These words were said with a certain air of defiance, 
 and a turn of the head around him, as though to imply that 
 if any one would gainsay the opinion, he was ready to stand 
 by and maintain it. Happily for the peace of the particular 
 moment, the crowd were nearly all Martins, and so a simple 
 buzz of approbation followed this announcement. Nor did 
 their attention dwell much longer on the matter, as most 
 were already occupied in watching the progress of the young 
 man, who at a fast swinging gallop had taken to the fields 
 beside the lake, and was now seen flying in succession over 
 each dike and wall before him, followed by his groom. 
 The Irish passion for feats of horsemanship made this the 
 most fascinating attraction of the fair ; and already opinions 
 ran high among the crowd that it was a race between the 
 two horses, and more than one maintained that " the little 
 chap with the belt" was the better horseman of the two. 
 At last, having made a wide circuit of the village and the 
 green, the riders were seen slowly moving down, as if return- 
 ing to the fair. 
 
 There is no country where mauty sports and daring exer- 
 cises are held in higher repute than Ireland. The chivalry 
 that has died out in richer lands still reigns there ; and the 
 full meed of approbation will ever be his who can combine 
 address and courage before an Irish crowd. It is needless 
 to say, then, that many a word of praise and commendation 
 was bestowed on young Leslie. His handsome features, 
 his slight but well-formed figure, every particular of his 
 dress and gesture, had found an advocate and an admirer ; 
 and while some were lavish in their epithets on the perfection 
 of his horsemanship, others who had seen him on foot as- 
 serted "that it was then he looked well entirely." There 
 is a kind of epidemic character pertaining to praise. The 
 snow-ball gathers not faster by rolling than do the words of 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 
 
 179 
 
 eulogy and approbation ; and so now many recited little 
 anecdotes of the youth's father, to show that he was a very 
 pattern of landlords and country gentlemen, and had only 
 one fault in life, — that he never lived among his tenantry. 
 
 "'Tis the first time I ever set eyes on him," cried one, 
 "and I hould my little place under him twenty-three years 
 come Michaelmas." 
 
 "See now then, Barney," cried another, "I'd rather have 
 
 a hard man that would stay here among us than the finest 
 landlord ever was seen that would be away from us. And 
 what 's the use of compassion and pity when the say would 
 be between us? 'Tis the agent we have to look to." 
 
 "Agent! 'Tis wishing them, I am, the same agents! 
 Them 's the boys has no marcy for a poor man ; I 'm tould 
 now, " — and here the speaker assumed a tone of oracular 
 seriousness that drew several listeners towards him, — "I'm 
 tould now, the agents get a guinea for every man, woman, 
 
180 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 and child they turn out of a houldin'." A low murmur of 
 indignant anger ran through the group, not one of whom 
 ventured to disbelieve a testimony thus accredited. 
 
 "And sure when the landlords does come, divil a bit they 
 know about us, — no more nor if we were in Swayden; 
 didn't I hear the ould gentleman down there last summer, 
 pitying the people for the distress? 'Ah,' says he, 'it's a 
 hard sayson ye have, and obliged to tear the flax out of the 
 ground, and it not long enough to cut ! ' " 
 
 A ready burst of laughter followed this anecdote, and 
 many similar stories were recounted in corroboration of the 
 opinion. 
 
 "That's the girl takes the shine out of the fair," said one 
 of the younger men of the party, touching another by the 
 arm, and pointing to a tall young girl, who, with features 
 as straight and regular as a classic model, moved slowly 
 past. She did not wear the scarlet cloak of the peasantry, 
 but a large one of dark blue, lined with silk of the same 
 color; a profusion of brown hair, dark and glossy, was 
 braided on each side of her face, and turned up at the .back 
 of the head with the grace of an antique cameo. She seemed 
 BOt more than nineteen years of age, and in the gaze of 
 astonishment and pleasure she threw around her, it might be 
 seen how new such scenes and sights were to her. 
 
 " That's Phil Joyce's sister, and a crooked disciple of a 
 brother she has," said the other; " sorra bit if he'd ever 
 let her come to the ' pattern ' afore to-day ; and she 's the 
 raal ornament of the place now she 's in it." 
 
 "Just mind Phil, will ye! Watch him now; see the 
 frown he 's giving the boys as thej^ go by, for looking at his 
 sister. I would n't coort a girl that I could n't look in the 
 face and see what was in it, av she owned Ballinahinch 
 Castle," said the former. 
 
 " There now; what is he at now? " whispered the other. 
 " He's left her in the tent there ; and look at him, the way 
 he 's talking to ould Bill ; he 's telling him something about 
 a fight ; never mind me agin, but there '11 be ' wigs on the 
 green' this night." 
 
 " I don't know where the Lynches and the Connors is 
 to-day," said the other, casting a suspicious look around 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 181 
 
 him, as if anxious to calculate the forces available in the 
 event of a row. " They gave the Joyces their own in Ballin- 
 robe last fair. I hope they 're not afeard to come down 
 here." 
 
 " Sorra bit, ma bouchal," said a voice from behind his 
 shoulder ; and at the same moment the speaker clapped his 
 hands over the other's eyes : " who am I, now?" 
 
 " Arrah ! Owen Connor ; I know ye well," said the other; 
 ' ' and 't is yourself ought not to be here to-day. The ould 
 father of ye has nobody but yourself to look after him." 
 
 "I'd like to see ye call him ould to his face," said 
 Owen, laughing: "there he is now, in Poll Dawley's tent, 
 dancing." 
 
 " Dancing ! " cried the other two, in a breath. 
 
 "Aye, faix, dancing 'The little bould fox;' and may I 
 never die in sin, if he has n't a step that looks for all the 
 world as if lie made a hook and eye of his legs." 
 
 The young man who spoke these words was in mould and 
 gesture the very ideal of an Irish peasant of the West ; some- 
 what above the middle size, rather slightly made, but with 
 the light and neatly turned proportion that betokens activity 
 more than great strength, endurance rather than the power 
 of any single effort. His face well became the character of 
 his figure ; it was a handsome and an open one, where the 
 expressions changed and crossed each other with lightning 
 speed, — now beaming with good nature, now flashing in 
 anger, now sparkling with some witty conception, or frown- 
 ing a bold defiance as it met the glance of some member of a 
 rival faction. He looked, as he was, one ready and willing 
 to accept either part from fortune, and to exchange friend- 
 ship and hard knocks with equal satisfaction. Although in 
 dress and appearance he was both cleanly and well clad, it 
 was evident that he belonged to a ver}^ humble class among 
 the peasantry. Neither his hat nor his great-coat, those 
 unerring signs of competence, had been new for many a day 
 before; and his shoes, in their patched and mended con- 
 dition, betrayed the pains it had cost him to make even so 
 respectable an appearance as he then presented. 
 
 " She did n't even give you a look to-day, Owen," said one 
 of the former speakers; "she turned her head the other 
 way as she went by." 
 
182 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 *' Faix, I'm afeard ye 've a bad chance," said the other, 
 
 slyly. 
 
 " Joke away, boys, and welcome," said Owen, reddening 
 to the eyes as he spoke, and showing that his indifference 
 to their banterings was very far from being real ; " 't is little 
 I mind what ye say, — as little as she herself would mind 
 me," added he to himself. 
 
 " She's the purtiest girl in the town-land, and no second 
 word to it ; and even if she had n't a fortune — " 
 
 ''Bad luck to the fortune! — that's what I say," cried 
 Owen, suddenly; "'tis that same that breaks my rest night 
 and day. Sure if it was n't for the money, there 's many a 
 dacent boy would n't be ashamed nor afeard to go up and 
 coort her." 
 
 " She '11 have two hundred, divil a less, I 'm tould," inter- 
 posed the other; " the ould man made a deal of money in 
 the war-time." 
 
 " I wish he had it with him now," said Owen, bitterly. 
 
 "By all accounts he wouldn't mislike it himself. When 
 Father John was giving him the rites, he says, ' Phil,' says 
 he, ' how ould are ye now?' and the other did n't hear him, 
 but went on muttering to himself ; and the priest says agin, 
 ' 'T is how ould you are, I 'm axing.' ' A hundred and forty- 
 three,' says Phil, looking up at him. ' The saints be good 
 to us,' says Father John, ' sure you 're not that ould, — a 
 hundred and forty-three?' 'A hundred and forty-seven.* 
 ' Phew ! he 's more of it, — a hundred and forty-seven ! ' 'A 
 hundred and fifty,' cries Phil, and he gave the foot of the bed 
 a little kick, this way, — sorra more, — and he died ; and 
 what was it but the guineas he was countin' in a stocking 
 under the clothes all the while? Oh, musha ! how the sowl 
 was in the money, and he going to leave it all ! I heerd 
 Father John say, ' it was well they found it out, for there 'd 
 be a curse on them guineas, and every hand that would touch 
 one of them in secia seclorinn;^ and they wer' all tuck 
 away in a bag that night, and buried by the priest in a 
 saycret place, where they'll never be found till the Day of 
 Judgment." 
 
 Just as the story came to its end, the attention of the 
 group was drawn off by seeing numbers of people running in 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 183 
 
 a particular direction, while the sound of voices and the 
 general excitement showed something new was going for- 
 ward. The noise increased ; and now loud shouts were 
 heard, mingled with the rattling of sticks and the utterance 
 of those party cries so popular in an Irish fair. The young 
 men stood still, as if the affair was a mere momentary ebulli- 
 tion not deserving of attention, nor sufficiently important to 
 merit the taking any farther interest in it ; nor did they 
 swerve from the resolve thus tacitly formed, as from time to 
 time some three or four would emerge from the crowd, lead- 
 ing forth one whose bleeding temples or smashed head made 
 retreat no longer dishonorable. 
 
 '' They're at it early," was the cool commentary of Owen 
 Connor, as with a smile of superciliousness he looked towards 
 the scene of strife. 
 
 *' The Joyces is always the first to begin," remarked one 
 of his companions. 
 
 " And the first to lave off too," said Owen ; " two to one 
 is what they call fair play." 
 
 "That's Phil's voice! — there, now, do you hear him 
 shouting ? " 
 
 '^'Tis that he's best at," said Owen, whose love for the 
 pretty Mary Joyce was scarcely equalled by his dislike of 
 her ill-tempered brother. 
 
 At this moment the shouts became louder and wilder, the 
 screams of the women mingling with the uproar, which no 
 longer seemed a mere passing skirmish, but a downright 
 severe engagement. 
 
 "What is it all about, Christy?" said Owen, to a young 
 fellow led past between two friends, while the track of blood 
 marked every step he went. 
 
 " 'Tis well it becomes yez to ax," muttered the other, with 
 his swollen and pallid lips, "when the Martins is beating 
 your landlord's eldest son to smithereens." 
 
 '• Mr. Leslie, — young Mr. Leslie ? " cried the three together ; 
 but a wild war-whoop from the crowd gave the answer back : 
 " Hurroo ! Martin forever ! Down with the Leslies ! Bal- 
 linashough ! Hurroo ! Don't leave one of them livin' ! Beat 
 their sowles out ! " 
 
 ''Leslie forever!" yelled out Owen, with a voice heard 
 
184 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 over every part of the field ; and with a spring into the air, 
 and a wild flourish of his stick, he dashed into the crowd. 
 
 '• Here's Owen Connor, make way for Owen! " cried the 
 non-combatants, as they jostled and parted each other, to 
 leave a free passage for one whose prowess was well known. 
 
 *\He '11 lave his mark on some of yez yet ! " " That 's the 
 boy will give you music to dance to ! " " Take that, Barney ! " 
 *'Ha! Tarry, that made your nob ring like a forty-shilling 
 pot ! " Such and such-like were the comments on him who 
 now, reckless of his own safety, rushed madly into the very 
 midst of the combatants, and fought his way onwards to 
 where some seven or eight were desperately engaged over the 
 fallen figure of a man. With a shrill yell no Indian could 
 surpass, and a bound like a tiger, Owen came down in the 
 midst of them, every stroke of his powerful blackthorn tell- 
 ing on his man as uuerringl}^ as though it were wielded by the 
 hand of a giant. 
 
 *' Save the young master, Owen ! Shelter him ! vStand over 
 him, Owen Connor ! " were now the cries from all sides ; and 
 the stout-hearted peasant, striding over the body of young 
 Leslie, cleared a space around him, and, as he glanced de- 
 fiance on all sides, called out: "Is that your courage, to 
 beat a young gentleman that never handled a stick in his 
 life? Oh, 3^ou cowardly set! Come and face the men of 
 your own baron}^ if you dare ! Come out on the green and 
 do it ! — Pull him away, — pull him away quick," whispered 
 he to his own party eagerly. " Tear-an-ages ! get him out 
 of this before they're down on me." 
 
 As he spoke, the Joyces rushed forward with a cheer, their 
 party now trebly as strong as the enemy. They bore down 
 with a force that nothing could resist. Poor Owen — the 
 mark for every weapon — fell almost the first, his head and 
 face one indistinguishable mass of blood and bruises, but not 
 before some three or four of his friends had rescued young 
 Leslie from his danger, and carried him to the outskirts of 
 the fair. The fray now became general, neutrality was im- 
 possible, and self-defence almost suggested some participa- 
 tion in the battle. The victory was, however, with the 
 Joyces. They were on their own territory ; they mustered 
 every moment stronger ; and in less than half an hour they 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 185 
 
 had swept the enemy from the field, save where a lin- 
 gering wounded man remained, whose maimed and crip- 
 pled condition had already removed him from all the 
 animosities of combat. 
 
 " Where's the young master?" were the first words Owen 
 Connor spoke, as his friends carried him on the door of a 
 cabin, hastily unhinged for the purpose, towards his home. 
 
 "Erra! he 's safe enough, Owen," said one of his bearers, 
 who was by no means pleased that Mr. Leslie had made the 
 best of his way out of the fair, instead of remaining to see 
 the fight out. 
 
 *'God be praised for that same, anyhow!" said Owen, 
 piously. "His life was not worth a ' trawneen ' when I seen 
 him first." 
 
 It may be supposed from this speech, and the previous 
 conduct of him who uttered it, that Owen Connor was an old 
 and devoted adherent to the Leslie family, from whom he 
 had received many benefits, and to whom he was linked by 
 long acquaintance. Far from it. He neither knew Mr. 
 Leslie nor his father. The former he saw for the first time 
 as he stood over him in the fair; the latter he had never so 
 much as set eyes upon, at any time ; neither had he or his 
 been favored by them. The sole tie that subsisted between 
 them — the one link that bound the poor man to the rich 
 one — was that of the tenant to his landlord. Owen's father 
 and grandfather before him had been cottiers on the estate ; 
 but being very poor and humble men, and the little farm 
 they rented, a half-tilled, half-reclaimed mountain tract, 
 exempt from all prospect of improvement, and situated in a 
 remote and unfrequented place, they were merely known by 
 their names on the rent-roll. Except for this, their exist- 
 ence had been as totally forgotten as though they had made 
 part of the wild heath upon the mountain. 
 
 While Mr. Leslie lived in ignorance that such people 
 existed on his property, they looked up to him with a 
 degree of reverence almost devotional. The owner of the 
 soil was a character actually sacred in their ej^es ; for what 
 respect and what submission were enough for one who held 
 in his hands the destinies of so many ; who could raise them 
 to affluence or depress them to want, and by his mere word 
 
186 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 control the agent himself, the most dreaded of all those who 
 exerted an influence on their fortunes? 
 
 There was a feudalism, too, in this sentiment that gave 
 the reverence a feeling of strong allegiance. The landlord 
 was the head of a clan, as it were: he was the cuhiiinating 
 point of that pyramid of which they formed the base; and 
 they were proud of every display of his wealth and his 
 power, which they deemed as ever reflecting credit upon 
 themselves. And then, his position in the county, his 
 rank, his titles, the amount of his property, his house, 
 his retinue, his very equipage, were all subjects on which 
 they descanted with eager delight, and proudly exalted 
 in contrast with less favored proprietors. At the time we 
 speak of, absenteeism had only begun to impair the warmth 
 of this affection; the traditions of a resident landlord were 
 yet fresh in the memory of the young ; and a hundred traits 
 of kindness and good-nature were mingled in their minds 
 with stories of grandeur and extravagance, which, to the 
 Ii'ish peasant's ear, are themes as grateful as ever the gor- 
 geous pictures of Eastern splendor were to the heightened 
 imagination and burning fancies of Oriental listeners. 
 
 Owen Connor was a Arm disciple of this creed. Perhaps 
 his lone sequestered life among the mountains, with no 
 companionship save that of his old father, had made him 
 longer retain these convictions in all their force, than if, by 
 admixture with his equals, and greater intercourse with the 
 world, he had conformed his opinions to the gradually 
 changed tone of the country. It was of little moment to him 
 what might be the temper or the habits of his landlord. 
 The monarchy — and not the monarch of the soil — was the 
 object of his loyalty; and he would have deemed himself 
 disgraced and dishonored had he shown the slightest back- 
 wardness in his fealty. He would as soon have expected 
 that the tall fern that grew wild in the valley should have 
 changed into a blooming crop of wheat, as that the perform- 
 ance of such a service could have met with any requital. 
 It was, to his thinking, a simple act of duty, and required 
 not any prompting of high principle, still less any sugges- 
 tion of self-interest. Poor Owen, therefore, had not even a 
 sentiment of heroism to cheer him, as they bore him slowly 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 187 
 
 aloDg, every inequality of the ground sending a pang 
 through his aching head that was actually torture. 
 
 ''That 's a mark you '11 carry to your dying day, Owen, my 
 boy," said one of the bearers, as they stopped for a moment 
 to take breath. "I can see the bone there shining this 
 minute." 
 
 "It must be good stuff anyways, the same head," said 
 Owen, with a sickly attempt to smile. *'They never put a 
 star in it yet; and faix I seen the sticks cracking like dry 
 wood in the frost." 
 
 "It's well it didn't come lower down," said another, 
 examining the deep cut which gashed his forehead from the 
 hair down to the eyebrow. "You know what the Widow 
 Glynn said at Peter Henessey's wake, when she saw the 
 stroke of the scythe that laid his head open, — it just 
 come, like yer own, down to that, — ' Ayeh ! ' says she, 
 'but he's the fine corpse; and wasn't it the Lord spared 
 his eye!'" 
 
 "Stop, and good luck to you, Freney, and don't be mak- 
 ing me laugh; the pain goes through my brain like the stick 
 of a knife," said Owen, as he lifted his trembling hands and 
 pressed them on either side of his head. 
 
 They wetted his lips with water, and resumed their way, 
 not speaking aloud as before, but in a low undertone, only 
 audible to Owen at intervals; for he had sunk into a half- 
 stupid state they believed to be sleep. The path each 
 moment grew steeper; for leaving the wild "boreen" road, 
 which led to a large bog on the mountain-side, it wound 
 now upwards, zigzagging between masses of granite rock 
 and deep tufts of heather, where sometimes the foot sunk 
 to the instep. The wet and spongy soil increased the diffi- 
 culty greatly; and although all strong and powerful men, 
 they were often obliged to halt and rest themselves. 
 
 "It's an iligant view, sure enough," said one, wiping his 
 dripping forehead with the tail of his coat. "See there! 
 look down where the fair is, now! it isn't the size of a 
 good griddle, the whole of it. How purty the lights look 
 shining in the water! And the boats, too! Musha! they 're 
 coming up more of them. There '11 be good divarshin there, 
 this night." These last words, uttered with a half -sigh, 
 
188 ST. PATKICK'S EVE. 
 
 showed with what a heavy heart the speaker saw himself 
 debarred from participating in the festivity. 
 
 •' 'T was a dhroll place to build a house, then, up there," 
 said another, pointing to the dark speck, far, far away on 
 the mountain, where Owen Connor's cabin stood. 
 
 "Owen says yez can see Gal way of a fine day, and the 
 boats going out from the Claddagh; and of an evening, 
 when the sun is going down, you '11 see across the bay, 
 over to Clare, the big cliffs of Mogher." 
 
 "Now, then! are ye in earnest? I don't wonder he 's so 
 fond of the place, after all. It's an iligant thing to see the 
 whole world, and fine company, besides. Look at Lough 
 Mask! Now, boys, isn't that beautiful with the sun on 
 it?" 
 
 "Come, it's getting late, Freney, and the poor boy ought 
 to be at home before night." And once more they lifted 
 their burden and moved forward. 
 
 For a considerable time they continued to ascend without 
 speaking, when one of the party in a low cautious voice re- 
 marked, "Poor Owen will think worse of it, when he hears 
 the reason of the fight, than for the cut on the head, — bad 
 as it is." 
 
 "Masha; then he needn't," replied another; "for if ye 
 mane about Mary Joyce, he never had a chance of her." 
 
 "I 'm not saying that he had," said the first speaker; "but 
 he 's just as fond of her: do you mind the way he never gave 
 back one of Phil's blows, but let him hammer away as fast 
 as he plazed? " 
 
 "What was it, at all, that Mr. Leslie did?" asked an- 
 other; "I did n't hear how it began yet." 
 
 "Nor I, either, rightly; but I believe Mary was standing 
 looking at the dance, for she never foots a step herself, — 
 maybe she 's too ginteel, — and the young gentleman comes 
 up and axes her for a partner; and something she said: 
 but what does he do but put his arm round her waist and 
 gives her a kiss? and, ye see, the other girls laughed hearty, 
 because they say Mary 's so proud and high, and thinking 
 herself above them all. Phil wasn't there at the time; but 
 he heerd it afterwards, and come up to the tent as young 
 Mr. Leslie was laving it, and stood before him, and would n't 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 189 
 
 let him pass. * I 've a word to say to ye, ' says Phil, and he 
 scarce able to spake with passion ; * that was my sister ye 
 had the impudence to take a liberty with.' ' Out of the way, 
 ye bogtrotter,' says Leslie, — them 's the very words he said ; 
 ' out of the way, ye bogtrotter, or I '11 lay my whip across 
 your shoulders.' ' Take that first,' says Phil; and he put 
 his fist between his two eyes, neat and clean. Down went 
 the squire as if he was shot. You know the rest yourselves. 
 The boys did n't lose any time, and if 'twas only two hours 
 later, maybe the Joyces would have got as good as they 
 gave." 
 
 A heavy groan from poor Owen now stopped the conversa- 
 tion, and they halted to ascertain if he were worse. But 
 no; he seemed still sunk in the same heavy sleep as before, 
 and apparently unconscious of all about him. Such, how- 
 ever, was not really the case ; by some strange phenomenon 
 of sickness, the ear had taken in each low and whispered 
 word, at the time it would have been deaf to louder sounds ; 
 and every syllable they had spoken had already sunk deeply 
 into his heart. Happily for him, this was but a momentary 
 pang; the grief stunned him at once, and he became 
 insensible. 
 
 It was dark night as they reached the lonely cabin where 
 Owen lived, miles away from any other dwelling, and stand- 
 ing at an elevation of more than a thousand feet above the 
 plain. The short, sharp barking of a sheep-dog was the 
 only sound that welcomed them ; for the old man had not 
 heard of his son's misfortune until long after they quitted 
 the fair. The door was hasped and fastened with a stick, 
 
 — precaution enough in such a place, and for all that it con- 
 tained too. Opening this, they carried the young man in, 
 and laid him upon the bed ; and while some busied them- 
 selves in kindling a fire upon the hearth, the others endeav- 
 ored, with such skill as they possessed, to dress his wounds, 
 
 — an operation which, if not strictly surgical in all its 
 details, had at least the recommendation of tolerable ex- 
 perience in such matters. 
 
 "It 's a nate little place when j^ou 're at it, then," said one 
 of them, as with a piece of lighted bog-pine he took a very 
 leisurely and accurate view of the interior. 
 
190 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 The opinion, however, must be taken by the reader as 
 rather reflecting on the judgment of him who pronounced it 
 than in absolute praise of the object itself. The cabin con- 
 sisted of a single room, and which, though remarkably clean 
 in comparison with similar ones, had no evidence of any- 
 thing above very narrow circumstances. A little dresser 
 occupied the wall in front of the door, with its usual com- 
 plement of crockery, cracked and whole; an old chest of 
 drawers, the pride of the house, flanked this on one side; 
 a low settle-bed on the other; various prints in very florid 
 coloring decorated the walls, all religious subjects, where 
 the apostles figured in garments like bathing-dresses; these 
 were intermixed with ballads, dying speeches, and such-like 
 ghostly literature as forms the most interesting reading of 
 an Irish peasant; a few seats of unpainted deal, and a large 
 straw chair for the old man, were the principal articles of 
 furniture. There was a gun, minus the lock, suspended 
 over the fireplace, and two fishing-rods, with a gaff and 
 landing-net, were stretched upon wooden pegs; while over 
 the bed was an earthenware crucifix, with its little cup be- 
 neath for holy water ; the whole surmounted by a picture of 
 St. Francis Xavier in the act of blessing somebody ; though, 
 if tlie gesture were to be understood without the explanatory 
 letter-press, he rather looked like a swimmer preparing for 
 a dive. The oars, mast, and spritsail of a boat were lashed 
 to the rafters overhead ; for, strange as it may seem, there 
 was a lake at that elevation of the mountain, and one which 
 abounded in trout and perch, affording many a day's sport 
 to both Owen and his father. 
 
 Such were the details which, sheltered beneath a warm 
 roof of mountain-fern, called forth the praise we have men- 
 tioned ; and, poor as they may seem to the reader, they were 
 many degrees in comfort beyond the majority of Irish 
 cabins. 
 
 The boys, — for so the unmarried men of whatever age are 
 called, — having left one of the party to watch over Owen, 
 now quitted the house, and began their return homeward. 
 It was past midnight when the old man returned; and al- 
 though endeavoring to master any appearance of emotion 
 before the "strange boy," he could with diflSculty control 
 
THE FIRST ERA. . 191 
 
 his feelings on beholding his son. The shirt matted with 
 blood, contrasting with the livid colorless cheek, the heavy 
 irregular breathing, the frequent startings as he slept, were 
 all sore trials to the old man's nerve; but he managed to 
 seem calm and collected, and to treat the occurrence as an 
 ordinary one. 
 
 "Harry Joyce and his brother Luke — big Luke as they 
 call him — has sore bones to-night; they tell me that Owen 
 didn't lave breath in their bodies," said he, with a grim 
 smile, as he took his place by the fire. 
 
 "I heerd the ribs of them smashing like an ould turf 
 creel," replied the other. 
 
 '"Tis himself can do it," said the old fellow, with eyes 
 glistening with delight; "fair play and good ground, and 
 I 'd back him agin the Glen." 
 
 "And so you might, and farther too; he has the speret in 
 him, — that's better nor strength, any day." 
 
 And thus consoled by the recollection of Owen's prowess, 
 and gratified by the hearty concurrence of his guest, the 
 old father smoked and chatted away till daybreak. It was 
 not that he felt any want of affection for his son, or that his 
 heart was untouched by the sad spectacle he presented, — 
 far from this. The poor old man had no other tie to life, 
 no other object of hope or love than Owen ; but years of a 
 solitary life had taught him rather to conceal his emotions 
 within his own bosom than seek for consolation beyond it; 
 besides that, even in his grief the old sentiment of faction- 
 hatred was strong, and vengeance had its share in his 
 thoughts also. 
 
 It would form no part of our object in this story, to dwell 
 longer either on this theme or the subject of Owen's illness ; 
 it will be enough to say that he soon got better, far sooner, 
 perhaps, than if all the appliances of luxury had ministered 
 to his recovery; most certainly sooner than if his brain 
 had been ordinarily occupied by thoughts and cares of a 
 higher order than his were. The conflict, however, had 
 left a deeper scar behind than the ghastly wound that marked 
 his brow. The poor fellow dwelt upon the portions of the 
 conversation he overheard as they carried him up the moun- 
 tain; and whatever might have been his fears before, now 
 
192 • ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 he was convinced that all prospect of gaining Mary's love 
 was lost to him forever. 
 
 This depression, natural to one after so severe an injury, 
 excited little remark from the old man; and although he 
 wished Owen might make some effort to exert himself, or 
 even move about in the air, he left him to himself and his 
 own time, well knowing that he never was disposed to yield 
 an hour to sickness beyond what he felt unavoidable. It 
 was about eight or nine days after the fair that the father 
 was sitting mending a fishing-net at the door of his cabin, 
 to catch the last light of the fading day. Owen was seated 
 near him, sometimes watching the progress of the work, 
 sometimes patting the old sheep-dog that nestled close by, 
 when the sound of voices attracted them ; they listened, and 
 could distinctly hear persons talking at the opposite side of 
 the cliff, along which the pathway led; and before they 
 could even hazard a guess as to who they were, the strangers 
 appeared at the angle of the rock. The party consisted of 
 two persons: one, a gentleman somewhat advanced in life, 
 mounted on a stout but rough-looking pony ; the other was 
 a countryman, who held the beast by the bridle, and seemed 
 to take the greatest precaution for the rider's safety. 
 
 The very few visitors Owen and his father met with were, 
 for the most part, people coming to fish the mountain-lake, 
 who usually hired ponies in the valley for the ascent; so 
 that when they perceived the animal coming slowly along, 
 they scarce bestowed a second glance upon them, the old 
 man merely remarking, "They're three weeks too early for 
 this water, anyhow," — a sentiment concurred in by his son. 
 In less than five minutes after, the rider and his guide stood 
 before the door. 
 
 "Is this where Owen Connor lives?" asked the gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 *'That same, yer honor," said old Owen, uncovering his 
 head, as he rose respectfully from his low stool. 
 
 "And where is Owen Connor himself?" 
 
 *"Tis me, sir," replied he; "that's my name." 
 
 "Yes, but it can scarcely be you that I am looking for; 
 have you a son of that name ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, I'm young Owen," said the young man, rising, 
 
THE FIRST ERA. I93 
 
 but not without difficulty, while he steadied himself by 
 holding the door-post. 
 
 "So, then, I am all right. Tracy, lead the pony about till 
 I call you ; " and so saying, he dismounted and entered the 
 cabin. 
 
 "Sit down, Owen; yes, yes, — I insist upon it, and do 
 you also. I have come up here to-day to have a few 
 moments' talk with you about an occurrence that took place 
 last week at the fair. There was a young gentleman, Mr. 
 Leslie, got roughly treated by some of the people; let me 
 hear your account of it." 
 
 Owen and his father exchanged glances; the same idea 
 flashed across the minds of both that the visitor was a 
 magistrate come to take information against the Joyces for 
 an assault; and however gladly they would have embraced 
 any course that promised retaliation for their injuries, the 
 notion of recurring to the law was a degree of baseness 
 they would have scorned to adopt. 
 
 "I '11 take the ' vestment ' I never seen it at all," said the 
 old man, eagerly, and evidently delighted that no manner 
 of cross-questioning or badgering could convert him into an 
 informer. 
 
 "And the little I saw," said Owen, "they knocked out of 
 my memory with this;" and he pointed to the half-healed 
 gash on his forehead. 
 
 " But you know something of how the row begun ? " 
 
 "No, yer honor, I was at the other side of the fair." 
 
 "Was young Mr. Leslie in fault, — did you hear that?" 
 
 "I never heerd that he did anything — unagreeable," said 
 Owen, after hesitating for a few seconds in his choice of a 
 word. 
 
 "So, then, I 'm not likely to obtain any information from 
 either of you ? " 
 
 They made no reply, but their looks gave as palpable 
 a concurrence to this speech as though they swore to its 
 truth. 
 
 "Well, I have another question to ask. It was you saved 
 this young gentleman, I understand; what was your motive 
 for doing so', when, as by your own confession, you were at 
 a distance when the fight begun ? " 
 
 VOL. II. — 13 
 
194 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 "He was my landlord's son," said Owen, half roughly; 
 "I hope there is no law agin that." 
 
 "I sincerely trust not," ejaculated the gentleman; "have 
 you been long on the estate?" 
 
 "Three generations of us now, yer honor," said the old 
 man. 
 
 "And what rent do you pay ? " 
 
 ''Oh, musha, we pay enough! we pay fifteen shillings an 
 acre for the bit of callows below, near the lake, and we give 
 ten pounds a year for the mountain — and bad luck to it for 
 a mountain — it 's breaking my heart trying to make some- 
 thing out of it." 
 
 "Then I suppose you 'd be well pleased to exchange your 
 farm, and take one in a better and more profitable part of 
 the country? " 
 
 Another suspicion here shot across the old man's mind; 
 and, turning to Owen, he said in Irish: "He wants to get 
 the mountain for sporting over; but I '11 not lave it." 
 
 The gentleman repeated his question. 
 
 "Troth, no, then, yer honor; we've lived here so long 
 we '11 just stay our time in it." 
 
 "But the rent is heavy, you say." 
 
 "Well, we '11 pay it, plaze God." 
 
 "And I 'm sure it 's a strange wild place in winter." 
 
 "It's wholesome, anyhow," was the short reply. 
 
 "I believe I must go back again as wise as I came," mut- 
 tered the gentleman. " Come, my good old man, — and 
 you, Owen ; I want to know how I can best serve you for 
 what you've done for me: it was my son you rescued in 
 the fair — " 
 
 "Are you the landlord — is 3^er honor Mr. Leslie?" ex- 
 claimed both, as they rose from their seats as horrified as if 
 they had taken such a liberty before royalty. 
 
 "Yes, Owen; and I grieve to say that I should cause so 
 much surprise to any tenant at seeing me. I ought to be 
 better known on my property; and I hope to become so: 
 but it grows late, and I must reach the valley before night. 
 Tell me, are 3^ou really attached to this farm, or have I any 
 other, out of lease at this time, you like better?" 
 
 "I would not leave the ould spot, with yer honor's per- 
 
THE FIRST ERA. 195 
 
 mission, to get a demesne and a brick house ; nor Owen, 
 neither." 
 
 " Well, then, be it so ; I can only say, if you ever change 
 your mind, you '11 find me both ready and willing to serve 
 you; meanwhile j^ou must pay no more rent here." 
 
 ''No more rent!" 
 
 " Not a farthing ; I 'm sorry the favor is so slight a one, 
 for, indeed, the mountain seems a bleak and profitless 
 tract." 
 
 '' There is not its equal for mutton — " 
 
 "I'm glad of it, Owen; and it only remains for me to 
 make the shepherd something more comfortable. Well, take 
 this ; and when I next come up here, which I intend to do, 
 to fish the lake, I hope to find you in a better house ; " and 
 he pressed a pocket-book into the old man's hand as he said 
 this, and left the cabin : while both Owen and his father 
 were barely able to mutter a blessing upon him, so over- 
 whelming and unexpected was the whole occurrence. 
 
From no man's life, perhaps, is hope more rigidly excluded 
 than from that of the Irish peasant of a poor district. The 
 shipwrecked mariner upon his raft, the convict in his cell, 
 the lingering sufferer on a sick-bed, may hope ; but he must 
 not. 
 
 Daily labor, barely sufficient to produce the commonest 
 necessaries of life, points to no period of rest or repose ; 
 year succeeds year in the same dull routine of toil and 
 privation ; nor can he look around him and see one who 
 has risen from that life of misery to a position of even com- 
 parative comfort. 
 
 The whole study of his existence, tlie whole philosophj^ of 
 his life, is, how to endure ; to struggle on under poverty 
 and sickness; in seasons of famine, in times of national 
 calamity, to hoard up the little pittance for his landlord 
 and the payment for his priest, and he has nothing more 
 to seek for. Were it our object here, it would not be 
 difficult to pursue this theme further, and examine if much 
 of the imputed slothfulness and indolence of the people was 
 not in reality due to that very hopelessness. How little 
 energy would be left to life if you take away its ambitions ; 
 how few would enter upon the race, if there were no goal 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 197 
 
 before them ! Our present aim, however, is rather with the 
 fortunes of those we have so lately left. To these poor 
 men, now, a new existence opened. Not the sun of spring 
 could more suddenly illumine the landscape where winter so 
 late had thrown its shadows, than did prosperity fall brightly 
 on their hearts, endowing life with pleasures and enjoy- 
 ments of which they had not dared to dream before. 
 
 In preferring this mountain tract to some rich lowland 
 farm, they were rather guided by that spirit of attachment 
 to the home of their fathers — so characteristic a trait in 
 the Irish peasant — than by the promptings of self-interest. 
 The mountain was indeed a wild and bleak expanse, scarce 
 affording herbage for a few sheep and goats ; the callows 
 at its foot, deeply flooded in winter, and even by the rains 
 of autumn, made tillage precarious and uncertain ; yet the 
 fact that these were rent-free, that of its labor and its fruits 
 all was now their own, iuspired hope and sweetened toil. 
 They no longer felt the dreary monotony of daily exertion, 
 by which hour was linked to hour, and year to year, in one 
 unbroken succession, — no ; they now could look forward, 
 they could lift up their hearts and strain their eyes to a 
 future where honest industry had laid up its store for the 
 decline of life ; they could already fancy the enjoyments of 
 the summer season, when they should look down upon their 
 own crops and herds, or think of the winter nights, and the 
 howling of the storm without, reminding them of the bless- 
 ings of a home. 
 
 '' How little to the mind teeming with its bright and 
 ambitious aspirings would seem the history of their humble 
 hopes ! How insignificant and how narrow might appear 
 the little plans and plots they laid for that new road in life 
 in which they were now to travel ! The great man might 
 scoff at these, the moralist might frown at their worldliness ; 
 but there is nothing sordid or mean in the spirit of manly 
 independence ; and they who know the Irish people will 
 never accuse them of receiving worldly benefits with any 
 forgetfulness of their true and only source. And now to 
 our story. 
 
 The little cabin upon the mountain was speedily added to, 
 and fashioned into a comfortable-looking farmhouse of the 
 
198 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 humbler class. Both father and son would willingly have 
 left it as it was; but the landlord's wish had laid a command 
 upon them, and they felt it would have been a misapplication 
 of his bounty had they not done as he had desired. So 
 closely, indeed, did they adhere to his injunctions, that a 
 little room was added specially for his use and accommoda- 
 tion, whenever he came on that promised excursion he hinted 
 at. Every detail of this little chamber interested them 
 deeply ; and many a night, as they sat over their fire, did 
 they eagerly discuss the habits and tastes of the "quality," 
 anxious to be wanting in nothing which should make it suit- 
 able for one like him. Sufficient money remained above 
 all this expenditure to purchase some sheep, and even a cow, 
 and already their changed fortunes had excited the interest 
 and curiosity of the little world in which they lived. 
 
 There is one blessing, and it is a great one, attendant on 
 humble life. The amelioration of condition requires not 
 that a man should leave the friends and companions he has 
 so long sojourned with, and seek, in a new order, others to 
 supply their place ; the spirit of class does not descend to 
 him, or rather, he is far above it ; his altered state suggests 
 comparatively few enjoyments or comforts in which his old 
 associates cannot participate ; and thus the Connors' cabin 
 was each Sunday thronged by the country people, who came 
 to see with their own ej^es, and hear with their own ears, the 
 wonderful good fortune that befell them. 
 
 Had the landlord been an angel of light, the blessings 
 invoked upon him could not have been more frequent or 
 fervent ; each measured the munificence of the act by his 
 own short standard of worldly possessions ; and individual 
 murmurings for real or fancied wrongs were hushed in the 
 presence of one such deed of benevolence. 
 
 This is no exaggerated picture. Such was peasant grati- 
 tude once ; and such, O landlords of Ireland ! it might still 
 have been, if j'^ou had not deserted the people. The meanest 
 of your favors, the poorest show of your good-feeling, were 
 acts of grace for which nothing was deemed requital. Your 
 presence in the poor man's cabin, your kind word to him 
 upon the highway, j^our aid in sickness, 3^our counsel in 
 trouble, were ties which bound him more closely to your in- 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 199 
 
 terest, and made him more surely yours, than all the parch- 
 ment of your attorney or all the papers of your agent. He 
 knew you then as something more than the recipient of his 
 earnings. That was a time when neither the hireling patriot 
 uor the calumnious press could sow discord between you. 
 If it be otherwise now, ask 3'ourselves are you all blameless ? 
 Did you ever hope that affection could be transmitted through 
 your agent, like the proceeds of your propert}^? Did you 
 expect that the attachments of a people were to reach you 
 by the post ! Or was it not natural that, in their desertion 
 by 3^ou, they should seek succor elsewhere, — that in their 
 difficulties and their trials they should turn to any who 
 might feel or feign compassion for them ? Nor is it wonder- 
 ful that, amid the benefits thus bestowed, they should imbibe 
 principles and opinions fatally in contrast with interests like 
 yours. 
 
 There were few on whom good fortune could have fallen 
 without exciting more envious and jealous feelings on the 
 part of others than on the Connors. The rugged indepen- 
 dent character of the father, the gay, light-hearted nature 
 of the son, had given them few enemies and many friends. 
 The whole neighborhood flocked about them to offer their 
 good wishes and congratulations on their bettered condition, 
 and with an honesty of purpose and a sincerity that might 
 have shamed a more elevated sphere. The Joyces alone 
 showed no participation in this sentiment, or, rather, tliat 
 small fraction of them more immediately linked with Phil 
 Joyce. At first they affected to sneer at the stories of the 
 Connors' good fortune ; and when denial became absurd, 
 they half-hinted that it was a new custom in Ireland for men 
 " to fight for money." These mocking speeches were not 
 slow to reach the ears of the old man and his son ; and many 
 thought that the next fair-day would bring with it a heavy 
 retribution for 'the calamities of the last. In this, however, 
 they were mistaken. Neither Owen nor his father appeared 
 that day; the mustering of their faction was strong and 
 powerful, but they whose wrongs were the cause of the 
 gathering never came forward to head them. 
 
 This was an indignity not to be passed over in silence; 
 and the murmurs, at first low and subdued, grew louder and 
 
200 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 louder, until denunciations heavy and deep fell upon the 
 two who "wouldn't come out and right themselves like 
 men." The faction, discomfited and angered, soon broke 
 up ; and returning homeward in their several directions, they 
 left the field to the enemy without even a blow. On the 
 succeeding day, when the observances of religion had taken 
 place of the riotous and disorderly proceedings of the fair, 
 it was not customary for the younger men to remain. The 
 frequenters of the place were mostly women ; the few of the 
 other sex were either old and feeble men, or such objects of 
 compassion as traded on the pious feelings of the votaries so 
 opportunely evoked. It was with great difficulty the worthy 
 priest of the parish had succeeded in dividing the secular 
 from the holy customs of the time, and thus allowing the 
 pilgrims, as all were called on that day, an uninterrupted 
 period for their devotions. He was firm and resolute, how- 
 ever, in his purpose, and spared no pains to effect it : men- 
 acing this one, persuading that ; suiting the measure of 
 his arguments to the comprehension of each, he either cajoled 
 or coerced, as the circumstance might warrant. His first 
 care was to remove all the temptations to dissipation and 
 excess ; and for this purpose he banished every show and 
 exhibition, and every tent where gambling and drinking went 
 forward. His next, a more difficult task, was the exclusion 
 of all those doubtful characters who in every walk of life 
 are suggestive of even more vice than they embody in them- 
 selves. These, however, abandoned the place of their own 
 accord, so soon as they discovered how few were the induce- 
 ments to remain ; until at length, by a tacit understanding, 
 it seemed arranged that the day of penance and mortifica- 
 tion should suffer neither molestation nor interruption from 
 those indisposed to partake of its benefits. So rigid was the 
 priest in exacting compliance in this matter, that he com- 
 pelled the tents to be struck by daybreak, except by those 
 few trusted and privileged individuals whose ministerings 
 to human wants were permitted during the day of sanctity. 
 
 And thus the whole picture was suddenly changed. The 
 wild and riotous uproar of the fair, the tumult of voices and 
 music, dancing, drinking, and fighting, were gone ; and the 
 low monotonous sound of the pilgrims' prayers was "heard, as 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 201 
 
 they moved along upon their knees to some holy well or 
 shrine, to offer up a prayer, or return a thanksgiving for 
 blessings bestowed. The scene was a strange and pictur- 
 esque one ; the long lines of kneeling figures, where the rich 
 scarlet cloak of the women predominated, crossed and re- 
 crossed each other as they wended their way to the destined 
 altar; their muttered words blending with the louder and 
 more boisterous appeals of the mendicants, who, stationed 
 at every convenient angle or turning, besieged each devotee 
 with unremitting entreaty, — deep and heartfelt devotion in 
 every face, every lineament and feature impressed with re- 
 ligious zeal and piety ; but still, as group met group going 
 and returning, they interchanged their greetings between 
 their prayers, and mingled the worldly salutations with 
 aspirations heavenward; and their ''Paters" and " Aves " 
 and "Credos" were blended with inquiries for the " chil- 
 der," or questions about the " crops." 
 
 ''Isn't that Owen Connor, avich, that's going there, 
 towards the Yallow-well ? " said an old crone, as she ceased 
 to count her beads. 
 
 *' You 're right enough, Biddy ; 't is himself, and no other ; 
 it's a turn he took to devotion since he grew rich." 
 
 " Ayeh ! ayeh ! the Lord be good to us ! how fond we all 
 be of life, when we 've the bit of bacon to the fore ! " And 
 with that she resumed her pious avocations with redoubled 
 energy, to make up for lost time. 
 
 The old ladies were as sharp-sighted as such functionaries 
 usually are in any sphere of society. It was Owen Connor 
 himself, performing his first pilgrimage. The commands of 
 his landlord had expressly forbidden him to engage in any 
 disturbance at the fair; the only mode of complying with 
 which, he rightly judged, was b^^ absenting himself altogether. 
 How this conduct was construed by others, we have briefly 
 hinted at. As for himself, poor fellow, if a day of mortifica- 
 tion could have availed him anj'thing, he need n't have ap- 
 peared among the pilgrims ; — a period of such sorrow and 
 suffering he had never undergone before. But in justice it 
 must be confessed it was devotion of a very questionable 
 character that brought him there that morning. Since the 
 fair-day, Mary Joyce had never deigned to notice him ; and 
 
202 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 though he had been several times at mass, she either affected 
 not to be aware of his presence, or designedly looked in 
 another direction. The few words of greeting she once gave 
 him on every Sunday morning, the smile she bestowed, 
 dwelt the whole week in his heart, and made him long for 
 the return of the time when, even for a second or two, she 
 would be near, and speak to him. He was not slow in sup- 
 posing how the circumstances under which he rescued the 
 landlord's son might be used against him by his enemies ; 
 and he well knew that she was not surrounded by any others 
 than such. It was, then, with a heavy heart poor Owen 
 witnessed how fatally his improved fortune had dashed hopes 
 far dearer than all worldly advantage. Not only did the 
 new comforts about him become distasteful, but he even 
 accused them to himself as the source of all his present ca- 
 lamity ; and half suspected that it was a judgment on him 
 for receiving a reward in such a cause. To see her, to 
 speak to her if possible, was now his wish, morn and 
 night ; to tell her that he cared more for one look, one 
 glance, than for all the favors fortune did or could bestow, 
 . — this, and to undeceive her as to any knowledge of young 
 Leslie's rudeness to herself, was the sole aim of his thoughts. 
 Stationing himself therefore in an angle of the ruined church, 
 which formed one of the resting-places for prayer, he waited 
 for hours for Mary's coming, and at last, with a heart half 
 sickened with deferred hope, he saw her pale but beautiful 
 features, shaded by the large blue hood of her cloak, as 
 with downcast eyes she followed in the train. 
 
 "Give me your place, acushla ; God will reward you for 
 it; I'm late at the station," said he to an old, ill-favored 
 hag that followed next to Mary ; and at the same time, to 
 aid his request, slipped half a crown into her hand. 
 
 The wrinkled face brightened into a kind of wicked in- 
 telligence as she muttered in Irish: " 'T is a gould guinea 
 the same place is worth ; but I '11 give it to you for the sake 
 of yer people ; " and at the same time pocketing the coin in 
 a canvas pouch, among relics and holy clay, she moved off 
 to admit him in the line. 
 
 Owen's heart beat almost to bui'sting, as he found himself 
 so close to Mary ; and all his former impatience to justify 
 
THE SECOND EKA. 
 
 himself, and to speak to her, fled in the happiness he now 
 enjoyed. No devotee ever regarded the relic of a saint with 
 
 spot ; and ever, as he was ready to speak to her, some fear 
 that by a word he might dispel the dream of bliss he rev- 
 elled in, stopped him, and he w^as silent. 
 
204 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 It was as the evening drew near, and the pilgrims were 
 turning towards the lake, beside which, at a small thorn- 
 tree, the last "station" of all was performed, that an old 
 beggar, whose importunity suffered none to escape, blocked 
 up the path and prevented Mary from proceeding until she 
 had given him something. All her money had been long 
 since bestowed ; and she said so, hurriedly, and endeavored 
 to move forward. 
 
 "Let Owen Connor behind you give it, acushla ! He's 
 rich now, and can well afford it," said the cripple. 
 
 She turned round at the words ; the action was involun- 
 tary, and their eyes met. There are glances which reveal 
 the whole secret of a lifetime ; there are looks which dwell 
 in the heart longer and deeper than words. Their eyes met 
 for merely a few seconds ; and while in her face offended 
 pride was depicted, poor Owen's sorrow-struck and broken 
 aspect spoke of long suffering and grief so powerfully that, 
 ere she turned awa}^ her heart had half forgiven him. 
 
 " You wrong me hardly, Mary," said he, in a low, broken 
 voice, as the train moved on. "The Lord, he knows my 
 heart this blessed day! Pater noster qui es in coeUs / ^' 
 added he, louder, as he perceived that his immediate fol- 
 lower had ceased his prayers to listen to him. "He knows 
 that I'd rather live and died the poorest, — Beneficed tuum 
 nomen!'* cried he, louder. And then, turning abruptly, 
 said, — 
 
 " Av it's plazing to you, sir, don't be trampin' on my 
 heels. I can't mind my devotions, an' one so near me." 
 
 "It's not so unconvaynient, maybe, when they're afore 
 you," muttered the old fellow, with a grin of sly malice. 
 And though Owen overheard the taunt, he felt no inclina- 
 tion to notice it. 
 
 "Four long years I've loved ye, Mary Joj^ce ; and the 
 sorra more encouragement I ever got nor the smile ye used 
 to give me. And if ye take that from me, now — Are ye 
 listening to me, Mary? do ye hear me, asthore? — Bad 
 scran to ye, ye old varmint ! why don't ye keep behind ? 
 How is a man to save his sowl, an' you making him blas- 
 phame every minit?" 
 
 "I was only listenin' to that iligant prayer ye were say- 
 ing," said the old fellow, dryly. 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 205 
 
 *'*Tis betther you'd mind your own, then," said Owen, 
 fiercely; "or, by the blessed day, I'll teach ye a new 
 penance ye never heerd of afore ! " 
 
 The man dropped back, frightened at the sudden deter- 
 mination these words were uttered in ; and Owen resumed 
 his place. 
 
 ••'I may never see ye again, Mary. 'T is the last time 
 you'll hear me spake to you. I'll lave the ould man. 
 God look to him ! I '11 lave him now, and go be a sodger. 
 Here we are now, coming to this holy well ; and I '11 swear 
 an oath before the Queen of Heaven, that before this time 
 to-morrow — " 
 
 " How is one to mind their prayers at all, Owen Connor, if 
 ye be talking to yourself so loud ? " said Mary, in a whisper, 
 but one which lost not a syllable, as it fell on Owen's ear. 
 
 " My own sweet darling, the light of my eyes, ye are ! " 
 cried he, as with clasped hands he muttered blessings upon 
 her head, and with such vehemence of gesture and such 
 unfeigned signs of rapture as to evoke remarks from some 
 beggars near, highly laudatory of his zeal. 
 
 " Look at the fine young man there, prayin' wid all his 
 might. Ayeh, the saints give ye the benefit of your pil- 
 grimage ! " 
 
 " Mnsha ! but ye 'r a credit to the station ; ye put yer 
 sowl in it, anyhow ! " said an old Jezebel, whose hard 
 features seemed to defy emotion. 
 
 Owen looked up ; and directly in front of him, with his 
 back against a tree, and his arms crossed on his breast, 
 stood Phil Joyce ; his brow was dark with passion, and his 
 eyes glared like those of a maniac. A cold thrill ran 
 through Owen's heart, lest the anger thus displayed should 
 fall on Mary ; for he well knew with what tyranny the poor 
 girl was treated. He therefore took the moment of the 
 pilgrims' approach to the holy tree, to move from his place, 
 and, by a slightly circuitous path, came up to where Joyce 
 was standing. 
 
 "I've a word for you, Phil Joyce," said he, in a low 
 voice, where every trace of emotion was carefully subdued. 
 " Can I spake to you here? " 
 
 Owen's wan and sickly aspect, if it did not shock, it at 
 
206 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 least astonished Joyce, for he looked at him for some 
 seconds without speaking; then said, half rudely, — 
 
 "Ay, here will do as w^ell as anywhere, since ye did n't 
 like to say it yesterday." 
 
 There was no mistaking this taunt; the sneer on Owen's 
 want of courage was too plain to be misconstrued; and 
 although for a moment he looked as if disposed to resent 
 it, he merely shook his head mournfully, and replied: "It 
 is not about that I came to speak; it's about your sister, 
 Mary Joyce." 
 
 Phil turned upon him a stare of amazement, as quickly 
 followed by a laugh, whose insulting mockery made Owen's 
 cheek crimson with shame. 
 
 "True, enough, Phil Joyce; I know your meanin' well," 
 said he, with an immense effort to subdue his passion. "I 'm 
 a poor cottier, wid a bit of mountan land — sorra more — 
 and has no right to look up to one like her. But listen to 
 me, Phil," and here he grasped his arm, and spoke with a 
 thick guttural accent, — "listen to me! Av the girl was n't 
 what she is, but only your sister, I 'd scorn her as I do 
 yourself;" and, with that, he pushed him from him with a 
 force that made him stagger. Before he had well recovered, 
 Owen was again at his side, and continued: "And now, 
 one word more, and all 's ended between us. For you, and 
 your likings or mislikings, I never cared a rush; but 'tis 
 Mary herself refused me, so there 's no more about it; only 
 don't be wreaking your temper on her, for she has no fault 
 in it! " 
 
 "Av a sister of mine ever bestowed a thought on the likes 
 o' ye, I'd give her the outside of the door this night," said 
 Joyce, whose courage now rose from seeing several of his 
 faction attracted to the spot, by observing that he and Con- 
 nor were conversing. " 'T is a disgrace, — divil a less 
 than a disgrace to spake of it! " 
 
 "Well, we won't do so any more, plaze God!" said 
 Owen, with a smile of very fearful meaning. "It will be 
 another little matter we '11 have to settle when we meet next. 
 There's a score there not paid off yet;" and at the word 
 he lifted his hat, and disclosed the deep mark of the scarce- 
 closed gash on his forehead; "and so good-bye to ye." 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 207 
 
 A rude nod from Phil Joyce was all the reply, and Owen 
 turned homewards. 
 
 If prosperity could suggest the frame of mind to enjoy 
 it, the rich would always be happy; but such is not the dis- 
 pensation of Providence. Acquisition is but a stage on the 
 road of ambition; it lightens the way, but brings the goal 
 no nearer. Owen never returned to his mountain-home with 
 a sadder heart. He passed, without regarding them, the 
 little fields, now green with the coming spring ; he bestowed 
 no look nor thought upon the herds that already speckled 
 the mountain-side; disappointment had embittered his 
 spirit; and even love itself now gave way to faction-hate, 
 the old and cherished animosity of party. 
 
 If the war of rival factions did not originally spring 
 from the personal quarrels of men of rank and station, who 
 stimulated their followers and adherents to acts of aoofres- 
 sion and reprisal, it assuredly was perpetuated, if not with 
 their concurrence, at least permission ; and many were not 
 ashamed to avow that in these savage encounters the '' bad 
 blood" of the country was "let out" at less cost and trouble 
 than by any other means. When legal proceedings were 
 recurred to, the landlord, in his capacity of magistrate, 
 maintained the cause of his tenants; and, however dis- 
 posed to lean heavily on them himself, in the true spirit 
 of tyranny he opposed pressure from an}' other hand than 
 his own. The people were grateful for this advocacy, — 
 far more, indeed, than they often proved for less question- 
 able kindness. They regarded the law with so much dread 
 — they awaited its decisions with such uncertainty — that 
 he who would conduct them through its mazes was indeed 
 a friend. But was the administration of justice some forty 
 or fifty years back in Ireland such as to excite or justify 
 other sentiments? Was it not this tampering with right 
 and wrong, this recurrence to patronage, that made legal 
 redress seem an act of meanness and cowardice among the 
 people? No cause was decided upon its own merits. The 
 influence of the great man, — the interest he was disposed 
 to take in the case, the momentary condition of county 
 politics, with the general character of the individuals at 
 issue, usually determined the matter; and it could scarcely 
 
208 ST. PATRICK'S EYE. 
 
 be expected that a triumph thus obtained should have exer- 
 cised auy peaceful sway among the people. 
 
 ''He would n't be so bould to-day av his landlord was n't 
 to the fore," was Owen Connor's oft-repeated reflection, as 
 he ascended the narrow pathway towards his cabin; "'tis 
 the good backing makes us brave, God help us!" From 
 that hour forward the gay light-hearted peasant became 
 dark, moody, and depressed ; the very circumstances which 
 might be supposed calculated to have suggested a happier 
 frame of mind, only increased and embittered his gloom. 
 His prosperity made daily labor no longer a necessity. In- 
 dustry, it is true, would have brought more comforts about 
 him, and surrounded him with more appliances of enjoy- 
 ment; but long habits of endurance had made him easily 
 satisfied on this score, and there were no examples for his 
 imitation which should make him strive for better. So far, 
 then, from the landlord's benevolence working for good, its 
 operation was directly the reverse; his leniency had, indeed, 
 taken away the hardship of a difficult and onerous payment, 
 but the relief suggested no desire for an equivalent ameliora- 
 tion of condition. The first pleasurable emotions of grati- 
 tude over, the}" soon recurred to the old customs in every- 
 thing, and gradually fell back into all the observances of 
 their former state, the only difference being that less exer- 
 tion on their parts was now called for than before. 
 
 Had the landlord been a resident on his property, ac- 
 quainting himself daily and hourly with the condition of his 
 tenants, holding up examples for their imitation, rewarding 
 the deserving, discountenancing the unworth}", extending 
 the benefits of education among the young, and fostering 
 habits of order and good conduct among all, Owen would 
 have striven among the first for a place of credit and honor, 
 and speedily have distinguished himself above his equals. 
 But, alas! no; Mr. Leslie, when not abroad, lived in P^ng- 
 land. Of his Irish estates he knew nothing, save through 
 the half-yearly accounts of his agent. He was conscious 
 of excellent intentions; he was a kind, even a benevolent 
 man, and in the society of his set remarkable for more than 
 ordinary sympathies with the poor. To have ventured on 
 any reflection on a landlord before him would have been 
 deemed a downright absurdity. 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 209 
 
 He was a living refutation of all such calumnies; yet how 
 was it that, in the district he owned, the misery of the peo- 
 ple was a thing to shudder at, — that there were hovels exca- 
 vated in the bogs, within which human beings lingered on 
 between life and death, their existence like some terrible 
 passage in a dream, — that beneath these frail roofs famine 
 and fever dwelt, until suffering, and starvation itself, had 
 ceased to prey upon minds on which no ray of hope ever 
 shone? Simply, he did not know of these things; he saw 
 them not; he never heard of them. He was aware that sea- 
 sons of unusual distress occurred, and that a more than 
 ordinary degree of want was experienced by a failure of the 
 potato crop ; but on these occasions he read his name with 
 a subscription of a hundred pounds annexed, and was not 
 that a receipt in full for all the claims of conscience? He 
 ran his eyes over a list in which royal and princely titles 
 figured, and he expressed himself grateful for so much sym- 
 pathy with Ireland ! But did he ask himself the question, 
 whether, if he had resided among his people, such necessities 
 for almsgiving had ever arisen? Did he inquire how far 
 his own desertion of his tenantry, his ignorance of their 
 state, his indifference to their condition, had fostered these 
 growing evils? Could he acquit himself of the guilt of 
 deriving all the appliances of his ease and enjoyment from 
 those whose struggles to supply them were made under the 
 pressure of disease and hunger? Was unconsciousness of 
 all this an excuse sufficient to stifle remorse? Oh, it is not 
 the moneyed wealth dispensed by the resident great man; 
 it is not the stream of affluence, flowing in its thousand tiny 
 rills, and fertilizing as it goes, we want. It is far more 
 the kindly influence of those virtues which find their con- 
 genial soil in easy circumstances; benevolence, sympathy, 
 succor in sickness, friendly counsel in distress, timely aid 
 in trouble, encouragement to the faint-hearted, caution to 
 the over-eager: these are gifts which, giving, make the be- 
 stower richer; and these are the benefits which, better than 
 gold, foster the charities of life among a people, and bind 
 up the human family in a holy and indissoluble league. No 
 benevolence from afar, no well wishings from distant lands, 
 compensate for the want of them. To neglect such duties 
 
 VOL. II. — 14 
 
iilO ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 is to fail in the great social compact by which the rich and 
 poor are united, and, what some may deem of more moment 
 still, to resign the rightful influence of property into the 
 hands of dangerous and designing men. 
 
 It is in vain to suppose that traditionary deservings will 
 elicit gratitude when the present generation are neglectful. 
 On the contrary, the comparison of the once resident, now 
 absent landlord excites very different feelings ; the murmur- 
 ings of discontent swell into the louder language of menace ; 
 and evils, over which no protective power of human origin 
 could avail, are ascribed to that class, who, forgetful of one 
 great duty, are now accused of causing every calamity. If 
 not present to exercise the duties their position demands, 
 their absence exaggerates every accusation against them; 
 and from the very men, too, who have, by the fact of their 
 desertion, succeeded in obtaining the influence that should 
 be theirs. 
 
 Owen felt this desertion sorely. Had Mr. Leslie been at 
 home, he would at once have had recourse to him. Mr. 
 French, the agent, lived on the property, — but Mr. French 
 was a "hard man," and never liked the Connors; indeed, 
 he never forgave them for not relinquishing the mountain- 
 farm they held, in exchange for another he offered them, as 
 he was anxious to preserve the mountain for his own shoot- 
 ing. At the time we speak of, intemperance was an Irish 
 vice, and one which prevailed largely. Whiskey entered 
 into every circumstance and relation of life. It cemented 
 friendships and ratified contracts ; it celebrated the birth of 
 the newly born ; it consoled the weeping relatives over the 
 grave of the departed; it was a welcome and a bond of 
 kindness, and as the stirrup-cup, was the last pledge at 
 parting. Men commemorated their prosperity by drink, 
 and none dared to face gloomy fortune without it. Owen 
 Connor had recourse to it, as to a friend that never betrayed. 
 The easy circumstances, in comparison with many others, 
 he enjoyed, left him both means and leisure for such a 
 course; and few days passed without his paying a visit to 
 the " shebeen-house " of tlie village. If the old man noticed 
 this new habit, his old prejudices were too strong to make 
 him prompt in condemning it. Indeed, he rather regarded 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 211 
 
 it as a natural consequence of their bettered fortune, that 
 Owen should frequent these places ; and as he never returned 
 actually drunk, and always brought back with him the cur- 
 rent rumors of the da}^, as gathered from newspapers and 
 passing gossip, his father relied on such scraps of informa- 
 tion for his evening's amusement over the lire. 
 
 It was somewhat later than usual that Owen was return- 
 ing home one night, and the old man, anxious and uneasy 
 at his absence, had wandered part of the way to meet him, 
 when he saw him coming slowly forward, with that heavy 
 weariness of step deep grief and pre-occupation inspire. 
 When the young man had come within speaking distance of 
 his father, he halted suddenly, and, looking up at him, ex- 
 claimed, "There 's sorrowful news for ye to-night, father! " 
 
 "I knew it! I knew it well! " said the old man, as he 
 clasped his hands before him, and seemed preparing himself 
 to bear the shock with courage. "I had a dhrame of it last 
 night; and 'tis death, wherever it is." 
 
 ''You 're right there. The master 's dead! " 
 
 Not another word was spoken by either, as side by side 
 they slowly ascended the mountain-path. It was only when 
 seated at the fireside that Owen regained sufficient collected- 
 ness to detail the particulars he had learned in the village. 
 Mr. Leslie had died of the cholera at Paris. The malady 
 had just broken out in that cit}^, and he was among its 
 earliest victims. The terrors which that dreadful pestilence 
 inspired, reached every remote part of Europe, and at last, 
 with all the aggravated horrors of its devastating career, 
 swept across Ireland. The same letter which brought the 
 tidings of Mr. Leslie's death, was the first intelligence of 
 the plague. A scourge so awful needed not the fears of the 
 ignorant to exaggerate its terrors ; yet men seemed to vie 
 with each other in their dreadful conjectures regarding it. 
 
 All the sad interest the landlord's sudden death would 
 have occasioned under other circumstances was merged in 
 the fearful malady of which he died. Men heard wuth 
 almost apathy of the events that were announced as likely 
 to succeed in the management of the property, and only 
 listened with eagerness if the pestilence were mentioned. 
 Already its arrival in England was declared ; and the last 
 
212 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 lingering hope of the devotee was, that the hol}^ island of 
 St. Patrick might escape its ravages. Few cared to hear 
 what a few weeks back had been welcome news, — that the 
 old agent was to be dismissed, and a new one appointed. 
 The speculations which once would have been rife enough, 
 were now silent. There was but one terrible topic in every 
 heart and on every tongue, — the cholera. 
 
 The inhabitants of great cities, with wide sources of infor- 
 mation available, and free conversation with each other, can 
 scarcely estimate the additional degree of terror the prospect 
 of a dreadful epidemic inspires among the dwellers in unfre- 
 quented rural districts. The cloud, not bigger than a man's 
 hand at first, gradually expands itself, until the whole sur- 
 face of earth is darkened by its shadow. The business of 
 life stands still ; the care for the morrow is lost ; the prone- 
 ness to indulge in the gloomiest anticipations common 
 calamity invariably suggests, heightens the real evil, and 
 disease finds its victims more than doomed at its first 
 approach. In this state of agonizing suspense, when rumors 
 arose to be contradicted, reasserted, and again disproved, 
 came the tidings that the cholera was in Dublin. The same 
 week it had broken out in many other places ; at last the 
 report went, that a poor man who had gone into the market 
 of Gal way to sell his turf was found dead on the steps of 
 the chapel. Then followed the whole array of precautionary 
 measures, and advices, and boards of health. Then it was 
 announced the plague was raging fearfully, — the hospitals 
 crowded, death in every street. 
 
 Terrible and appalling as these tidings were, the fearful 
 fact never realized itself in the little district we speak of, 
 until a death occurred in the town close by. He was a 
 shopkeeper in Oughterarde, and known to the whole neigh- 
 borhood. This solitary instance brought with it more of 
 dreadful meaning than all the shock of distant calamity. 
 The heart-rending wail of those who listened to the news 
 smote many more with the cold tremor of coming death. 
 Another case soon followed, -a third, and a fourth succeeded, 
 all fatal ; and the disease was among them. 
 
 It is only when a malady, generally fatal, is associated 
 with the terrors of contagion, that the measure of horror and 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 213 
 
 dread flows over. When the sympathy which suffering sick- 
 ness calls for is yielded in a spirit of almost despair, and 
 the ministerings to the dying are but the prelude to the 
 same state, then, indeed, death is armed with all his terrors. 
 No people are more remarkable for the charities of the sick- 
 bed than the poor Irish. It is with them less a sentiment 
 than a religious instinct; and though they Avatched the 
 course of the pestilence, and saw few, if any, escape death 
 who took it, their devotion never failed them. They prac- 
 tised, with such skill as they possessed, every remedy in 
 turn. They who trembled but an hour before at the word 
 when spoken, faced the danger itself with a bold heart ; and 
 while the insidious signs of the disease were already upon 
 them, while their wearied limbs and clammy hands be- 
 spoke that their own hour was come, they did not desist 
 from their good offices until past the power to render 
 them. 
 
 It was spring-time, the season more than usually mild, 
 the prospects of the year were already favorable, and all the 
 signs of abundance rife in the land. What a contrast the 
 scene without to that presented by the interior of each dwell- 
 ing! There death and dismay were met with at every step. 
 The old man and the infant prostrated by the same stroke; 
 the strong and vigorous youth who went forth to labor in 
 the morning, at noon a feeble, broken-spirited creature, at 
 sunset a corpse. 
 
 As the minds and temperaments of men were fashioned, 
 so did fear operate upon them. Some it made reckless and 
 desperate, careless of what should happen, and indifferent 
 to every measure of precaution; some became paralyzed 
 with fear, and seemed unable to make an effort for safety, 
 were it even attainable; others, exaggerating every care and 
 caution, lived a life of unceasing terror and anxiety; while 
 a few — they were, unfortunately, a very few — summoned 
 courage to meet the danger in a spirit of calm and resolute 
 determination ; while in their reformed habits it might be 
 seen how thoroughly they felt that their own hour might 
 be a brief one. Among these was Owen Connor. From 
 the day the malady appeared in the neighborhood, he never 
 entered the public-house of the village, but, devoting himself 
 
21-i ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 to the work of kindness the emergency called for, went 
 from cabin to cabin, rendering every service in his power. 
 The poorest depended on him for the supply of such little 
 comforts as they possessed, for at every market-day he sold 
 a sheep or a lamb to provide them ; the better-off looked to 
 him for advice and counsel, following his directions as im- 
 plicitly as though he were a physician of great skill. All 
 recognized his devotedness in their cause, and his very 
 name was a talisman for courage in every humble cabin 
 around. His little ass-cart, the only wheeled vehicle that 
 ever ascended the mountain where he lived, was seen each 
 morning moving from door to door, while Owen brought 
 either some small purchase he was commissioned to make 
 at Oughterarde, or left with the more humble some offering 
 of his own benevolence. 
 
 ''There's the salt ye bid me buy, Mary Cooney; and 
 here 's fourpence out of it, — do ye all be well, still? " 
 "We are, and thank ye, Owen." 
 "The Lord keep ye so! How 's Ned Daly? " 
 "He's off, Owen dear; his brother James is making the 
 coffin; poor boy, he looks very weak himself this morning." 
 The cart moved on, and at length stopped at a small hovel 
 built against the side of a clay ditch. It was a mere 
 assemblage of wet sods with the grass still growing, and 
 covered by some branches of trees and loose straw over them. 
 Owen halted the ass at the opening of the miserable den, 
 through which the smoke now issued, and at the same 
 moment a man, stooping double to permit him to pass out 
 into the open air, came forward;, he was apparently about 
 fifty 3^ears of age, — his real age was not thirty ; originally 
 a well-formed and stout-built fellow, starvation and want 
 had made him a mere skeleton. His clothes were a ragged 
 coat, which he wore next his skin, for shirt he had none, 
 and a pair of worn corduroy trousers ; he had neither hat, 
 shoes, nor stockings; but still all these signs of destitu- 
 tion were nothing in comparison with the misery displayed 
 in his countenance. Except that his lip trembled with a 
 convulsive shiver, not a feature moved; the cheeks were 
 livid and flattened ; the dull gray eyes had lost all the light 
 of intelligence, and stared vacantly before him. 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 
 
 215 
 
 " Well, Martin, how is she ? " 
 
 "I don't know, Owen dear," said he, in a faltering voice; 
 '* maybe 't is sleeping she is." 
 
 Owen followed him within the hut, and stooping down to 
 the fire, lighted a piece of bogwood to enable him to see. 
 
 On the ground, covered onl}^ by a ragged frieze coat, lay a 
 young woman quite dead; her arm, emaciated and livid, 
 was wrapped round a little child of about three years old, 
 still sleeping on the cold bosom of its mother. 
 
 "You must take little Patsy away," said Owen in a whis- 
 per, as he lifted the boy in his arms; ''''she 's happy now." 
 
216 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 The young man fell upon his knees and kissed the corpse, 
 but spoke not a word ; grief had stupefied his senses, and 
 he was like one but half awake. ''Come with me, Martin; 
 come with me, and I '11 settle everything for you." He 
 obeyed mechanically, and before quitting the cabin, placed 
 some turf upon the fire, as he was wont to do. The action 
 was a simple one, but it brought the tears into Owen's eyes. 
 "I '11 take care of Patsy for j^ou till you want him. He's 
 fond of me of ould, and won't be lonesome with me; " and 
 Owen wrapped the child in his great-coat, and moved 
 forwards. 
 
 When they had advanced a few paces, Martin stopped 
 suddenly, and muttered, "She has nothing to drink I " and 
 then, as if remembering vaguely what had happened, added, 
 "It 's a long sleep, Ellen dear I " 
 
 Owen gave the directions for the funeral, and leaving poor 
 Martin in the house of one of the cottiers near, where he sat 
 down beside the hearth and never uttered a word, he went 
 on his way with little Patsy still asleep within his arms. 
 
 "Where are you going, Peggy?" asked Owen, as an old 
 lame woman moved past as rapidly as her infirmity would 
 permit; "you're in a hurry this morning." 
 
 "So I am, Owen Connor; these is the busy times wid me. 
 I streaked five to-day, early as it is, and I'm going now 
 over to Phil Joyce's. What 's the matter wid yourself, 
 Owen? Sit down, avich, and taste this." 
 
 "What's wrong at Phil's?" asked Owen, with a choking 
 fulness in his throat. 
 
 " It 's the little brother he has ; Billy 's got it, they say." 
 
 " Is Mary Joyce well — did ye hear ? " 
 
 " Errah ! she's well enough now, but she may be low 
 before night," muttered the crone ; while she added, with a 
 fiendish laugh, "her purty faytures won't save her now, no 
 more nor the rest of us." 
 
 "There's a bottle of port wine, Peggy; take it with ye, 
 dear. 'T is the finest thing at all, I 'm tould, for keeping it 
 off, — get Mary to take a glass of it ; but mind now, for the 
 love o' ye, never say it was me gav it. There 's bad blood 
 between the Joyces and me, ye understand." 
 
 "Ay, ay, I know well enough," said the hag, clutching 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 217 
 
 the bottle eagerly, while, opening a gate on the roadside, she 
 hobbled on her way towards Phil Joyce's cabin. 
 
 It was near evening as Owen was enabled to turn home- 
 wards ; for besides having a great many places to visit, he 
 was obliged to stop twice to get poor Patsy something to 
 eat, the little fellow being almost in a state of starvation. 
 At length he faced towards the mountain, and with a sad 
 heart and weary step plodded along. 
 
 " Is poor Ellen buried? " said he, as he passed the carpen- 
 ter's door, where the coffin had been ordered. 
 
 " She 's just laid in the mould — awhile ago." 
 
 *' I hope Martin bears up better; did you see him 
 lately?" 
 
 " This is for him," said the carpenter, striking a board 
 with his hammer; "he's at peace now." 
 
 " Martin ! sure he 's not dead? — Martin Neal, I mean." 
 
 "So do I too; he had it on him since morning, they 
 say ; but he just slipped away without a word or a moan." 
 
 "O God, be good to us, but the times is dreadful!" 
 ejaculated Owen. 
 
 " Some says it's the ind of .the world's comin'," said an 
 old man, that sat moving his stick listlessly among the 
 shavings; "and 'twould be well for most of us it was, 
 too." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Billy ; there 's no help for the poor." 
 
 No sentiment could meet more general acceptance than 
 this, — none less likely to provoke denial. Thrown upon 
 each other for acts of kindness and benevolence, they felt 
 from how narrow a store each contributed to another's 
 wants, and knew well all the privations that charity like this 
 necessitated, at the same time that they felt themselves de- 
 serted bj' those whose generosity might have been exercised 
 without sacrificing a single enjoyment, or interfering with 
 the pursuit of any accustomed pleasure. 
 
 There is no more common theme than the ingratitude 
 of the poor, — their selfishness and hard-heartedness ; and 
 unquestionably a life of poverty is but an indifferent teacher 
 of fine feelings or gentle emotions. The dreary monotony 
 of their daily lives, the unvarying sameness of the life-long 
 struggle between labor and want, are little suggestive of any 
 
o^g ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 other spirit than a dark and brooding melancholy; and it 
 were well, besides, to ask if they who call themselves 
 benefactors have been really generous, and not merely just? 
 We speak more particularly of the relations which exist 
 between the owner of the land and those who till it ; and 
 where benevolence is a duty, and not a virtue depending on 
 the will ; not that they in whose behalf it is ever exercised 
 regard it in this light, — very far from it ! Their thankful- 
 ness for benefits is generally most disproportioned to their 
 extent ; but we are dissatisfied because our charity has not 
 changed the whole current of their fortunes, and that the 
 favors which cost us so little to bestow, should not become 
 the ruling principle of their lives. 
 
 Owen reflected deeply on these things as he ascended 
 the mountain-road. The orphan child he carried in his arms 
 pressed such thoughts upon him, and he wondered why rich 
 men denied themselves the pleasures of benevolence. He 
 did not know that many great men enjoyed the happiness, 
 but that it was made conformable to their high estate by 
 institutions and establishments, by boards and committees 
 and guardians, by all the pomp and circumstance of stuccoed 
 buildings and liveried attendants. That to save themselves 
 the burden of memory, their good deeds were chronicled in 
 lists of " founders " and •' life-subscribers," and their names 
 set forth in newspapers ; while, to protect their finer natures 
 from the rude assaults of actual misery, they deputed others 
 to be the stewards of their bounty. 
 
 Owen did not know all this, or he had doubtless been less 
 unjust regarding such persons. He never so much as heard 
 of the pains that are taken to ward off the ver}' sight of 
 poverty, and all the appliances employed to exclude suffering 
 from the gaze of the wealthy. All his little experience told 
 him was, how much of good might be done within the sphere 
 around him by one possessed of afHuence. There was not a 
 cabin around where he could not point to some object claim- 
 ing aid or assistance. Even in seasons of comparative com- 
 fort and abundance, what a deal of misery still existed ; and 
 what a blessing it would bring on him who sought it out, to 
 compassionate and relieve it ! So Owen thought, and so he 
 felt too ; not the less strongly that another heart then beat 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 
 
 219 
 
 against his own, the little pulses sending a gush of wild 
 delight through his bosom as he revelled in the ecstasy of 
 benevolence. The child awoke, and looked wildly about 
 him ; but when he recognized in whose arms he was, he 
 smiled happily, and cried, " Nony, Nony," the name by 
 which Owen was known among all the children of the village 
 and its neighborhood. 
 
 *' Yes, Patsy," said Owen, kissing him, " your own Xony ! 
 
 
 you 're coming home with him to see what a nice house he 
 has upon the mountain for you, and the purty lake near it, 
 and the fish swimming in it." 
 
 The little fellow clapped his hands with glee, and seemed 
 delighted at all he heard. 
 
 •' Poor darlin'," muttered Owen, sorrowfully ; "he does n't 
 know 't is the sad day for him ; " and as he spoke, the wind 
 from the valley bore on it the mournful cadence of a death- 
 cry, as a funeral moved along the road. "His father's 
 berrin'!" added he. "God help us! how fast misfortune 
 
220 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 does be overtaking us at the time our heart 's happiest ! It 
 will be many a da}' before he knows all this morning cost 
 him." 
 
 The little child meanwhile caught the sounds, and, starting 
 up in Owen's arms, he strained his eyes to watch the funeral 
 procession as it slowly passed on. Owen held him up for a 
 few seconds to see it, and wiped the large tears that started 
 to his own eyes. ''Maybe Martin and poor Ellen 's looking 
 down on us now I " and with that he laid the little boy back 
 in his arms and plodded forward. 
 
 It was but seldom that Owen Connor ascended that steep 
 way without halting to look down on the wide valley, and the 
 lake, and the distant mountains beyond it. The scene was 
 one of which he never wearied ; indeed, its familiaritv had 
 charms for him greater and higher than mere picturesque 
 beauty can bestow. Each humble cabin with its little family 
 was known to him ; he was well read in the story of their 
 lives ; he had mingled in all their hopes and fears from child- 
 hood to old age; and as the lights trembled through the 
 dark night and spangled the broad expanse, he could bring 
 before his mind's eye the humble hearths round which they 
 sat, and think he almost heard their voices. Now he heeded 
 not these things, but steadily bent his steps towards home. 
 
 At last the twinkle of a star-like liglit showed that he was 
 near his journey's end. It shone from the deep shadow of a 
 little glen, in which his cabin stood. The seclusion of the 
 spot was in Owen's eyes its greatest charm. Like all men 
 who have lived much alone, he set no common store by the 
 pleasures of solitude, and fancied that most if not all of his 
 happiness was derived from this source. At this moment his 
 gratitude was more than usual, as he muttered to himself, 
 "Thank God for it! we've a snug little place away from 
 the sickness, and no house near us at all ; " and with this 
 comforting reflection he drew near the cabin. The door, 
 contrary to custom at nightfall, lay open ; and Owen, pain- 
 fully alive to an}^ suspicious sign, from the state of anxiety 
 his mind had suffered, entered hastily. 
 
 "Father! where are you?" said he quickly, not seeing 
 the old man in his accustomed place beside the fire ; but 
 there was no answer. Laying the child down, Owen passed 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 221 
 
 into the little chamber which served as the old man's bed- 
 room, and where now he lay stretched upon the bed in his 
 clothes. "Are ye sick, father? What ails ye, father 
 dear?" asked the young man, as he took his hand in his 
 own. 
 
 " I 'm glad ye 've come at last, Owen," replied his father, 
 feebly. "I've got the sickness, and am going fast." 
 
 "No, no, father! don't be down-hearted !" cried Owen, 
 with a desperate effort to suggest the courage he did not feel ; 
 for the touch of the cold wet hand had already told him the 
 sad secret. " 'Tis a turn ye have." 
 
 " Well, maybe so," said he, with a sigh ; " but there 's a 
 cowld feeling about my heart I never knew afore. Get me 
 a warm drink, anyway." 
 
 While Owen prepared some cordial from the little store he 
 usually dispensed among the people, his father told him that 
 a boy from a sick house had called at the cabin that morning 
 to seek for Owen, and from him, in all likelihood, he must 
 have caught the malady. " I remember," said the old man, 
 "that he was quite dark in the skin, and was weak in his 
 limbs as he walked." 
 
 " Ayeh ! " muttered Owen, " av it was the ' disease ' he had, 
 sorra bit of this mountain he 'd ever get up. The strongest 
 men can't lift a cup of wather to their lips, when it 's on them ; 
 but there 's a great scarcity in the glen, and maybe the boy 
 ate nothing before he set out." 
 
 Although Owen's explanation was the correct one, it did 
 not satisfy the old man's mind, who, besides feeling con- 
 vinced of his having the malady, could not credit his tak- 
 ing it by other means than contagion. Owen never quitted 
 his side, and multiplied cares and attentions of every kind ; 
 but it was plain the disease was gaining ground, for ere mid- 
 night the old man's strength was greatly gone, and his voice 
 sunk to a mere whisper. Yet the malady was characterized 
 by none of the symptoms of the prevailing epidemic, save 
 slight cramps, of which from time to time he complained. 
 His case seemed one of utter exhaustion. His mind was 
 clear and calm ; and although unable to speak, except in 
 short and broken sentences, no trait of wandering intel- 
 lect appeared. His malady was a common one among 
 
222 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 those whose fears, greatly excited by the disease, usually 
 induced symptoms of prostration and debility as great, if 
 not as rapid, as those of actual cholera. Meanwhile his 
 thoughts were alternately turning from his own condition 
 to that of the people in the glen, for whom he felt the 
 deepest compassion. '' God help them ! " was his constant 
 expression. "Sickness is the sore thing; but starvation 
 makes it dreadful. And so Luke Clancy 's dead ! Poor ould 
 Luke he was seventy-one in Michaelmas. And Martin, too ! 
 he was a fine man." 
 
 The old man slept, or seemed to sleep, for some hours, and 
 on waking it was clear daylight. " Owen, dear ! I wish," said 
 he, "I could see the priest; but you mustn't lave me; I 
 couldn't bear that now." 
 
 Poor Owen's thoughts were that moment occupied on the 
 same subject, and he was torturing himself to think of any 
 means of obtaining Father John's assistance, without being 
 obhged to go for him himself." 
 
 " I'll go, and be back here in an hour, — ay, or less,'* said 
 he, eagerly ; for terrible as death was to him, the thought 
 of seeing his father die unanointed was still more so. 
 
 " In an hour, — where '11 1 be in an hour, Owen dear? The 
 blessed Virgin knows well, it was n't my fault, — I 'd have the 
 priest av I could, — and sure, Owen, j'ou '11 not begrudge me 
 masses when I'm gone. What's that? It's like a child cr}'- 
 ing out there? " 
 
 "'Tis poor Martin's little boy I took home with me, — 
 he 's lost father and mother this day ; " and so saying, Owen 
 hastened to see what ailed the child. " Yer sarvent, sir," 
 said Owen, as he perceived a stout-built, coarse-looking man, 
 with a bull-terrier at his heels, standing in the middle of the 
 floor. " Yer sarvent, sir. Who do ye want here? " 
 
 " Are you Owen Connor? " said the man, gruffly. 
 
 "That same," replied Owen, as sturdily. 
 
 " Then this is notice for 3^ou to come up to Mr. Lucas's 
 office in Gal way before the twenty-fifth, witli your rent, or 
 the receipt for it, whichever you like best." 
 
 " And who is Mr. Lucas when he 's at home? " said Owen, 
 half sneeringly. 
 
 " You '11 know him when you see him," rejoined the 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 223 
 
 other, turning to leave the cabin, as he threw a printed 
 paper on the dresser; and then, as if thinking he had 
 not been formal enough in his mission, added: "Mr. Lucas 
 is agent to your landlord, Mr. Leslie ; and I '11 give you a 
 bit of advice : keep a civil tongue in your head with him, 
 and it will do you no harm." 
 
 This counsel, delivered much more in a tone of menace 
 than of friendly advice, concluded the interview ; for, hav- 
 ing spoken, the fellow left the cabin, and began to descend 
 the mountain. 
 
 Owen's heart swelled fiercely, — a flood of conflicting 
 emotions were warring within it; and as he turned to 
 throw the paper into the fire, his eye caught the date, 16th 
 March. "St. Patrick's Eve, the very day I saved his 
 life," said he, bitterly. " Sure I knew well enough how it 
 would be when the landlord died ! AVell, well, if my poor 
 ould father doesn't know it, it's no matter. Well, Patsy, 
 acushla, what are ye crying for? There, my boj^, don't be 
 afeard, 'tis Nony^s with ye." 
 
 The accents so kindly uttered quieted the little fellow in 
 a moment, and in a few minutes after he was again asleep 
 in the old straw chair beside the fire. Brief as Owen's 
 absence had been, the old man seemed much worse as he 
 entered the room. "God forgive me, Owen darling," said 
 he, "but it wasn't my poor sowl I was thinking of that 
 minit. I was thinking that you must get a letter wrote to 
 the young landlord about this little place, — I 'm sure he '11 
 never say a word about rent, no more nor his father ; and 
 as the times was n't good lately — " 
 
 " There, there, father," interrupted Owen, who felt 
 shocked at the old man's not turning his thoughts in an- 
 other direction ; " never mind those things," said he. " Who 
 knows which of us will be left ? The sickness does n't spare 
 the young, no more than the ould." 
 
 "Nor the rich, no more nor the poor," chimed in the 
 old man, with a kind of bitter satisfaction, as he thought on 
 the landlord's death ; for of such incongruous motives is 
 man made up, that calamities come lighter when they in- 
 volve the fall of those in station above our own. "'Tis 
 a fine day, seemingly," said he, suddenly changing the 
 
224 ST. PATKICK'S EVE. 
 
 current of his thoughts, " and iligant weather for the 
 country ; we '11 have to turn in the sheep over that wheat ; 
 it will be too rank; ayeh," cried he, with a deep sigh, 
 "I'll not be here to see it;" and for once the emotions 
 no dread of futurity could awaken were realized by worldly 
 considerations, and the old man wept like a child. 
 
 "What time of the month is it? " asked he, after a long 
 interval in which neither spoke ; for Owen was not really 
 sorry that even thus painfully the old man's thoughts should 
 be turned towards eternity. 
 
 " 'T is the seventeenth, father, a holy-day all over Ireland ! " 
 
 " Is there many at the ' station ' ? — Look out at the door 
 and see." 
 
 Owen ascended a little rising ground in front of the cabin, 
 from which the whole valley was visible ; but, except a 
 group that followed a funeral upon the road, he could see 
 no human thing around. The green where the " stations " 
 were celebrated was totally deserted. There were neither 
 tents nor people ; the panic of the plague had driven all 
 ideas of revelry from the minds of the most reckless ; and, 
 even to observe the duties of religion, men feared to as- 
 semble in numbers. So long as the misfortune was at a 
 distance, they could mingle their prayers in common, and 
 entreat for mercy ; but when death knocked at every door, 
 the terror became almost despair. 
 
 " Is the ' stations ' going on? " asked the old man, eagerly, 
 as Owen re-entered the room. " Is the people at the holy 
 well?" 
 
 " I don't see many stirring at all to-day," was the cautious 
 answer; for Owen scrupled to inflict any avoidable pain 
 upon his mind. 
 
 "Lift me up, then!" cried he, suddenly, and with a 
 voice stronger, from a violent effort of his will. " Lift 
 me up to the window, till I see the blessed cross ; and 
 maybe I 'd get a prayer among them. Come, be quick, 
 Owen ! " 
 
 Owen hastened to comply with his request; but already 
 the old man's eyes were glazed and filmy. The effort had 
 but hastened the moment of his doom ; and with a low, 
 faint sigh, he lay back and died. 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 225 
 
 To the Irish peasantry, who, more than any other people 
 of Europe, are accustomed to bestow care and attention 
 on the funerals of their friends and relatives, the cholera, 
 in its necessity for speedy interment, was increased in 
 terrors tenfold. The honors which they were wont to lav- 
 ish on the dead — the ceremonial of the wake, the mingled 
 merriment and sorrow, the profusion with which they 
 spent the hoarded gains of hard-working labor, and lastly 
 the long train to the churchyard, evidencing the respect 
 entertained for the departed — should all be foregone; for 
 had not prudence forbid their assembling in numbers, and 
 thus incurring the chances of contagion, which, whether real 
 or not, they firmly believed in, the work of death was too 
 widely disseminated to make such gatherings possible. Each 
 had some one to lament within the limits of his own family, 
 and private sorrow left little room for public sympathy. 
 No longer then was the road filled by people on horseback 
 and foot, as the funeral procession moved forth. The 
 death- wail sounded no more. To chant the requiem of the 
 departed, a few — a very few — immediate friends followed 
 the body to the grave, in silence unbroken. Sad hearts, 
 indeed, they brought, and broken spirits ; for in this season 
 of pestilence few dared to hope. 
 
 By noon Owen was seen descending the mountain to the 
 village, to make the last preparations for the old man's 
 funeral. He carried little Patsy in his arms; for he 
 could not leave the poor child alone, and in the house of 
 death. The claims of infancy would seem never stronger 
 than in the heart sorrowing over death. The grief that 
 carries the sufferer in his mind's eye over the limits of this 
 world, is arrested by the tender ties which bind him to life 
 in the young. There is, besides, a hopefulness in early life 
 — it is, perhaps, its chief characteristic — that combats sor- 
 row better than all the caresses of friendship and all the 
 consolations of age. Owen felt this now; he never knew 
 it before. But yesterday, and his father's death had left 
 him without one in the world on whom to fix a hope ; and 
 already, from his misery, there arose that one gleam that 
 now twinkled like a star in the sky of midnio^ht. The little 
 child he had taken for his own was a world to him ; and as 
 
 VOL. II. — 15 
 
226 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 be went, he prayed fervently that poor Patsy might be 
 spared to him through this terrible pestilence. 
 
 When Owen reached the carpenter's, there were several 
 people there ; some standing moodily brooding over recent 
 bereavements ; others spoke in low whispers, as if fearful of 
 disturbing the silence ; but all were sorrow-struck and sad. 
 
 "How is the ould man, Owen? " said one of the group, as 
 he came forward. 
 
 "He's better off than us, I trust in God!" said Owen, 
 with a quivering lip. "He went to rest this morning." 
 
 A muttered prayer from all around showed how general 
 was the feeling of kindness entertained towards the Connors. 
 
 "When did he take it, Owen?" 
 
 " I don't know that he tuk it at all ; but when I came home 
 last night, he was lying on the bed, weak and powerless, and 
 he slept awa}', with scarce a pain, till daybreak ; then — " 
 
 "He 's in glory now, I pray God! " muttered an old man 
 with a white beard. "We were born in the same year, and 
 I knew him since I was a child, like that in your arms; and 
 a good man he was." 
 
 "Whose is the child, Owen?" said another in the crowd. 
 
 "Martin Neal's," whispered Owen; for he feared that the 
 little fellow might catch the words. "What 's the matter 
 with Miles? He looks very low this morning." 
 
 This question referred to a large powerful-looking man, 
 who, with a smith's apron twisted round his waist, sat with- 
 out speaking in a corner of the shop. 
 
 "I 'm afeard he 's in a bad way," whispered the man to 
 whom he spoke. "There was a process-server, or a bailiff, 
 or something of the kind, serving notices through the town- 
 land yesterda}^, and he lost a shoe off his baste, and would 
 have Miles out to put it on, tho' we all tould him that he 
 buried his daughter — a fine grown girl — that mornin'. 
 And what does the fellow do but goes and knocks at the 
 forge till Miles comes out? You know Miles Regan, so I 
 need n't say there was n't many words passed between them. 
 In less nor two minutes — whatever the bailiff said — Miles 
 tuck him by the throat, and pulled him down from the 
 horse, and dragged him along to the lake, and flung him in. 
 'T was the Lord's marcy he knew how to swim; but we 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 
 
 227 
 
 don't know what '11 be done to Miles yet, for he was the 
 new agent's man." 
 
 "Was he a big fellow, with a bull-dog following him?" 
 asked Owen. 
 
 "No; that 's another; sure there 's three or four 
 of them goin' about. We hear that bad as ould 
 French was, the new one is worse." 
 
 ^4^Yell,_ well, it 's the will of God! " said 
 -en, in that tone of voice which bespoke 
 illingness for all endurance, so long as 
 the consolation remained that the ill was 
 not unrecorded above ; while he felt that 
 all the evils of poverty were little 
 ^{K m comparison with the loss of 
 those nearest and dearest. 
 "Come, Patsy, my boy!" 
 said he at last, as he 
 the coffin io 
 le ass-cart, and 
 turned towards 
 the moun- 
 tain; and, 
 leading 
 the little 
 fellow by 
 the hand, 
 he set out 
 on his 
 way,— 
 "Come 
 home." 
 It was 
 not untif 
 he arrived 
 at that part 
 
 of the road from which the cabin was visible, that Owen 
 knew the whole extent of his bereavement; then, when he 
 looked up and saw the door hasped on the outside, and the 
 chimney from which no smoke ascended, the full measure 
 of his lone condition came at once before him, and he bent 
 
228 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 over the coffin and wept bitterly. All the old man's affec- 
 tion for him, his kind indulgence and forbearance, his happy 
 nature, his simple-heartedness, gushed forth from his mem- 
 ory, and he wondered why he had not loved his father, in 
 life, a thousand times more, so deeply was he now pene- 
 trated by his loss. If this theme did not assuage his 
 sorrows, it at least so moulded his heart as to bear them 
 in a better spirit ; and when, having placed the body in the 
 coffin, he knelt down beside it to pray, it was in a calmer 
 and more submissive frame of mind than he had yet 
 known. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon ere Owen was once more on 
 the road down the mountain ; for it was necessary — or at 
 least believed so — that interment should take place on the 
 day of death. 
 
 "I never thought it would be this way you 'd go to your 
 last home, father dear," said Owen aloud, and in a voice 
 almost stifled with sobs ; for the absence of all his friends 
 and relatives at such a moment now smote on the poor fel- 
 low's heart as he walked beside the little cart on which the 
 coffin was laid. It was, indeed, a sight to move a sterner 
 nature than his ; the coffin, not reverently carried by bearers, 
 and followed by its long train of mourners, but laid slant- 
 wise in the cart, the spade and shovel to dig the grave be- 
 side it, and Patsy seated on the back of the ass, watching 
 with infant glee the motion of the animal, as with careful 
 foot he descended the rugged mountain. Poor child! how 
 your guileless laughter shook that strong man's heart with 
 agony! 
 
 It was a long and weary way to the old churchyard. The 
 narrow road, too, was deeply rutted and worn by wheel- 
 tracks; for, alas! it had been trodden by many of late. 
 The gray daylight was fast fading as Owen pushed wide the 
 old gate and entered. What a change to his eyes did the 
 aspect of the place present! The green mounds of earth 
 which rharked the resting-place of village patriarchs were 
 gone; and heaps of fresh- turned clay were seen on every 
 side, no longer decorated, as of old, with little emblems of 
 affectionate sorrow; no tree, nor stone, not even a wild- 
 flower, spoke of the regrets of those who remained. The 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 229 
 
 graves were rudely fashioned, as if in haste ; for so it was, 
 ■ — few dared to linger there ! 
 
 Seeking out a lone spot near the ruins, Owen began to dig 
 the grave, while the little child, in mute astonishment at all 
 he saw, looked on. 
 
 ''Why would n't you stay out in the road, Patsy, and play 
 there till I come to you? This is a cowld damp place for 
 you, my boy." 
 
 "Nony! Nony! " cried the child, looking at him with an 
 affectionate smile, as though to say he 'd rather be near 
 him. 
 
 "Well, well, who knows but you 're right? If it*s the will 
 of God to take me, maybe you might as well go too. It 's 
 a sore thing to be alone in the world, like me now! " 
 
 And as he muttered the last few words he ceased digging, 
 and rested his head on the cross of the spade. 
 
 "Was that you, Patsy? I heard a voice somewhere." 
 
 The child shook his head in token of dissent. 
 
 "Ayeh! it was only the wind through the old walls; but 
 sure it might be nat'ral enough for sighs and sobs to be 
 here; there 's many a one has floated over this damp clay." 
 
 He resumed his work once more. The night was falling 
 fast as Owen stepped from the deep grave, and knelt down 
 to say a prayer ere he committed the body to the earth. 
 
 "Kneel down, darlin', here by my side," said he, placing 
 his arm round the little fellow's waist; " 'tis the likes of 
 you God loves best ; " and joining the tiny hands with his 
 own, he uttered a deep and fervent prayer for the soul of the 
 departed. "There, father!" said he, as he arose at last, 
 and in a voice as if addressing a living person at his side, 
 — "there, father: the Lord, he knows my heart inside me; 
 and if walking the world barefoot would give ye peace or 
 ease, I 'd do it, for you were a kind man and a good father 
 to me." He kissed the coffin as he spoke, and stood silently 
 gazing on it. 
 
 Arousing himself with a kind of struggle, he untied the 
 cords, and lifted the coffin from the cart. For some 
 seconds he busied himself in arranging the ropes beneath 
 it, and then ceased suddenly, on remembering that he 
 could not lower it into the grave unassisted. 
 
230 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 "I'll have to go dowu the road for some one," muttered 
 he to himself; but as he said this, he perceived at some 
 distance off in the churchyard, the figure of a man, as if 
 kneeling over a grave. "The Lord help him, he has his 
 grief too!" ejaculated Owen, as he moved towards him. 
 On coming nearer, he perceived that the grave was newly 
 made, and from its size, evidently that of a child. 
 
 "I ax your pardon," said Owen, in a timid voice, after 
 waiting for several minutes in the vain expectation that the 
 man would look up; "I ax your pardon for disturbing 
 you, but maybe you '11 be kind enough to help me to lay 
 this coffin in the ground. I have nobody with me but a 
 child." 
 
 The man started and looked round. Their eyes met; it 
 was Phil Joyce and Owen who now confronted each other. 
 But how unlike were both to what they were at their last 
 parting! Then vindictive passion, outraged pride, and 
 vengeance swelled every feature and tingled in every fibre 
 of their frames. Now each stood pale, careworn, and 
 dispirited, wearied out by sorrow, and almost broken- 
 hearted. Owen was the first to speak. 
 
 "I axed your pardon before I saw you, Phil Joyce, and 
 I ax it again now, for disturbing you; but I did n't know 
 you, and I wanted to put my poor father's body in the 
 grave." 
 
 "I didn't know he was dead," said Phil, in a hollow 
 voice, like one speaking to himself. "This is poor little 
 Billy here ; " and he pointed to the mound at his feet. 
 
 "The heavens be his bed this night!" said Owen, 
 piously; "good-night!" and he turned to go away; then 
 stopping suddenly, he added, "3Iaybe, after all, you'll not 
 refuse me, and the Lord might be more merciful to us both, 
 than if we were to part like enemies." 
 
 "Owen Connor, I ask your forgiveness," said Phil, 
 stretching forth his hand, while his voice trembled like a 
 sick child's. "I didn't think the day would come I'd ever 
 do it; but my heart is humble enough now, and maybe 
 'twill be lower soon. Will you take my hand?" 
 
 "Will I, Phil? will I, is it? ay, and however ye may 
 
THE SECOND ERA. 231 
 
 change to me after this night, I '11 never forget this." And 
 he grasped the cold fingers in both hands, and pressed 
 them ardently, and the two men fell into each other's arms 
 and wept. 
 
 Is it a proud or a humiliating confession for humanity 
 — assuredly it is a true one — that the finest and best traits 
 of our nature are elicited in our troubles, and not in our 
 jo^^s, — that we come out purer through trials than pros- 
 perity? Does the chastisement of Heaven teach us better 
 than the blessings lavished upon us ; or are these gifts the 
 compensation sent us for our afflictions, that when poorest 
 before man we should be richest before God ? Few hearts 
 there are which sorrow makes not wiser, — none which are 
 not better for it. So it was here. These men, in the con- 
 tinuance of good fortune, had been enemies for life; mutual 
 hatred had grown up between them^ so that each yearned 
 for vengeance on the other; and now they walked like 
 brothers, only seeking forgiveness of each other, and ask- 
 ing pardon for the past. 
 
 The old man was laid in his grave, and they turned to 
 leave the churchyard. 
 
 "Won't ye come home with me, Owen?" said Phil, as 
 they came to where their roads separated; "won't ye come 
 and eat your supper with us ? " 
 
 Owen's throat filled up; he could only mutter, "Not to- 
 night, Phil ; another time, plaze God." He had not ventured 
 even to ask for Mary, nor did he know whether Phil Joyce 
 in his reconciliation might wish a renewal of any intimacy 
 with his sister. Sur-h was the reason of Owen's refusal; 
 for, however strange it may seem to some, there is a deli- 
 cacy of the heart as well as of good breeding, and one 
 advantage it possesses, — it is of all lands, and the fashion 
 never changes. 
 
 Poor Owen would have shed his best blood to be able to 
 ask after Mary, —to learn how she was, and how she bore 
 up under the disasters of the time ; but he never mentioned 
 her name ; and as for Phil Joyce, his gloomy thoughts had 
 left no room for others, and he parted from Owen without 
 a single allusion to her. "Good-night, Owen," said he, 
 
232 
 
 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 '*and don't forget your promise to come and see us 
 soon." 
 
 "Good-night, Phil," was the answer; "and I pray a 
 blessing on you and yours." A slight quivering of the 
 voice at the last word was all he suffered to escape him; 
 and they parted. 
 
 I 
 
^'2>n^ 
 
 From that day the pestilence began to abate in violence. 
 The cases of disease became fewer and less fatal, and at 
 last, like a spent bolt, the malady ceased to work its mis- 
 chief. Men were slow enough to recognize this bettered 
 aspect of their fortune. Calamity had weighed too heavily 
 on them to make them rally at once. They still walked like 
 those who felt the shadow of death upon them, and were 
 fearful lest any imprudent act or word might bring back 
 the plague among them. 
 
 With time, however, these features passed off. People 
 graduall}^ resumed their wonted habits ; and, except where 
 the work of death had been more than ordinarily destruc- 
 tive, the malady was now treated as "a thing that had 
 been." 
 
 If Owen Connor had not escaped the common misfortune 
 of the land, he could at least date one happy event from 
 that sad period, — his reconciliation with Phil Joj^ce. This 
 was no passing friendship. The dreadful scenes he had 
 witnessed about him had made Phil an altered character. 
 The devotion of Owen, his manly indifference to personal 
 
234 ST. PATRICK'S EYE. 
 
 risk whenever his services were wanted by another, his 
 unsparing benevolence, — all these traits, the mention of 
 which at first only irritated and vexed his soul, were now 
 remembered in the day of reconciliation; and none felt 
 prouder to acknowledge his friendship than his former 
 enemy. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this, Owen did not dare to found a 
 hope upon his change of fortune ; for Mary was even more 
 distant and cold to him than ever, as though to show that, 
 whatever expectations he might conceive from her brother's 
 friendship, he should not reckon too confidently on her 
 feelings. Owen knew not how far he had himself to blame 
 for this ; he was not aware that his own constrained manner, 
 his overacted reserve, had offended Mary to the quick ; and 
 thus both mutually retreated in misconception and distrust. 
 The game of love is the same, whether the players be clad 
 in velvet or in hodden gray. Beneath the gilded ceilings of 
 a palace or the lowly rafters of a cabin there are the same 
 hopes and fears, the same jealousies and distrusts and 
 despondings, the wiles and stratagems are all alike; for, 
 after all, the stake is human happiness, whether he who 
 risks it be a peer or a peasant! 
 
 While Owen vacillated between hope and fear, now resolv- 
 ing to hazard an avowal of his love and take his stand on 
 the result, now deeming it better to trust to time and longer 
 intimacy, other events were happening around which could 
 not fail to interest him deeply. The new agent had com- 
 menced his campaign with an activity before' unknown. 
 Arrears of rent were demanded to be peremptorily paid up ; 
 leases whose exact conditions had not been fulfilled were 
 declared void ; tenants occupying sub-let land were noticed 
 to quit; and all the threatening signs of that rigid man- 
 agement displaj^ed, by which an estate is assumed to be 
 "admirably regulated," and the agent's duty most credit- 
 ably discharged. 
 
 Many of the arrears were concessions made by the land- 
 lord in seasons of hardship and distress, but were unrecorded 
 as such in the rent-roll or the tenant's receipt. There had 
 been no intention of ever re-demanding them; and both 
 parties had lost sight of the transaction until the sharp 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 235 
 
 glauce of a "new agent" discovered their existence. So 
 of the leases; covenants to build or plant or drain were 
 inserted rather as contingencies which prosperity might 
 empower than as actual conditions essential to be fulfilled ; 
 and as for sub-letting, it was simply the act by which a son 
 or a daughter was portioned in the world, and enabled to 
 commence the work of self-maintenance. 
 
 This slovenly system inflicted many evils. The demand 
 of an extravagant rent rendered an abatement not a boon, 
 but an act of imperative necessity; and while the over- 
 hanging debt supplied the landlord with a means of 
 tyranny, it deprived the tenant of all desire to improve his 
 condition. "Why should I labor," said he, "when the 
 benefit never can be mine?" The landlord then declaimed 
 against ingratitude, at the time that the peasant spoke 
 against oppression. Could they both be right? The im- 
 possibilit}^ of ever becoming independent soon suggested 
 that dogged indifference, too often confounded with indolent 
 habits. Sustenance was enough for him, who, if he earned 
 more, should surrender it; hence the poor man became 
 chained to his poverty. It was a weight which grew with 
 his strength ; privations might as well be incurred with little 
 labor as with great; and he sunk down to the condition of 
 a mere drudge, careless and despondent. "He can only 
 take all I have!" was the cottier's philosophy; and the 
 maxim suggested a corollary that the "all " should be as 
 little as might be. 
 
 But there were other grievances flowing from this source. 
 The extent of these abatements usually depended on the 
 representation of the tenants themselves, and such evidences 
 as they could produce of their poverty and destitution. 
 Hence a whole world of falsehood and dissimulation was 
 fostered. Cabins were suffered to stand half-roofed ; chil- 
 dren left to shiver in rags and nakedness; age and infirmity 
 exhibited in attitudes of afflicting privations; habits of 
 mendicity encouraged, — all that they might impose upon 
 the proprietor, and make him believe that any sum wrung 
 from such as these must be an act of cruelty. If these 
 schemes were sometimes successful, so in their failure thev 
 fell as heavy penalties upon the really destitute, for whose 
 
236 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 privatioDB no pity was felt. Their misery, confounded in 
 the general mass of dissimulation, was neglected; and for 
 one who prospered in his falsehood, many were visited in 
 their affliction. 
 
 That men in such circumstances as these should listen 
 with greedy ears to any representation which reflected 
 heavily on their wealthier neighbors, is little to be won- 
 dered at. The triumph of knavery and falsehood is a bad 
 lesson for any people; but the fruitlessness of honest in- 
 dustry is, if possible, a worse one. Both were well taught 
 by this system. And these things took place, not, be it 
 observed, when the landlord or his agent were cruel and 
 exacting, — very far from it. -They were the instances so 
 popularly expatiated on by newspapers and journals; they 
 were the cases headed, "Example for Landlords! " "Timely 
 Benevolence!" and paragraphed thus: "We learn, with 
 the greatest pleasure, that Mr. Muldrennin, of Kilbally- 
 drennin, has, in consideration of the failure of the potato- 
 crop, and the severe pressure of the season, kindly abated 
 five per cent of all his rents. Let this admirable example 
 be generally followed, and we shall once more see," &c. 
 &c. There was no explanatory note to state the actual 
 condition of that tenantry, or the amount of that rent from 
 which the deduction was made. Mr. Muldrennin was then 
 free to run his career of active puffery throughout the king- 
 dom, and his tenantry to starve on as before. 
 
 Of all worldly judgments there is one that never fails. 
 No man was ever instrumental, either actively or through 
 neglect, to another's demoralization, that he was not made 
 to feel the recoil of his conduct on himself. Such had been 
 palpably the result here. The confidence of the people 
 lost, they had taken to themselves the only advisers in their 
 power, and taught themselves to suppose that relief can only 
 be effected by legislative enactments or their own efforts. 
 This lesson once learned, and they were politicians for life. 
 The consequence has been isolation from him to whom once 
 all respect and attachment were rendered; distrust and 
 dislike follow, — would that the catalogue went no further! 
 
 And again to our story. Owen was at last reminded, by 
 the conversation of those about, that he too had received 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 237 
 
 a summons from the new agent to attend at bis office in 
 Galway, — a visit which, somehow or other, he had at first 
 totally neglected; and as the summons was not repeated, 
 he finally supposed it had been withdrawn by the agent, on 
 learning the condition of his holding. As September drew 
 to a close, however, he accompanied Phil Joyce on his way 
 to Galway, prepared, if need be, to pay the half-year's 
 rent, but ardently hoping the while it might never be 
 demanded. It was a happy morning for poor Owen, — the 
 happiest of his whole life. He had gone over early to break- 
 fast at Joyce's, and on reaching the house found Mary 
 alone, getting ready the meal. Their usual distance in 
 manner continued for some time ; each talked of what their 
 thoughts were least occupied on ; and at last, after many a 
 look from the window to see if Phil was coming, and won- 
 dering why he did not arrive, Owen drew a heavy sigh and 
 said: "It's no use, Mary; divil a longer can I be suffering 
 this way; take me or refuse me you must this morning! 
 I know well enough you don't care for me; but if ye don't 
 like any one else better, who knows but in time, and with 
 God's blessin', but ye '11 be as fond of me as I am of you ? " 
 
 "And who told ye I didn't like some one else?" said 
 Mary, with a sly glance ; and her handsome features bright- 
 ened up with a more than common brilliancy. 
 
 "The heavens make him good enough to desarve ye, I 
 pray this day! " said Owen, with a trembling lip. "I '11 go 
 now! that 's enough! " 
 
 "Won't ye wait for yer breakfast, Owen Connor? Won't 
 ye stay a bit for my brother ? " 
 
 "No, thank ye, ma'am, I'll not go into Galway to-day." 
 
 "Well, but don't go without your breakfast. Take a cup 
 of tay anyhow, Owen dear I " 
 
 " ' Owen dear! * O Mary, jewel! don't say them words, 
 and I laving you forever." 
 
 The young girl blushed deeply and turned away her head, 
 but her crimson neck showed that her shame was not de- 
 parted. At the moment Phil burst into the room, and, 
 standing for a second with his eyes fixed on each in turn, 
 he said: "Bad scran to ye, for women; but there's nothing 
 but decate and wickedness in ye; divil a pace or ease I 
 
238 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 ever got when I quarrelled with Owen, and now that we 're 
 friends, ye're as cross and discontented as ever. Try what 
 you can do with her yourself, Owen, my boy; for I give 
 her up." 
 
 *' 'T is not for me to thry it," said Owen, despondingly ; 
 '^ 'tis another has the betther luck." 
 
 "That's not true, anyhow," cried Phil; "for she told me 
 so herself." 
 
 "What! Mary, did ye say that?" said Owen, with a 
 spring across the room; "did ye tell him that, darling?" 
 
 "Sure if I did, ye w^ould n't believe me," said Mary, with 
 a side-look ; '' women is nothing but deceit and wickedness.'* 
 
 "Sorra. else," cried Owen, throwing his arm round her 
 neck and kissing her; "and I'll never believe ye again 
 when ye say ye don't love me." 
 
 " 'T is a nice way to boil the eggs hard," said Phil, testily ; 
 " arrah, come over here and eat your breakfast, man ; you '11 
 have time enough for courting when we come back." 
 
 There needed not many words to a bargain which was 
 already ratified ; and before they left the house, the day of 
 the wedding was actually fixed. 
 
 It was not without reason, then, that I said it was a happy 
 day for Owen. Never did the long miles of the road seem 
 so short as now; while, with many a plan for the future, 
 and many a day-dream of happiness to come, he went at 
 Phil's side, scarce crediting his good fortune to be real. 
 
 When they arrived at the agent's office in the square at 
 Galway, they found a great many of their neighbors and 
 friends already there : some, moody and depressed, yet lin- 
 gered about the door, though they had apparently finished 
 the business which brought them ; others, anxious-looking 
 and troubled, were waiting for their turn to enter. They 
 were all gathered into little groups and parties, conversing 
 eagerly together in Irish ; and as each came out of the ofl3ce, 
 he was speedily surrounded by several others, questioning 
 him as to how he had fared and what success he met with. 
 
 Few came forth satisfied, — not one happy-looking. 
 Some, who were deficient a few shillings, were sent back 
 again, and appeared with the money still in their hands, 
 which they counted over and over, as if hoping to make it 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 
 
 239 
 
 more. Others, trusting to promptitude iu their payments, 
 were seeking renewal of their tenures at the same rent, and 
 found their requests coldly received, and no pledge returned. 
 Others, again, met with severe reproaches as to the condition 
 of their dwellings and the neglected appearance of their 
 farms, with significant hints that slovenly tenants would 
 
 meet with little favor, and, although pleading sickness and 
 distress, found the apology but slightly regarded. 
 
 '* We thought the ould agent bad enough; but, faix, this 
 one bates him out, entirely." Such was the comment of 
 each and all at the treatment met with, and such the general 
 testimony of the crowd. 
 
 '* Owen Connor ! Owen Connor ! " called out a voice, 
 which Owen in a moment recognized as that of the fellow 
 who had visited his cabin ; and passing through the densely 
 
240 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 crowded hall, Owen forced his way iuto the small front 
 parlor, where two clerks were seated at a table, writing. 
 
 ''Over here; this way, if you please," said one of them, 
 pointing with his pen to the place he should stand in. 
 ** What 's your name ? " 
 
 " Owen Connor, sir." 
 
 " What 's the name of your holding ? " 
 
 " Ballydorery, Knockshaughlin, and Cushaglin is the 
 townlauds, and the mountain is Slieve-na-vick, sir." 
 
 "Owen Connor, Owen Connor?" said the clerk, repeating 
 the name three or four times over. "Oh, I remember; 
 there has been no rent paid on your farm for some years." 
 
 "You're right there, sir," said Owen; "the landlord, 
 God be good to him ! tould my poor fatlier — " 
 
 "Well, well, 1 have nothing to do with that, — step in- 
 side, — Mr. Lucas will speak to you himself; — show this 
 man inside, Luffey ; " and the grim bailiff led the way into the 
 back parlor, where two gentlemen were standing with their 
 backs to the fire, chatting ; they were both young and good- 
 looking, and to Owen's eyes as unlike agents as could be. 
 
 "Well, what does this honest fellow want? — no abate- 
 ment, I hope ; a fellow with as good a coat as you have, 
 can't be very ill off." 
 
 "True for you, 3'er honor, and I am not," said Owen, 
 in reply to the speaker, who seemed a few 3'ears younszer 
 than the other. "I was bid spake to yer honor about the 
 little place I have up the mountains, and that Mr. Leslie 
 gave my father rent-free — " 
 
 " Oh, you are the man from Maam, ain't you?" 
 
 " The same, sir; Owen Connor." 
 
 "That's the mountain I told you of, Major," said Lucas, 
 in a whisper; then, turning to Owen, resumed: "Well, I 
 wished to see you very much, and speak to 3'ou. I 've heard 
 the story about your getting the land rent-free, and all that ; 
 but I find no mention of the matter in the books of the es- 
 tate; there is not the slightest note nor memorandum, that I 
 can see, on the subject ; and except your own word, — which 
 of course, as far as it goes, is all very well, — I have nothing 
 in your favor." 
 
 While these words were being spoken, Owen went through 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 
 
 241 
 
 a thousand tortures ; and many a deep conflicting passion 
 warred within him. "Well, sir," said he at last, with a 
 heavily drawn sigh, — " well, sir, with God's blessin', I '11 do 
 my best ; and whatever your honor says is fair, I '11 thry 
 and pay it : I suppose I 'm undher rent since March last? " 
 
 ''March ! why, my good fellow, there's six years due last 
 twenty -fifth ; what are you thinking of ? " 
 
 *'Sure you don't mean I'm to pay for what was given 
 to me and my father?" said Owen, with a wild look that 
 almost startled the agent. 
 
 " I mean precisely what I say," said Lucas, reddening 
 with anger at the tone Owen assumed. *' I mean that you 
 owe six years and a half of rent ; for which, if you neither 
 produce receipt nor money, you '11 never owe another half- 
 year for the same holding." 
 
 VOL. IL — 16 
 
242 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 ''And that's flat! " said the Major, laughing. 
 
 " And that 's flat ! " echoed Lucas, joining in the mirth. 
 
 Owen looked from one to the other of the speakers, and 
 although never indisposed to enjoy a jest, he could not, for 
 the life of him, conceive what possible occasion for merri- 
 ment existed at the present moment. 
 
 "Plenty of grouse on that mountain, ain't there?" said 
 the Major, tapping his boot with his cane. 
 
 But although the question was addressed to Owen, he 
 was too deeply sunk in his own sad musings to pay it any 
 attention . 
 
 " Don't you hear, my good fellow? Major Lynedock asks 
 if there are not plenty of grouse on the mountain." 
 
 ' ' Did the present landlord say that I was to pay this 
 back rent ? " said Owen deliberately, after a moment of 
 deep thought. 
 
 " Mr. Leslie never gave me any particular instructions on 
 your account," said Lucas, smiling ; " nor do I suppose that 
 bis intentions regarding you are different from those respect- 
 ing other tenants." 
 
 *' I saved his life, then ! " said Owen ; and his eyes flashed 
 with indignation as he spoke. 
 
 "And you saved a devilish good fellow, I can tell 3'ou," 
 said the Major, smiling complacently, as though to hint that 
 the act was a very sufficient reward for its own performance. 
 
 "The sorra much chance he had of coming to the property 
 that day, anyhow, till I came up," said Owen, in a half- 
 soliloquy. 
 
 "What! were the savages about to scalp him, eh?" 
 asked the Major. 
 
 Owen turned a scowl towards him that stopped the 
 already begun laugh ; while Lucas, amazed at the peasant's 
 effrontery, said, "You needn't wait any longer, my good 
 fellow ; I have nothing more to say." 
 
 " I was going to ask yer honor, sir," said Owen, civilly, 
 " if I paid the last half-year — I have it with me — if ye '11 
 let me stay in the place till ye '11 ask Mr. Leslie — " 
 
 "But you forget, my friend, that a receipt for the last 
 half-year is a receipt in full," said Lucas, interrupting. 
 
 " Sure, I don't want the receipt! " said Owen, hurriedly; 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 243 
 
 *'keep it yourself. It isn't mistrusting the word of a 
 gentleman I 'd be." 
 
 "Eh, Lucas! blarney! I say, blarney, and no mis- 
 take I " cried the ^lajor, half suffocated with his own 
 drollery. 
 
 "By my sowl! it's little blarney I 'd give you, av I had 
 ye at the side of Slieve-na-vich," said Owen ; and the look 
 he threw towards him left little doubt of his sincerity. 
 
 " Leave the room, sir ! leave the room ! " said Lucas, with 
 a gesture towards the door. 
 
 " Dare I ax you where Mr. Leslie is now, sir? " said Owen, 
 calmly. 
 
 " He 's in London : No. 18, Belgrave Square." 
 
 "Would yer honor be so kind as to write it on a bit of 
 paper for me?" said Owen, almost obsequiously. 
 
 Lucas sat down and wrote the address upon a card, hand- 
 ing it to Owen without a word. 
 
 "I humbly ax yer pardon, gentlemen, if I was rude to 
 either of ye," said Owen, with a bow, as he moved towards 
 the door; "but distress of mind doesn't improve a man's 
 manners, if even he had more nor I have ; but if I get the 
 little place yet, and that ye care for a day's sport — " 
 
 "Eh, damme, you're not so bad, after all," said the 
 Major: "I say, Lucas — is he, now?" 
 
 "Your servant, gentlemen," said Owen, who felt too in- 
 dignant at the cool insolence with which his generous pro- 
 posal was accepted to trust himself with more ; and with 
 that he left the room. 
 
 "Well, Owen, my boy," said Phil, who, long since having 
 paid his own rent, was becoming impatient at his friend's 
 absence; "well, Owen, ye might have settled about the 
 whole estate by this time. Why did they keep you so 
 long?" 
 
 In a voice tremulous with agitation, Owen repeated the 
 result of his interview, adding, as he concluded: "And 
 now there 's nothing for it, Phil, but to see the landlord 
 himself, and spake to him. I 've got the name of the place 
 he 's in here, — it 's somewhere in London ; and I '11 never 
 turn my steps to home before I get a sight of him. I've 
 the half-year's rent here in my pocket, so that I '11 have 
 
244 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 money enough, and to spare ; and I only ax ye, Phil, to tell 
 Mary how the whole case is, and to take care of little Patsy 
 for me till I come back, — he 's at your house now." 
 
 " Never fear, we '11 take care of him, Owen ; and I believe 
 you're doing the best thing, after all." 
 
 The two friends passed the evening together, at least 
 until the time arrived when Owen took his departure by 
 the mail. It was a sad termination to a day which opened 
 so joyfully, and not all Phil's endeavors to rally and encour- 
 age his friend could dispossess Owen's mind of a gloomy fore- 
 boding that it was but tlie beginning of misfortune. " I have 
 it over me," was his constant expression as they talked, — 
 "I have it over me that something bad will come out of 
 this ; " and although his fears were vague and indescribable, 
 they darkened his thoughts as effectually as real evils. 
 
 The last moment came, and Phil, with a hearty "God 
 speed you," shook his friend's hand, and he was gone. 
 
 It would but protract my story, without fulfilling any of 
 its objects, to speak of Owen's journey to England and on 
 to London. It was a season of great distress in the manu- 
 facturing districts; several large failures had occurred, — 
 great stagnation of trade existed, and a general depression 
 was observable over the population of the great trading- 
 cities. There were daily meetings to consider the condition 
 of the working-classes, and the newspapers were crammed 
 with speeches and resolutions in their favor. Placards were 
 carried about the streets, with terrible announcements of 
 distress and privation, and processions of wretched-looking 
 men were met with on every side. 
 
 Owen, who, from motives of economy, prosecuted his 
 journey on foot, had frequent opportunities of entering the 
 dwellings of the poor, and observing their habits and modes 
 of life. The everlasting complaints of suffering and want 
 rung in his ears from morning till night ; and yet to his unac- 
 customed eyes the evidences betrayed few, if any, of the 
 evils of great poverty. The majority were not without 
 bread, — the very poorest had a sufficiency of potatoes. 
 Their dwellings were neat-looking and comfortable, and, in 
 comparison with what he was used to, actually luxurious. 
 Neither were their clothes like the ragged and tattered cover- 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 245 
 
 ings Owen had seen at home. The fustian jackets of the 
 men were generally whole and well cared for; but the 
 children more than ail struck him. In Ireland the young 
 are usually the first to feel the pressure of hardship, — their 
 scanty clothing rather the requirement of decency than a 
 protection against weather; here the children were cleanly 
 and comfortably dressed, — none were in rags, few without 
 shoes and stockings. 
 
 What such people could mean by talking of distress, 
 Owen could by no means comprehend. "I wish we had a 
 little of this kind of poverty in ould Ireland ! " was the con- 
 stant theme of his thoughts. '''Tis little they know what 
 distress is. Faix, I wondher what they 'd say if they saw 
 Connemara?" And yet the privations they endured were 
 such as had not been known for many years previous. 
 Their sufferings were really great, and the interval between 
 their ordinary habits as wide as ever presented itself in the 
 fortunes of the poor Irishman's life. But poverty, after all, 
 is merely relative ; and they felt that as " starvation" which 
 Paddy would hail as a season of blessing and abundance. 
 
 "With a fine slated house over them, and plenty of furni- 
 ture inside, and warm clothes, and enough to eat, — that's 
 what they call distress! Musha! I 'd like to see them when 
 they think they 're comfortable," thought Owen, who at last 
 lost all patience with such undeserved complainings, and 
 could with difficulty restrain himself from an open attack 
 on their injustice. 
 
 He arrived in London at last, and the same evening has- 
 tened to Belgrave Square; for his thoughts were now, as 
 his journey drew to a close, painfully excited at the near 
 prospect of seeing his landlord. He found the house with- 
 out difficulty; it was a splendid town-mansion, well befitting 
 a man of large fortune; and Owen experienced an Irish- 
 man's gratification in the spacious and handsome building 
 he saw before him. He knocked, at first timidly, and then, 
 as.no answer was returned, more boldly; but it was not 
 before a third summons that the door was opened, and an 
 old mean-looking woman asked him what he wanted. 
 
 "I want to see the masther, ma'am, av it's plazing to ye! ** 
 said Owen, leaning against the door-jamb as he spoke. ' 
 
246 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 "The master? What do you mean?" 
 
 "Mr. Leslie himself, the landlord." 
 
 "Mr. Leslie is abroad, — in Italy." 
 
 " Abroad ! abroad ! " echoed Owen, while a sickly f aint- 
 ness spread itself through his frame. "He 's not out of 
 England, is he ? " 
 
 "I 've told you he 's in Italy, my good man." 
 
 "Erra! where 's that, at all?" cried Owen, despairingly. 
 
 "I 'm sure I don't know; but I can give you the address, 
 if you want it." 
 
 "No, thank ye, ma'am; it's too late for that now," said 
 he. The old woman closed the door, and the poor fellow 
 sat down upon the steps, overcome by this sad and unlooked- 
 for result. 
 
 It was evening. The streets were crowded with people, 
 — some on foot, some on horseback and in carriages. The 
 glare of splendid equipages, the glittering of wealth, — the 
 great human tide rolled past, unnoticed by Owen, for his 
 own sorrows filled his whole heart. 
 
 Men in all their worldliness — some on errands of pleas- 
 ure, some care-worn and thoughtful, some brimful of expec- 
 tation, and others downcast and dejected — moved past; 
 scarcely one remarked that poor peasant, whose travelled 
 and tired look, equally with his humble dress, bespoke one 
 who came from afar. 
 
 "Well, God help me, what's best for me to do now?" 
 said Owen Connor, as he sat ruminating on his fortune; 
 and, unable to find any answ^er to his own question, he 
 arose and walked slowly along, not knowing nor caring 
 whither. 
 
 There is no such desolation as that of a large and crowded 
 city to him who, friendless and alone, finds himself a wan- 
 derer within its walls. The man of education and taste 
 looks around him for objects of interest or amusement, yet 
 saddened by the thought that he is cut off from all intercourse 
 with his fellow-men; but to the poor unlettered stranger 
 how doubly depressing are all these things ! Far from specu- 
 lating on the wealth and prosperity around him, he feels 
 crushed and humiliated in its presence. His own humble con- 
 dition appears even more lowly in contrast with such evi- 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 247 
 
 dences of splendor; and instinctively be retreats from the 
 regions where fashion and rank and riches abound, to the 
 gloomy abodes of less-favored fortunes. 
 
 When Owen awoke the following morning, and looked 
 about him in the humble lodging he had selected, he could 
 scarcely believe that already the end of his long journey had 
 been met by failure. Again and again he endeavored to 
 remember if he had seen his landlord, and what reply he 
 had received ; but except a vague sense of disappointment, 
 he could fix on nothing. It was only as he drew near the 
 great mansion once more that he could thoroughly recollect 
 all that had happened; and then the truth flashed on his 
 mind, and he felt all the bitterness of his misfortune. I 
 need not dwell on this theme. The poor man turned again 
 homeward; why, he could not well have answered, had any 
 been cruel enough to ask him. The hope that buoyed him 
 up before, now spent and exhausted, his step was slow and 
 his heart heavy, while his mind, racked with anxieties and 
 dreads, increased his bodily debility, and made each mile 
 of the way seem ten. 
 
 On the fourth day of his journey — wet through from 
 morning till late in the evening — he was seized with a 
 shivering-fit, followed soon after by symptoms of fever. 
 The people in whose house he had taken shelter for the 
 night had him at once conveyed to the infirmary, where for 
 eight weeks he lay dangerously ill ; a relapse of his malady, 
 on the day before he was to be pronounced convalescent, 
 occurred, and the third month was nigh its close ere Owen 
 left the hospital. 
 
 It was more than a week ere he could proceed on his jour- 
 ney, which he did at last, moving only a few miles each day, 
 and halting before nightfall. Thus wearily plodding on, he 
 reached Liverpool at last, and about the middle of January 
 arrived in his native country once more. 
 
 His strength regained, his bodily vigor restored, he had 
 made a long day's journey to reach home, and it was about 
 ten o'clock of a bright and starry night that he crossed the 
 mountains that lie between Ballinrobe and Maam. To 
 Owen the separation from his home seemed like a thing of 
 years long; and his heart was full to bursting as each well- 
 
248 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 remembered spot appeared, bringing back a thousand asso- 
 ciations of his former life. As he strode along, he stopped 
 frequently to look down towards the village, where, in each 
 light that twinkled, he could mark the different cabins of 
 his old friends. At length, the long low farm-house of 
 the Joyces came into view, — he could trace it by the line of 
 light that glittered from every w^indow, — and from this 
 Owen could not easily tear himself away. Muttering a 
 heartfelt prayer for those beneath that roof, he at last 
 moved on, and near midnight gained the little glen where 
 his cabin stood. Scarcely, however, had he reached the 
 spot, when the fierce challenge of a dog attracted him. It 
 was not his own poor collie, — he knew his voice well, — 
 and Owen's blood ran chilly at the sound of that strange 
 bark. He walked on, however, resolutely grasping his stick 
 in his hand, and suddenly, as he turned the angle of the 
 cliff, there stood his cabin, with a light gleaming from the 
 little window. 
 
 *' 'T is Phil Joyce, maybe, has put somebody in to take 
 care of the place," said he; but his fears gave no credence 
 to the surmise. 
 
 Again the dog challenged, and at the same moment the 
 door was opened, and a man's voice called out, "Who comes 
 there ? " The glare of the fire at his back showed that he 
 held a musket in his hand. 
 
 "'Tis me, Owen Connor," answered Owen, half sulkily, 
 for he felt that indescribable annoyance a man will experi- 
 ence at any question as to his approaching his own dwell- 
 ing, even though in incognito. 
 
 "Stay back, then," cried the other; "if you advance 
 another step, I'll send a bullet through you." 
 
 " Send a bullet through me ! " cried Owen, scornfully, yet 
 even more astonished than indignant. "Why, isn't a man 
 to be let go to his own house, without being fired at?" 
 
 "I '11 be as good as my word," said the fellow; and as he 
 spoke, Owen saw him lift the gun to his shoulder and stead- 
 ily hold it there. "Move one step now, and you '11 see if 
 I 'm not." 
 
 Owen's first impulse was to rush forward at any hazard, 
 and if not wounded to grapple with his adversary; but he 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 249 
 
 reflected for a second that some great change must have 
 occurred in his absence, which, in all likelihood, no act of 
 daring on his part could avert or alter. ''1 '11 wait for 
 morning, anyhow," thought he; and without another word, 
 or deigning any answer to the other, he slowly turned and 
 retraced his steps down the mountain. 
 
 There was a small mud hovel at the foot of the mountain, 
 where Owen determined to pass the night. The old man 
 who lived there had been a herd formerly, but age and 
 rheumatism had left him a cripple, and he now lived on the 
 charity of his neighbors. 
 
 "Poor Larry! I don't half like disturbing ye," said 
 Owen, as he arrived at the miserable contrivance of wattles 
 that served for a door; but the chill night air and his weary 
 feet decided the difficulty, and he called out, "Larry — 
 Larry Daly ! open the door for me, — Owen Connor. 'T is 
 me! " 
 
 The old man slept with the light slumber of age, and 
 despite the consequences of his malad}^ managed to hobble 
 to the door in a few seconds. "Oh! wirra, wirra! Owen, 
 my son!" cried he, in Irish; "I hoped I'd never see ye 
 here again, — my own darlin'." 
 
 "That 's a dhroll welcome, anyhow, Larry, for a man 
 coming back among his own people." 
 
 '' 'T is a thrue one, as sure as I live in sin. The Lord 
 help us, this is bad fortune." 
 
 "What do you mean, Larry? What did I ever do to dis- 
 grace my name, that I wouldn't come back here? " 
 
 " 'T is n't what ye done, honey, but what's done upon 
 ye. Oh, wirra, wirra; 'tis a black day that led ye home 
 here." 
 
 It was some time before Owen could induce the old man 
 to moderate his sorrows, and relate the events which had 
 occurred in his absence. I will not weary my reader by 
 retailing the old man's prolixity, but tell them in the fewest 
 words I am able, premising that I must accompany the nar- 
 rative by such explanations as I may feel necessary. 
 
 Soon after Owen's departure for P3ngland certain disturb- 
 ances occurred through the country. The houses of the 
 gentry were broken open at night and searched for arms by 
 
250 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 men with blackened faces and in various disguises to escape 
 recognition. Threatening notices were served on man}^ of 
 the resident families, menacing them with the worst if they 
 did not speedily comply with certain conditions, either in 
 the discharge of some obnoxious individuals from their 
 employment, or the restoration of some plot of ground to 
 its former holder. Awful denunciations were uttered against 
 any who should dare to occupy land from which a former 
 tenant was ejected ; and so terrible was the vengeance ex- 
 acted, and so sudden its execution, that few dared to trans- 
 gress the orders of these savage denunciators. The law of 
 the land seemed to stand still ; justice appeared appalled and 
 affrighted by acts which bespoke deep and widespread con- 
 spiracy. The magistrates assembled to deliberate on what 
 was to be done ; and the only one who ventured to propose 
 a bold and vigorous course of acting was murdered on his 
 way homeward. Meanwhile, Mr. Lucas, whose stern exac- 
 tions had given great discontent, seemed determined to carry 
 thi-ough his measures at any risk. By influence with the 
 Government he succeeded in obtaining a considerable police- 
 force, and, under cover of these, he issued his distress- 
 warrants and executions, distrained and sold, probabl}^ with 
 a severity increased by the very opposition he met with. 
 
 The measures undertaken by Government to suppress 
 outrage failed most signally. The difficulty of arresting a 
 suspected individual was great in a country where a large 
 force was always necessary. The difficulty of procuring 
 evidence against him was still greater; for even such as 
 were not banded in the conspiracy" had a greater dread of 
 the reproach of informer than of any other imputation; 
 and when these two conditions were overcome, the last and 
 greatest of all difficulties remained behind, — no jury could 
 be found to convict when their own lives might pay the 
 penalty of their honesty. While thus, on one side, went 
 the agent with his cumbrous accompaniments of law- 
 officers and parchments, police-constables, and bailiffs, to 
 effect a distress or an ejectment, the midnight party with 
 arms patrolled the country, firing the haggards and the 
 farmhouses, setting all law at defiance, and asserting in 
 their own bloody vengeance the supremacy of massacre. 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 251 
 
 Not a day went over without its chronicle of crime ; the 
 very calendar was red with murder. Friends parted with a 
 fervor of feeling that showed none knew if tliey would meet 
 on the morrow; and a dark, gloomy suspicion prevailed 
 through the land, each dreading his neighbor, and deeming 
 his isolation more secure than all the ties of friendship. 
 All the bonds of former love, all the relations of kindred 
 and affection, were severed by this terrible league. Brothers, 
 father, and sons were arrayed against each other. A des- 
 potism was thus set up which even they who detested dared 
 not oppose. The very defiance it hurled at superior power, 
 awed and terrified themselves. Nor was this feeling les- 
 sened when they saw that these dreadful acts, — acts so 
 horrible as to make men shudder at the name of Ireland 
 when heard in the farthest corner of Europe, — that these 
 had their apologists in the press, that even a designation 
 was invented for them, and murder could be spoken of 
 patriotically as the "Wild Justice" of the people. 
 
 There is a terrible contagion in crime. The man whose 
 pure heart had never harbored a bad thought cannot live 
 untainted where wickedness is rife. The really base and 
 depraved were probably not many ; but there were hardships 
 and sufferings everywhere; misery abounded in the land, 
 — misery too dreadful to contemplate. It was not difficult 
 to connect such sufferings with the oppressions, real or 
 supposed, of the wealthier classes. Some believed the 
 theory with all the avidity of men who grasp at straws 
 when drowning; others felt a savage pleasure at the bare 
 thought of reversing the game of sufferance; while many, 
 mixed up their own wrongs with what they regarded as 
 national grievances, and converted their private vengeance 
 into a patriotic daring. Few stood utterly aloof, and even 
 of these none would betray the rest. 
 
 The temporary success of murder, too, became a horrible 
 incentive to its commission. The agent shot, the law he 
 had set in motion stood still, the process fell powerless; 
 the "Wild Justice" superseded the slower footsteps of com- 
 mon law, and the murderer saw himself installed in safety 
 when he ratified his bond in the blood of his victim. 
 
 Habitual poverty involves so much of degradation that 
 
252 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 recklessness of life is its almost invariable accompaniment; 
 and thus, many of these men ceased to speculate on the 
 future, and followed the dictates of their leaders in blind 
 and dogged submission. There were many, too, who felt a 
 kind of savage enthusiasm in the career of danger, and 
 actually loved the very hazard of the game. Many more had 
 private wrongs — old debts of injury to wipe out — and 
 grasped at the occasion to acquit them ; but even w'hen no 
 direct motives existed, the terror of evil consequences in- 
 duced great numbers to ally themselves with this terrible 
 conspiracy, and when not active partisans, at least to be 
 faithful and secret confidants. 
 
 Among the many dispossessed by the agent was Owen 
 Connor. Scarcely had he left the neighborhood than an 
 ejectment was served against him; and the bailiff, by w^hose 
 representations Owen was made to appear a man of danger- 
 ous character, installed in his mountain-farm. This fellow 
 was one of those bold, devil-may-care ruffians, who survive 
 in every contest longer than men of more circumspect cour- 
 age ; and Lucas was not sorry to find that he could establish 
 such an outpost in this wild and dreary region. Well 
 armed, and provided wath a sufficiency of ammunition, he 
 promised to maintain his stronghold against au}^ force, — a 
 boast not so unreasonable, as there was only one approach 
 to the cabin, and that a narrow path on the very verge of a 
 precipice. Owen's unexpected appearance was in his eyes, 
 therefore, a signal for battle ; he supposed that he was come 
 back to assert his ancient right, and in this spirit it was he 
 menaced him with instant death if he advanced another step. 
 Indeed, he had been more than once threatened that Owen's 
 return would be a "dark day" for him, and prepared himself 
 for a meeting with him, as an occasion which might prove 
 fatal to either. These threats, not sparingly bandied by 
 those who felt little inclination to do battle on their own 
 account, had become so frequent that many looked for 
 Owen's reappearance as for an event of some moment. 
 
 Old Larry often heard these reports, and well knowing 
 Owen's ardent disposition and passionate temper, and how 
 easily he became the tool of others when any deed of more 
 than ordinary hazard was presented to him, grieved deeply 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 253 
 
 over the consequences such promptings might lead to ; and 
 thus it was that he received him with that outburst of sor- 
 row for which Owen was little prepared. 
 
 If Owen was shocked as he listened first to the tale of 
 anarchy and bloodshed the old man revealed, a savage 
 pleasure came over him afterwards, to think what terror 
 these midnight maraudings were making in the hearts of 
 those who lived in great houses, and had wealth and influ- 
 ence. His own wrongs rankled too deeply in his breast to 
 make him an impartial hearer; and already many of his 
 sympathies were with the insurgents. 
 
 It was almost daybreak ere he could close his eyes ; for, 
 although tired and worn out, the exciting themes he was 
 revolving banished every thought of sleep, and made him 
 restless and fretful. His last words to Larry, as he lay down 
 to rest, were a desire that he might remain for a day or two 
 concealed in his cabin, and that none of the neighbors 
 should learn anything of his arrival. The truth was, he had 
 not courage to face his former friends, nor could he bear to 
 meet the Joyces. What step he purposed to take in the 
 mean while, and how to fashion his future course, it is hard 
 to say; for the present, he only asked time. 
 
 The whole of the following day he remained within the 
 little hut; and when night came, at last ventured forth to 
 breathe the fresh air and move his cramped limbs. His 
 first object, then, was to go over to Joyce's house, with no 
 intention of visiting its inmates, — far from it. The poor 
 fellow had conceived a shrinking horror of the avowal he 
 should be compelled to make of his own failure, and did not 
 dare to expose himself to such a test. 
 
 The night was dark and starless, — that heavy, clouded 
 darkness which follows a day of rain in our western climate, 
 and makes the atmosphere seem loaded and weighty. To 
 one less accustomed than was Owen, the pathway would 
 have been difficult to discover; but he knew it well in every 
 turning and winding, every dip of the ground, and every 
 rock and streamlet in the course. There was the stillness 
 of death on every side; and although Owen stopped more 
 than once to listen, not the slightest sound could be heard. 
 The sfloom and dreariness suited well the "habit of his 
 
254 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 soul." His own thoughts were not of the brightest, and his 
 step was slow and his head downcast as he went. 
 
 At last the glimmering of light, hazy and indistinct from 
 the foggy atmosphere, came into view, and a few minutes 
 after he entered the little enclosure of the small garden 
 which flanked one side of the cabin. The quick bark of a 
 dog gave token of his approach, and Owen found some 
 difficulty in making himself recognized by the animal, 
 although an old acquaintance. This done, he crept stealthily 
 to the window from which the gleam of light issued. The 
 shutters were closed, but between their joinings he obtained 
 a view of all within. 
 
 At one side of the fire was Mary, — his own Mary, when 
 last he parted with her. She was seated at a spinning- 
 wheel, but seemed less occupied with the work than bent 
 on listening to some noise without. Phil also stood in the 
 attitude of one inclining his ear to catch a sound, and held 
 a musket in his hand like one ready to resist attack. A 
 farm-servant, a lad of some eighteen, stood at his side, 
 armed with a horse-pistol, his features betraying no very 
 equivocal expression of fear and anxiet^^ Little Patsy 
 nestled at Mary's side, and with his tiny hands had grasped 
 her arm closely. 
 
 They stood there, as if spell-bound. It was evident they 
 were afraid by the slightest stir to lose the chance of hear- 
 ing any noise without; and when Mary at last lifted up her 
 head, as if to speak, a quick motion of her brother's hand 
 warned her to be silent. What a historj^ did that group 
 reveal to Owen, as, with a heart throbbing fiercely, he gazed 
 upon it! But a few short months back, and the inmates of 
 that happy home knew not if at night the door was even 
 latched ; the thought of attack or danger never crossed their 
 minds. The lordly dwellers in a castle felt less security in 
 their slumbers than did these peasants; now, each night 
 brought a renewal of their terrors. It came no longer the 
 season of mutual greeting around the wintry hearth, the 
 hour of rest and repose ; but a time of anxiety and dread, a 
 gloomy period of doubt, harassed by every breeze that 
 stirred, and every branch that moved. 
 
 " 'T is nothins: this time," said Phil, at last. "Thank 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 255 
 
 God for that same! " and be replaced bis gun above the 
 cbimuey, wbile Mary blessed berself devoutly, and seemed 
 to repeat a prayer to berself. Owen gave one parting look, 
 and retired as noiselessly as be came. 
 
 To creep fortb witb tbe dark bours, and stand at tbis win- 
 dow, became witb Owen now tbe wbole business of life. 
 Tbe weary bours of tbe day were passed in tbe expectancy 
 of tbat brief season, — tbe only respite be enjoyed from tbe 
 corroding cares of bis own bard fortune. Tbe dog, recog- 
 nizing bim, no longer barked as be approacbed; and be could 
 stand unmolested and look at tbat beartb, beside wbicb be 
 was wont once to sit and feel at bome. 
 
 Tbus was it, as tbe tbird week w^as drawing to a close, 
 wben old Larry, wbo bad ventured down to tbe village to 
 make some little purchase, brought back tbe news tbat 
 information had been sworn by tbe bailiff against Owen 
 Connor, for threatening him witb death, on pain of bis not 
 abandoning his farm. Tbe people would none of them give 
 any credit to tbe oath, as none knew of Owen's return; and 
 tbe allegation was only regarded as another instance of tbe 
 perjury resorted to by their opponents to crush and oppress 
 them. 
 
 "They '11 have the police out to-morrow, I hear, to search 
 after ye ; and sure tbe wa}^ ye 've kept bid will be a bad 
 job if they find ye after all." 
 
 "i/they do, Larry! " said Owen, laughing; "but I think 
 it will puzzle them to do so." And the very spirit of defi- 
 ance prevented Owen at once surrendering himself to tbe 
 charge against bim. He knew every cave and hiding-place 
 of the mountain, from childhood upwards, and felt proud to 
 think how be could baflSe all pursuit, no matter bow perse- 
 vering his enemies. It was essential, however, that bC' 
 should leave bis present hiding-place at once ; and no sooner 
 was it dark than Owen took leave of old Larry and issued 
 forth. The rain was falling in torrents, accompanied by a 
 perfect hurricane, as he left the cabin; fierce gusty blasts 
 swept down the bleak mountain-side, and witb w41d and 
 melancholy cadence poured along the valley; the waters of 
 the lake plashed and beat upon the rocky shore; the rushing 
 torrents, as they forced their way down the mountain, swelled 
 
256 ST. PATEICK'S EVE. 
 
 the uproar, in which the sound of crashing branches and 
 even rocks were mingled. 
 
 " 'Tis a dreary time to take to the cowld mountain for a 
 home," said Owen, as he drew his thick frieze coat around 
 him, and turned his shoulder to the storm. "I hardly 
 think the police, or the king's throops either, will try a 
 chase after me this night." 
 
 There was more of gratified pride in this muttered reflec- 
 tion than at first sight might appear; for Owen felt a kind 
 of heroism in his own daring at that moment, that supported 
 and actually encouraged him in his course. The old spirit 
 of bold defiance, which for ages has characterized the 
 people; the resolute resistance to authority or to tyranny, 
 which centuries have not erased, was strong in his hardy 
 nature; and he asked for nothing better than to pit his own 
 skill, ingenuity, and endurance against his opponents for 
 the mere pleasure of the encounter. 
 
 As there was little question on Owen's mind that no 
 pursuit of him would take place on such a night, he resolved 
 to pass the time till daybreak within the walls of the old 
 churchyard, the only spot he could think of which promised 
 any shelter. There was a little cell or crypt there, where 
 he could safely remain till morning. An hour's walking 
 brought him to the little gate, the last time he had entered 
 which was at his poor father's funeral. 
 
 His reflection, nov\% was rather on his own altered condi- 
 tion since that day; but even on that thought he suffered 
 himself not to dwell. In fact, a hardy determination to face 
 the future, in utter forgetfulness of the past, was the part 
 he proposed to himself; and he did his utmost to bend his 
 mind to the effort. 
 
 As he drew near the little crypt I have mentioned, he was 
 amazed to see the faint flickering of a fire within it. At 
 first a superstitious fear held him back, and he rapidly 
 repeated some prayers to himself ; but the emotion was soon 
 over, and he advanced boldly toward it. "Who's there? 
 Stand ! or give the word ! " said a gruff voice from within. 
 Owen stood still, but spoke not. The challenge was like 
 that of a sentry, and he half feared he had unwittingly 
 strayed within the precincts of a patrol. "Give the word 
 
THE THIKD ERA. 257 
 
 at once, or you'll never spake another!" was the savage 
 speech which, accompanied by a deep curse, now met his 
 ears, while the click of a gun-cock was distinctly audible. 
 
 "I 'm a poor man, without a home or a shelter," said 
 Owen, calmly; "and what's worse, I'm without arms, or 
 maybe you wouldn't talk so brave." 
 
 '• What 's yer name? where are ye from? " 
 
 "I'm Owen Connor; that's enough for ye, whoever ye 
 are," replied he, resolutely; "it's a name I'm not ashamed 
 or afraid to say anywhere." 
 
 The man within the cell threw a handful of dry furze upon 
 the smouldering flame, and while he remained concealed 
 himself, took a deliberate survey of Owen as he stood close 
 to the doorway. "You're welcome, Owen," said he, in an 
 altered voice, and one which Owen immediately recognized 
 as that of the old blacksmith. Miles Regan; '■'3'ou 're wel- 
 come, my boy! better late than never, anyhow! " 
 
 '' What do you mean. Miles? 'Tis n't expecting me here 
 ye were, I suppose?" 
 
 "'Tis just the same then, I was expecting this many a 
 day," said Miles, as with a rugged grasp of botii hands he 
 drew Owen within the narrow cell. "And 't ain't me only 
 was expecting it, but every one else. Here, avich, taste 
 this, — ye 're wet and cowld both ; that will put life in ye, — 
 and it never ped the king sixpence." 
 
 And he handed Owen a quart bottle as he spoke, the odor 
 of which was unmistakable enough to bear testimou}^ to his 
 words. 
 
 " And what brings you here. Miles, in the name of God?" 
 said Owen, for his surprise at the meeting increased every 
 moment. 
 
 "'Tis your own case, only worse," said the other, with 
 a drunken laugh, for the poteen had already affected his 
 head. 
 
 "And what's that, if I might make bould?" said Owen, 
 rather angrily. 
 
 " Just that I got the turn-out, my boy. That new chap they 
 
 have over the property, sould me out, root and branch ; and 
 
 as I did n't go quiet, ye see, they brought the polls down, and 
 
 there was a bit of a fight, to take the two cows away ; and 
 
 VOL. II. — 17 
 
258 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 somehow " — here he snatched the bottle rudely from Owen's 
 hand, and swallowed a copious draft of it — '' and somehow 
 the corporal was killed, and I thought it better to be away 
 for a while — for at the inquest, though the boys would take 
 ' the vestment ' they seen him shot by one of his comrades, 
 there was a bit of a smash in his skull, ye see," — here he 
 gave a low, fearful laugh, — " that fitted neatly to the top of 
 my eleven-pound hammer ; ye comprehend ? " 
 
 Owen's blood ran cold as he said, " Ye don't mean it was 
 you that killed him?" 
 
 " I do, then," replied the other, wdth a savage grin, as he 
 placed his face within a few inches of Owen's. '^ There 's a 
 hundred pounds blood-money for ye, now, if ye give the in- 
 formation ! A hundred pounds," muttered he to himself : 
 " musha, I never thought they'd give ten shillings for my 
 own four bones before ! " 
 
 Owen scorned to reply to the insinuation of his turning 
 informer, and sat moodily thinking over the event. 
 
 " AYell, I'll be going, anyhow," said he, rising, for his 
 abhorrence of his companion made him feel the storm and 
 the hurricane a far preferable alternative. 
 
 " The devil a one foot ye '11 leave this, my boy," said Miles, 
 grasping him wnth the grip of his gigantic hand ; " no, no, 
 ma bouchal, 'tis n't so easy aimed as ye think; a hundred 
 pounds, naboclish ! " 
 
 " Leave me free ! let go my arm ! " said Owen, whose anger 
 now rose at the insolence of this taunt. 
 
 " I'll break it across my knee, first," said the infuriated 
 ruffian, as he half imitated by a gesture his horrid threat. 
 
 There was no comparison in point of bodily strength 
 between them ; for although Owen was not half the other's 
 age, and had the advantage of being perfectly sober, the 
 smith was a man of enormous power, and held him as 
 though he were a child in his grasp. 
 
 *' So that's what you'd be at, my boy, is it? " said Miles, 
 scoffing; "it's the fine thrade you choose! but maybe it's 
 not so pleasant, after all. Stay still there — be quiet, I say — 
 by — " and here he uttered a most awful oath, — " if you 
 rouse me, I '11 paste your brains against that wall ; " and as he 
 spoke, he dashed his closed fist against the rude and crum- 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 259 
 
 bling masonry, with a force that shook several large stoues 
 from their places, and left his knuckles one indistinguishable 
 mass of blood and gore. 
 
 '• That's brave, anyhow," said Owen, with a bitter mockery ; 
 for his own danger, at the moment, could not repress his con- 
 tempt for the savage conduct of the other. 
 
 Fortunately, the besotted intellect of the smith made him 
 accept the speech in a very different sense, and he said, 
 '' There never was the man yet, I would n't give him two 
 blows at me, for one at him, and mine to be the last." 
 
 ''I often heard of that before," said Owen, who saw 
 that any attempt to escape by main force M^as completely 
 out of the question, and that stratagem alone could pre- 
 sent a chance. 
 
 "Did ye ever hear of Dan Lenahan," said Miles, with a 
 grin, — " what I did to Dan? I was to fight him wid one 
 hand, and the other tied behind my back ; and when he 
 came up to shake hands wid me before the fight, I just 
 put my thumb in my hand, that way, and I smashed his 
 four fingers over it." 
 
 " There was no fight that day, anyhow, Miles." 
 
 " Thrue for ye, boy ; the sport w^as soon over. Raich me 
 over the bottle ; " and with that. Miles finished the poteen at 
 a draught, and then lay back against the wall as if to sleep. 
 Still, he never relinquished his grasp, but, as he fell off 
 asleep, held him as in a vice. 
 
 As Owen sat thus a prisoner, turning over in his mind 
 every possible chance of escape, he heard the sound of feet 
 and men's voices rapidly approaching ; and in a few mo- 
 ments several men turned into the churchyard, and came 
 towards the crypt. They were conversing in a low but 
 hurried voice, which was quickl}^ hushed as they came 
 nearer. 
 
 "What's this?" cried one, as he entered the cell; "Miles 
 has a prisoner here ! " 
 
 " Faix, he has so, Mickey," answered Owen, for he 
 recognized in the speaker an old friend and schoolfellow. 
 The rest came hurriedly forward at the words, and soon 
 Owen found himself among a number of his former com- 
 panions. Two or three of the party were namesakes and 
 relations. 
 
260 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 The explanation of his capture was speedily given, and 
 tbey all laughed heartily at Owen's account of his ingenious 
 efforts at flattery. 
 
 " Av the poteen held out, Owen dear, ye wouldn't have 
 had much trouble ; but he can drink two quarts before he 
 loses his strength." 
 
 In return for his narrative, they freely and frankly told 
 their own story. They had been out arms-hunting, — un- 
 successfully, however, — their own exploit being the burn- 
 ing of a haggard belonging to a farmer who refused to join 
 the " rising." 
 
 Owen felt greatly relieved to discover that his old friends 
 regarded the smith with a horror fully as great as his own. 
 But they excused themselves for the companionship by say- 
 ing, "What are we to do with the crayture? Ye would n't 
 have us let him be taken? " And thus they were compelled 
 to practise every measure for the security of one they had 
 no love for, and whose own excesses increased the hazard 
 tenfold. 
 
 The marauding exploits they told of were, to Owen's ears, 
 not devoid of a strange interest, the danger alone had its 
 fascination for him ; and, artfully interwoven as their stories 
 were with sentiments of affected patriotism and noble aspi- 
 rations for the cause of their country, they affected him 
 strongly. 
 
 For, strange as it may seem, a devotion to country — a 
 mistaken sense of national honor — prompted man}^ to 
 these lawless courses. Vague notions of confiscated lands 
 to be restored to their rightful possessors ; ancient privi- 
 leges reconferred ; their Church once more endowed with its 
 long-lost wealth and power : such were the motives of the 
 more high-spirited and independent. Others sought re- 
 dress for personal grievances, — some real or imaginary 
 hardship they labored under; or perhaps, as was not 
 unfrequent, they bore the memory of some old grudge or 
 malice, which they hoped now to have an opportunity of 
 requiting. Many were there, who, like the weak-minded 
 in all popular commotions, float with the strong tide, 
 whichever way it may run. They knew not the objects 
 aimed at, they were ignorant of the intentions of their 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 261 
 
 leaders, but would not lie under the stain of cowardice 
 among their companions, nor shrink from any cause where 
 there was danger, if only for that very reason. Thus was 
 the mass made up of men differing in various ways, but 
 all held together by the common tie of a Church and a 
 country. It might be supposed that the leaders in such 
 a movement would be those who, having suffered some 
 grievous wrong, were reckless enough to adventure on 
 any course that promised vengeance : very far from this. 
 The principal promoters of the insurrection were of the 
 class of farmers, — men well to do, and reputed, in many 
 cases, wealthy. The instruments by which they worked 
 were indeed of the very poorer class, — the cottier, whose 
 want and misery had eat into his nature, and wlio had as 
 little room for fear as for hope in his chilled heart. Some 
 injury sustained by one of these, some piece of justice 
 denied him ; his ejection from his tenement; a chance word, 
 perhaps, spoken to him in anger by his landlord or the 
 agent, were the springs which moved a man like this, and 
 brought him into confederacy with those who promised him 
 a speedy repayment of his wrongs, and flattered him into 
 the belief that his individual case had all the weight and 
 importance of a national question. Many insurrectionary 
 movements have grown into the magnitude of systematic 
 rebellion from the mere assumption on the part of others 
 that they were prearranged and predetermined. The self- 
 importance suggested by a bold opposition to the law is a 
 strong agent in arming men against its terrors. The mock- 
 martyrdom of Ireland is in this wa}^, perhaps, her greatest 
 and least curable evil. 
 
 Owen was, of all others, the man they most wished for 
 amongst them. Independent of his personal courage and 
 daring, he was regarded as one fruitful in expedients, and 
 never deterred by difliculties. This mingled character of 
 cool determination and headlong impulse made him exactly 
 suited to become a leader ; and many a plot was thought of 
 to draw him into their snares, when the circumstances of hi» 
 fortune thus anticipated their intentions. 
 
 It would not forward the object of my little tale to dwell 
 upon the life he now led. It was indeed an existence full of 
 
262 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 misery and suffering. To exaggerate the danger of his 
 position, his companions asserted that the greatest efforts 
 were making for his capture, rewards offered, and spies 
 scattered far and wide through the country ; and while they 
 agreed with him that nothing could be laid to his charge, 
 they still insisted that were he once taken, false-swearing 
 and perjury would bring him to the gallows, "as it did 
 many a brave bo}^ before him." 
 
 Half starved, and harassed by incessant change of place ; 
 "tortured by the fevered agony of a mind halting between a 
 deep purpose of vengeance and a conscious sense of inno- 
 cence, his own daily sufferings soon brought down his 
 mind to that sluggish state of gloomy desperation in which 
 the very instincts of our better nature seem dulled and 
 blunted. "I cannot be worse! " was his constant expres- 
 sion, as he wandered alone by some unfrequented mountain- 
 path, or along the verge of some lonely ravine, — "I cannot 
 be worse ! " It is an evil moment that suggests a thought 
 like this ! 
 
 Each night he was accustomed to repair to the old church- 
 yard, where some of the " boys," as they called themselves, 
 assembled to deliberate on future measures or talk over the 
 past. It was less in sympathy with their plans that Owen 
 came, than for the very want of human companionship. 
 His utter solitude gave him a longing to hear their voices 
 and see their faces ; while in their recitals of outrage he 
 felt that strange pleasure the sense of injury supplies at any 
 tale of sorrow and suffering. 
 
 At these meetings the whiskey-bottle was never forgotten ; 
 and while some were under a pledge not to take more than 
 a certain quantity, — a vow they kept most religiously, — 
 others drank deeply. Among these was Owen. The few 
 moments of reckless forgetfulness he then enjoyed were the 
 coveted minutes of his long, dreary da3% and he wished for 
 night to come as the last solace that was left him. 
 
 His companions knew him too well to endeavor by any 
 active influence to implicate him in their proceedings. They 
 cunningly left the work to time and his own gloom}" thoughts ; 
 watching, however, with eager anxiety, how gradually he 
 became more and more interested in all their doings ; how 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 263 
 
 by degrees he ceased even the half-remonstrance against 
 some deed of unnecessary cruelty, and listened with anima- 
 tion where before he but heard with apathy, if not repug- 
 nance. The weeds of evil grow rankest in the rich soil of a 
 heart whose nature, once noble, has been perverted and de- 
 based. Ere many weeks passed over, Owen, so far from 
 disliking the theme of violence and outrage, became half 
 angry with his comrades that they neither proposed any 
 undertaking to him, nor even asked his assistance amongst 
 them. 
 
 This spirit grew hourly stronger in him ; offended pride 
 worked within his heart during the tedious days he spent 
 alone, and he could scarcely refrain from demanding what 
 lack of courage and daring they saw in him, that he should 
 be thus forgotten and neglected. 
 
 In this frame of mind, irresolute as to whether he should 
 not propose himself for some hazardous scheme, or still re- 
 main a mere spectator of others, he arrived one evening in 
 the old churchyard. Of late, " the boys," from preconcerted 
 arrangements among themselves, had rather made a show of 
 cold and careless indifference in their manner to Owen, — 
 conduct which deeply wounded him. 
 
 As he approached now the little crypt, he perceived that 
 a greater number than usual were assembled through the 
 churchyard, and many were gathered in little knots and 
 groups, talking eagerly together ; a half-nod, a scarcely mut- 
 tered "Good-even," was all the salutation he met, as he 
 moved towards the little cell, where, by the blaze of a piece 
 of bog-pine, a party were regaling themselves, — the custom 
 and privilege of those who had been last out on any maraud- 
 ing expedition. A smoking pot of potatoes and some bottles 
 of whiskey formed the entertainment, at w^hich Owen stood 
 a longing and famished spectator. 
 
 '' Will yez never be done there eatin' and crammin' yer- 
 selves?" said a gruff voice from the crowd to the party 
 within; ''and ye know well enough there's business to be 
 done to-night." 
 
 " And ain't we doing it?" answered one of the feasters. 
 ''Here's your health, Peter!" and so saying, he took a 
 very lengthened draught from the "poteen" bottle. 
 
264 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 *' 'T is the thrade ye like best, anyhow," retorted the 
 other. "Come, boys; be quick now!" 
 
 The party did not wait a second bidding, but arose from 
 the place, and removing the big pot to make more room, 
 they prepared the little cell for the reception of some other 
 visitors. 
 
 "That's it now! We'll not be long about it. Larry, 
 have yez the 'deck,' my boy?" 
 
 "There's the book, darlint," said a short, little, decrepid 
 creature, speaking with an asthmatic effort, as he produced 
 a pack of cards, which, if one were to judge from the dirt, 
 made the skill of the game consist as much in deciphering as 
 playing them. 
 
 "Where's Sam M'Guire?" called out the first speaker, 
 in a voice loud enough to be heard over the whole space 
 around ; and the name was repeated from voice to voice, till 
 it was replied to by one who cried, — 
 
 " Here, sir ; am I wanted ? " 
 
 "You are, Sam; and 'tis yourself 's always to the fore 
 when we need yez." 
 
 "I hope so, indeed," said Sam, as he came forward, a 
 flush of gratified pride on his hardy cheek. He was a young, 
 athletic fellow, with a fine manly countenance, expressive of 
 frankness and candor. 
 
 " Luke Heffernan ! where 's Luke? " said the other. 
 
 "I'm here beside ye," answered a dark-visaged, middle- 
 aged man, with the collar of his frieze coat buttoned high 
 •on his face; "ye needn't be shouting my name that way, 
 — there may be more bad than good among uz." 
 
 "There 's not an informer, any way, — if that's what ye 
 mean," said the other, quickly. " Gavan Daly! Call 
 Gavan Daly, will ye, out there." And the words were 
 passed from mouth to mouth in a minute, but no one replied 
 to the summons. 
 
 " He 's not here, — Gavan 's not here ! " was the murmured 
 answer of the crowd, given in a tone that boded very little 
 in favor of its absent owner. 
 
 "Not here! " said the leader, as he crushed the piece of 
 paper, from which he read, in his hand ; " not here? Where 
 is he, then ? Does any of yez know where 's Gavan Daly ? " 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 265 
 
 But there was no answer. 
 
 "Can nobody tell? — is he sick? — or is any belonging 
 to him sick and dying, that he is n't here this night, as he 
 swore to be?" 
 
 '^I saw him wid a new coat on him this morning early 
 in Oughterarde, and he said he was going to see a cousin 
 of his down below Oranmore," said a young lad from the 
 outside of the crowd, and the speaker was in a moment 
 surrounded by several, anxious to find out some other par- 
 ticulars of the absent man. It was evident that the boy's 
 story was far from being satisfactory, and the circumstance 
 of Daly's wearing a new coat was one freely commented on 
 by those who well knew how thoroughly they were in the 
 power of any who should betray them. 
 
 "He's in the black list this night," said the leader, as 
 he motioned the rest to be silent; "that's w^here I put 
 him now ; and see, all of yez, — mind my words, — if any of 
 uz comes to harm, it will go hard but some will be spared ; 
 and if there was only one remaining, he would n't be the 
 cowardly villain not to see vengeance on Gavan Daly, for 
 what he's done." 
 
 A murmur of indignation at the imputed treachery of the 
 absent man buzzed through the crowd ; while one fellow, 
 with a face flushed by drink, and eyes bleared and blood- 
 shot, cried out, — 
 
 "And are ye to stop h^re all night, calling for the boy 
 that 's gone down to bethray yez ? Is there none of yez will 
 take his place?" 
 
 "I will ! I will ! I 'm ready and willin' ! " were uttered by 
 full twenty, in a breath. 
 
 "Who will ye have with yez? Take your own choice!'* 
 said the leader, turning towards M'Guire and Heffernan, 
 who stood whispering eagerly together. 
 
 " There's the boy I'd take out of five hundred, av he was 
 the same I knew^ once," said M'Guire, laying his hand on 
 Owen's shoulder. 
 
 " Begorra, then, I wondher what 3'e seen in him lately 
 to give you a consate out of him," cried Heffernan, with a 
 rude laugh. " 'T is n't all he's done for the cause any- 
 way." 
 
266 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 Owen started, and fixed his eyes first on one, then on the 
 other of the speakers ; but his look was rather the vacant 
 stare of one awakening from a heavy sleep, than the expres- 
 sion of any angry passion, — for want and privation had 
 gone far to sap his spirit as well as his bodily strength. 
 
 "There, avieh, taste that," said a man beside him, who 
 was struck by his pale and wasted cheek and miserable 
 appearance. 
 
 Owen almost mechanically took the bottle, and drank 
 freely, though the contents was strong poteen. 
 
 "Are ye any betther now?" said Heffernan, with a sneer- 
 ing accent. 
 
 "T am," said Owen, calmly, for he was unconscious of 
 the insolence passed off on him; "I'm a deal better." 
 
 " Come along, ma bouchal ! " cried M'Guire ; " come into 
 the little place with us here." 
 
 "What do ye want with me, boys?" asked Owen, look- 
 ing about him through the crowTl. 
 
 " 'Tis to take a hand at the cards, divil a more," said an 
 old fellow near, and the speech sent a savage laugh among 
 the rest. 
 
 " I 'm ready and willin'," said Owen ; " but sorra farthen 
 I 've left me to play ; and if the stakes is high — " 
 
 " Faix, that 's what they 're not," said Heffernan ; " they 're 
 the lowest ever ye played for." 
 
 " Tell me what it is, anyway," cried Owen. 
 
 " Just the meanest thing at all, — the life of the blaguard 
 that turned yerself out of yer houldin', — Lucas the agent." 
 
 "To kill Lucas?" 
 
 "That same; and if 3^e don't like the game, turn away 
 and make room for a boy that has more spirit in him." 
 
 "Who says I ever was afeard?" said Owen, on whom 
 now the whiskey was working. "Is it Luke Heffernan dares 
 to face me down? — Come out here, fair, and see will ye say 
 it again." 
 
 " If you won't join the cause, you must n't be bringing bad 
 blood among us," cried the leader, in a determined tone ; 
 ' ' there 's many a brave boy here to-night would give his 
 right hand to get the offer you did." 
 
 "I'm ready, — here I am, ready now," shouted Owen, 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 267 
 
 wildly; " tell me what you want me to do, aud see whether 
 I will or no." 
 
 A cheer broke from the crowd at these words, and all 
 within his reach stretched out their hands to grasp Owen's ; 
 and commendations were poured on him from every side. 
 
 Meanwhile Heffernan and his companion had cleared the 
 little crypt of its former occupants, and having heaped fresh 
 wood upon the fire, sat down before the blaze, and called out 
 for Owen to join them. Owen took another draught from 
 one of the many bottles offered by the bystanders, and 
 hastened to obey the summons. 
 
 " Stand back now, and don't speak a word," cried the 
 leader, keeping off the anxious crowd that pressed eagerly 
 forward to witness the game ; the hushed murmuring of the 
 voices showing how deeply interested they felt. 
 
 The three players bent their heads forward as thej^ sat, 
 while Heffernan spoke some words in a low whisper, to 
 which the others responded by a muttered assent. " Well, 
 here's success to the undhertakin', anyhow," cried he, 
 aloud, and filling out a glass of whiskey, drank it off ; then 
 passing the liquor to the two others, they followed his 
 example. 
 
 "Will ye like to deal, Owen?" said M'Guire; "you're 
 the new-comer, and we '11 give ye the choice." 
 
 "No, thank ye, boys," said Owen; "do it yerselves, one 
 of ye; I 'm sure of fair play." 
 
 Heffernan then took the cards, and, wetting his thumb for 
 the convenience of better distributing them, slowly laid five 
 cards before each player; he paused for a second before he 
 turned the trump, and in a low voice said, "If any man's 
 faint-hearted, let him say it now — " 
 
 "Turn the card round, and don't be bothering us," cried 
 M'Guire; "one 'ud think we never played a game before." 
 
 "Come, be alive," said Owen, in whom the liquor had 
 stimulated the passion for play. 
 
 "What 's the thrump, — is it a diamond? Look over and 
 tell us," murmured the crowd nearest the entrance. 
 
 "'T is a spade! — I lay fourpence 'tis a spade! '* 
 
 "Why wouldn't it be?" said another; "it's the same 
 spade will dig Lucas's grave this night! " 
 
268 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 *'Look! see!" whispered another, "Owen Connor's won 
 the first thrick ! Watch him now ! Mind the way he lays 
 the card down, with a stroke of his fist! " 
 
 "I wish he wouldn't be drinking so fast! " said another. 
 
 "Who won that? Who took that thrick? " 
 
 "Ould Heffernan, divil fear him! I never see him lose 
 yet." 
 
 "There 's another: that 's Owen's! " 
 
 "No; by Jonas! 'tis Luke again has it." 
 
 "That's Sam M'Guire's! See how aisy he takes them 
 up." 
 
 "Now for it, boys! whisht! here's the last round! " and 
 at this moment a breathless silence prevailed among the 
 crowd ; for while such as were nearest were eagerly bent on 
 observing the progress of the game, the more distant bent 
 their heads to catch every sound that might indicate its 
 fortune. 
 
 "See how Luke grins! watch his face! " whispered a low 
 voice. "He does n't care how it goes, now he 's out of it! " 
 and so it was. Heffernan had already won two of the five 
 tricks, and was safe, whatever the result of the last one. 
 The trial lay between M'Guire and Owen. 
 
 "Come, Owen, my hearty!" said M'Guire, as he held a 
 card ready to play, "you or I for it now; we'll soon see 
 which the devil 's fondest of. There 's the two of clubs 
 for ye ! " 
 
 "There 's the three, then! " said Owen, with a crash of his 
 hand, as he placed the card over the others. 
 
 "And there 's the four! " said Heffernan, "and the thrick 
 is Sam M'Guire's." 
 
 "Owen Connor 's lost! " "Owen 's lost! " murmured the 
 crowd; and, whether in half-compassion for his defeat, or 
 grief that so hazardous a deed should be intrusted to a 
 doubtful hand, the sensation created was evidently of gloom 
 and dissatisfaction. 
 
 "You 've a right to take either of us wid ye, Owen," said 
 M'Guire, slapping him on the shoulder. "Luke or myself 
 must go, if ye want us." 
 
 "No; I'll do it myself," said Owen, in a low hollow 
 voice. 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 
 
 269 
 
 "There 's the tool, then! " said Heffernan, producing from 
 the breast of his frieze coat a long horse-pistol, the stock 
 of which was mended by a clasp of iron belted round it; 
 
 7^^lM^^^-. 
 
 "and if it doesn't do its work, 'tis the first time it ever 
 failed. Ould Miles Cregan, of Gurtane, was the last that 
 heard it spake." 
 
 Owen took the weapon, and examined it leisurely, open- 
 
270 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 ing the pan and settling the priming, with a finger that 
 never trembled. As he drew forth the ramrod to try the 
 barrel, Heffernan said, with a half-grin, "There 's two 
 bullets in it, avich! — enough 's as good as a feast." 
 
 Owen sat still and spoke not, while the leader and Heffer- 
 nan explained to him the circumstances of the plot against 
 the life of Mr. Lucas. Information had been obtained by 
 some of the party that the agent would leave Galway on the 
 following evening, on his way to Westport, passing through 
 Oughterarde and their own village about midnight. He 
 usually travelled in his gig, with relays of horses ready at 
 different stations of the way, one of which was about two 
 miles distant from the old ruin, on the edge of the lake, 
 
 — a wild and dreary spot, where stood a solitary cabin, in- 
 habited by a poor man who earned his livelihood by fishing. 
 No other house was within a mile of this ; and here it was 
 determined, while in the act of changing horses, the murder 
 should be effected. The bleak common beside the lake was 
 studded with furze and brambles, beneath which it was easy 
 to obtain shelter, though pursuit was not to be apprehended, 
 
 — at least, they judged that the servant would not venture 
 to leave his master at such a moment ; and as for the fisher- 
 man, although not a sworn member of their party, they well 
 knew he would not dare to inform against the meanest 
 amongst them. 
 
 Owen listened attentively to all these details, and the 
 accurate directions by which they instructed him on every 
 step he should take. From the moment he should set foot 
 within the cover to the very instant of firing, each little 
 event had its warning. 
 
 "Mind! " repeated Heffernan, with a slow, distinct whis- 
 per, "he never goes into the house at all; but if the night 's 
 cowld, — as it 's sure to be this sayson, — he '11 be moving up 
 and down to keep his feet warm. Cover him as he turns 
 round; but don't fire the first cover, but wait till he comes 
 back to the same place again, and then blaze. Don't stir 
 then, till ye see if he falls ; if he does, be off down the com- 
 mon; but if he 's only wounded — but sure ye '11 do better 
 than that ! " 
 
 "1 '11 go bail he will! " said M'Guire. "Sorra fear that 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 271 
 
 Owen Connor's heart would fail him! and sure if be likes 
 me to be wid him — " 
 
 "No, no! " said Owen, in the same hollow voice as 
 before, "I '11 do it all by myself; I want nobody." 
 
 " 'T is the very words I said when I shot Lambert of Kil- 
 elunah," said M'Guire. "I didn't know him by looks, 
 and the bo^^s wanted me to take some one to point him out. 
 * Sorra bit! ' says I, ' leave that to me; ' and so I waited in 
 the gripe of the ditch all day, till, about four in the evening, 
 I seen a stout man wid a white hat coming across the fields, 
 to where the men was planting potatoes. So I ups to him 
 wid a letter in my hand, this way, and my hat off. * Is yer 
 honner Mr. Lambert ? ' says I. ' Yes, ' says he ; ' what do 
 ye want with me? ' ' 'T is a bit of a note I 've for yer 
 honner,' says I; and I gav him the paper. He tuck it and 
 opened it; but, troth, it was little matter there was no 
 writin' in it, for he would n't have lived to read it through. 
 I sent the ball through his heart, as near as I stand to ye; 
 the wadding was burning his waistcoat when I left him. 
 ' God save you ! ' saj's the men, as I went across the potato- 
 field. ' Save you kindly ! ' says I. ' Was that a shot we 
 heard?' says another. 'Yes,' says I; 'I was fright'ning 
 the crows; ' and sorra bit, but that's a saying they have 
 against me ever since." These last few words were said 
 in a simper of modesty, which, whether real or affected, 
 was a strange sentiment at the conclusion of such a tale. 
 
 The party soon after separated, not to meet again for 
 several nights; for the news of Lucas's death would, of 
 course, be the signal for a general search through the coun- 
 try, and the most active measures to trace the murderer. 
 It behoved them, then, to be more than usually careful not 
 to be absent from their homes and their daily duties for 
 some days, at least; after which they could assemble in 
 safety as before. 
 
 Grief has been known to change the hair to gray in a sin- 
 gle night; the announcement of a sudden misfortune has 
 palsied the hand that held the ill-omened letter; but I ques- 
 tion if the hours that are passed before the commission of a 
 great crime, planned and meditated beforehand, do not work 
 more fearful devastation on the human heart than all the 
 
272 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 sorrows that ever crushed humanity. Ere night came, Owen 
 Connor seemed to have grown years older. In the tortured 
 doubtings of his harassed mind he appeared to have spent 
 almost a lifetime since the sun last rose. He had passed 
 in review before him each phase of his former existence, 
 from childhood — free, careless, and happy childhood — to 
 days of boyish sport and revelry ; then came the period of 
 his first manhood, with its new ambitions and hopes. He 
 thought of these, and how, amid the humble circumstances 
 of his lowly fortune, he was happy. What would he have 
 thought of him who should predict such a future as this for 
 him? How could he have believed it? And yet the worst 
 of all remained to come. He tried to rally his courage and 
 steel his heart, by repeating over the phrases so frequent 
 among his companions. "Sure, ain't I driven to it? Is it 
 my fault if I take to this, or theirs that compelled me? " and 
 such like. But these words came with no persuasive force 
 in the still hour of conscience; they were only effectual amid 
 the excitement and tumult of a multitude, when men's pas- 
 sions were high, and their resolutions daring. "It is too 
 late to go back," muttered he, as he arose from the spot, 
 where, awaiting nightfall, he had lain hid for several hours; 
 "the}^ mustn't call me a coward, anywa3\" 
 
 As Owen reached the valley, the darkness spread far and 
 near; not a star could be seen ; great masses of cloud covered 
 the sky, and hung down heavily, midway upon the moun- 
 tains. There was no rain ; but on the wind came from time 
 to time a drifted mist, which showed that the air was charged 
 with moisture. The ground was still wet and plashy from 
 recent heavy rain. It was, indeed, a cheerless night and 
 a cheerless hour; but not more so than the heart of him 
 who now, bent upon his deadly purpose, moved slowly on 
 towards the common. 
 
 On descending towards the lake-side, he caught a passing 
 view of the little village, where a few lights yet twinkled, 
 and flickering stars that shone within some humble home. 
 What would he not have given to be but the meanest peas- 
 ant there, the poorest creature that toiled and sickened on 
 his dreary way! He turned away hurriedly, and with his 
 hand pressed heavily on his swelling heart walked rapidly 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 
 
 273 
 
 on. ''It will soon be over now," said Owen; he was about 
 to add, with the accustomed piety of his class, "thank Ciod 
 for it," but the words stopped in his throat, and the dreadful 
 
 thought flashed on him, "Is it when I am about to shed His 
 creature's blood, I should say this?" 
 
 He sat down upon a large stone beside the lake, at a spot 
 where the road came down to the water's edge, and where 
 none could pass unobserved by him. He had often fished 
 from that very rock when a boy, and eaten his little dinner 
 
 VOL. 11. — 18 
 
274 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 of potatoes beneath its shelter. Here he sat once more, 
 saying to himself, as he did so, " 'T is an ould friend, any- 
 way, and I '11 just spend my last night with him; " for so in 
 his mind he already regarded his condition. The murder 
 effected, he determined to make no effort to escape. Life 
 was of no value to him. The snares of the conspiracy had 
 entangled him, but his heart was not in it. 
 
 As the night wore on, the clouds lifted, and the wind, 
 increasing to a storm, bore them hurriedly through the air; 
 the waters of the lake, lashed into waves, beat heavily on 
 the low shore; while the howling blast swept through the 
 mountain-passes and over the bleak wide plain with a 
 rushing sound. The thin crescent of a new moon could be 
 seen from time to time as the clouds rolled past; too faint 
 to shed any light upon the earth, it merely gave form to the 
 dark masses that moved before it. 
 
 ''I will do it here," said Owen, as he stood and looked 
 upon the dark water that beat against the foot of the rock, 
 — "here, on this spot." 
 
 He sat for some moments with his ear bent to listen, but 
 the storm was loud enough to make all other sounds in- 
 audible; yet, in every noise he thought he heard the sound 
 of wheels, and the rapid tramp of a horse's feet. The 
 motionless attitude, the cold of the night, but, more than 
 either, the debility brought on by long fasting and hunger, 
 benumbed his limbs, so that he felt almost unable to make 
 the least exertion, should any such be called for. 
 
 He therefore descended from the rock and moved along 
 the road ; at first, only thinking of restoring lost animation 
 to his frame, but at length, in a half unconsciousness, he 
 had wandered upwards of two miles beyond the little hovel 
 where the change of horses was to take place. Just as he 
 was on the point of returning, he perceived, at a little dis- 
 tance, in front, the walls of a now ruined cabin, once the 
 home of the old smith. Part of the roof had fallen in, the 
 doors and windows were gone, the fragment of an old shutter 
 alone remained, and this banged heavily back and forwards 
 as the storm rushed through the wretched hut. 
 
 Almost without knowing it, Owen entered the cabin, and 
 sat down beside the spot where once the forge-fire used to 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 275 
 
 burn. He had been there, too, when a boy, many a time ; 
 many a story had he Hstened to in that same corner; but 
 why think of this now ? The cold blast seemed to freeze his 
 very blood; he felt his heart as if congealed within him. 
 He sat cowering from the piercing blast for some time; and 
 at last unable to bear the sensation longer, determined to 
 kindle a fire with the fragments of the old shutter. For this 
 purpose he drew the charge of the pistol, in which there 
 were three bullets, and not merely two, as Heffernan had 
 told him. Laying these carefully down in his handkerchief, 
 he kindled a light with some powder, and with the dexterity 
 of one not unaccustomed to such operations, soon saw the 
 dry sticks blazing on the hearth. On looking about he dis- 
 covered a few sods of turf and some dry furze, with which 
 he replenished his fire, till it gradually became a warm and 
 cheering blaze. Owen now reloaded the pistol, just as he 
 had found it. There was a sense of duty in his mind to 
 follow out every instruction he received, and deviate m 
 nothing. This done, he held his numbed fingers over the 
 blaze, and bared his chest to the warm glow of the fire. 
 
 The sudden change from the cold night-air to the warmtb 
 of the cabin soon made him drowsy. Fatigue and watching 
 aiding the inclination to sleep, he was obliged to move 
 about the hut, and even expose himself to the chill blast, to 
 resist its influence. The very purpose on which he was 
 bent, so far from dispelling sleep, rather induced its ap- 
 proach; for, strange as it may seem, the concentration with 
 which the mind brings its power to bear on any object will 
 overcome all the interest and anxiety of our natures, and 
 bring on sleep from very weariness. 
 
 He slept, at first, calmly and peacefully, — exhaustion 
 would have its debt acquitted, — and he breathed as softly 
 as an infant. At last, when the extreme of fatigue was 
 passed, his brain began to busy itself with flitting thoughts 
 and fancies, — some long-forgotten da}' of boyhood, some 
 little scene of childish gayety, flashed across him, and he 
 dreamed of the old mountain-lake, where so often he 
 watched the wide circles of the leaping trout, or tracked 
 with his eye the foamy path of the wild water-hen, as she 
 skimmed the surface. Then suddenly his chest heaved and 
 
276 ST. PATKICK'S EVE. 
 
 fell with a strong motion, for with lightning's speed the 
 current of his thoughts was changed ; his heart was in the 
 mad tumult of a faction-fight, loud shouts were ringing in 
 his ears, the crash of sticks, the cries of pain, entreaties for 
 mercy, execrations and threats, rung around him, when one 
 figure moved slowl}^ before his astonished gaze, with a sweet 
 .emile upon her lips, and love in her long-lashed eyes. She 
 murmured his name; and now he slept with a low-drawn 
 breath, his quivering lips repeating, " Mary ! " 
 
 Another and a sadder change was coming. He was on the 
 mountains, in the midst of a large assemblage of wild- 
 looking and haggard men, whose violent speech and savage 
 gestures well suited their reckless air. A loud shout wel- 
 comed him as he came amongst them, and a cry of "Here 's 
 Owen Connor, — Owen at last! " and a hundred hands were 
 stretched out to grasp his, but as suddenly withdrawn, on 
 seeing that his hands were not blood-stained nor gory. 
 
 He shuddered as he looked upon their dripping fingers; 
 but he shuddered still more as they called him "Coward!" 
 What he said he knew not; but in a moment they were gath- 
 ered round him, and clasping him in their arms ; and now 
 iiis hands, his cheeks, his clothes were streaked with blood ; 
 he tried to wipe the foul stains out, but his fingers grew 
 clotted, and his feet seemed to plash in the red stream, and 
 his savage comrades laughed fiercely at his efforts, and 
 mocked him. 
 
 "What am I that you should clasp me thus?" he cried; 
 and a voice from his inmost heart replied, "A murderer!" 
 The cold sweat rolled in great drops down his brow, while 
 the foam of agony dewed his pallid lips, and his frame 
 trembled in a terrible convulsion. Confused and fearful 
 images of bloodshed and its penalty, the crime and the 
 scaffold, commingled, worked in his maddened brain. He 
 heard the rush of feet, as if thousands were hurrying on to 
 see him die, and voices that swelled like the sea at mid- 
 night. Nor was the vision all unreal ; for already two men 
 had entered the hut. 
 
 The dreadful torture of his thoughts had now reached its 
 climax, and with a bound Owen sprang from his sleep, and 
 cried in a shriek of heart- wrung anguish, "No, never, — I 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 277 
 
 am not a murderer. Owen Connor can meet his death like 
 a man, but not with blood upon him." 
 
 "Owen Connor! Owen Connor, did you say?" repeated 
 one of the two who stood before him; "are you, then, Owen 
 Connor ? " 
 
 ''I am," replied Owen, whose dreams were still the last 
 impression on his mind. "I give myself up; — do what ye 
 will with me; — hang, imprison, or transport me; I '11 never 
 gainsay you." 
 
 "Owen, do you not know me?" said the other, removing 
 his travelling-cap, and brushing back the hair from his 
 forehead. 
 
 "No, I know nothing of you," said he, fiercely. 
 
 "Not remember your old friend, — your landlord's son, 
 Owen?" 
 
 Owen stared at him without speaking; his parted lips and 
 fixed gaze evidencing the amazement which came over 
 him. 
 
 "You saved my life, Owen," said the young man, horror- 
 struck by the withered and wasted form of the peasant. 
 
 "And you have made me this," muttered Owen, as he let 
 fall the pistol from his bosom. "Yes," cried he, with an 
 energy very different from before, "I came out this night, 
 sworn to murder that man beside you, — your agent, Lucas ; 
 my soul is perjured if my hands are not bloody." 
 
 Lucas instantly took a pistol from the breast of his coat, 
 and cocked it; while the ghastly whiteness of his cheek 
 showed he did not think the danger was yet over. 
 
 "Put up your weapon," said Owen, contemptuously. 
 "What would I care for it if I wanted to take your life? 
 Do you think the likes of me has any hould on the world? " 
 and he laughed a scornful and bitter laugh. 
 
 "How is this, then?" cried Leslie; "is murder so light a 
 crime that a man like this does not shrink from it?" 
 
 "The country," whispered Lucas, "is, indeed, in a fear- 
 ful state. The rights of property no longer exist among us. 
 That fellow — because he lost his farm — " 
 
 "Stop, sir!" cried Owen, fiercely; "I will deny nothing 
 of my guilt, — but lay not more to my charge than is true. 
 Want and misery have brought me low, — destitution and 
 
278 ST. PATKICK'S EVE. 
 
 recklessness still lower ; but if I swore to have your life this 
 night, it was not for any vengeance of my own." 
 
 " Ha ! then there is a conspiracy ! " cried Lucas, hastily. 
 "We must have it out of you — every word of it — or it will 
 go harder with yourself. " 
 
 Owen's only reply was a bitter laugh; and from that 
 moment he never uttered another word. All Lucas's 
 threats, all Leslie's entreaties were powerless and vain. The 
 very allusion to becoming an informer was too revolting to 
 be forgiven, and he firmly resolved to brave any and every 
 thing rather than endure the mere proposal. 
 
 They returned to Galway as soon as the post-boys had suc- 
 ceeded in repairing the accidental breakage of the harness, 
 which led to the opportune appearance of the landlord and 
 his agent in the hut; Owen accompanying them without a 
 word or a gesture. 
 
 So long as Lucas was present, Owen never opened his lips ; 
 the dread of committing himself, or in any way implicating 
 one amongst his companions, deterred him ; but when Leslie 
 sent for him, alone, and asked him the circumstances which 
 led him to the eve of so great a crime, he confessed all, — 
 omitting nothing, save such passages as might involve 
 others, — and even to Leslie he was guarded on this topic. 
 
 The young landlord listened with astonishment and sorrow 
 to the peasant's story. Never till now did he conceive the 
 mischiefs neglect and abandonment can propagate, nor of 
 how many sins mere poverty can be the parent. He knew 
 not before that the very endurance of want can teach an- 
 other endurance, and make men hardened against the terrors 
 of the law and its inflictions. He was not aware of the con- 
 dition of his tenantry; he wished them all well off and 
 happy; he had no self-accusings of a grudging nature, 
 nor an oppressive disposition, and he absolved himself of 
 any hardships that originated with "the agent." 
 
 The cases brought before his notice rather disposed him 
 to regard the people as wily and treacherous, false in their 
 pledges and unmindful of favors; and many, doubtless, 
 were so; but he never inquired how far their experience 
 had taught them that dishonesty was the best policy, and 
 that trick and subtlety are the only aids to the poor man. 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 279 
 
 He forgot, above all, that they bad iieitber examples to 
 look up to nor imitate, and that when once a people have 
 become sunk in misery, they are the ready tools of any 
 wicked enough to use them for violence, and false enough 
 to persuade them that outrage can be their welfare; and, 
 lastly, he overlooked the great fact that in a corrupt and 
 debased social condition the evils which under other cir- 
 cumstances would be borne with a patient trust in future 
 relief, are resented in a spirit of recklessness ; and that men 
 soon cease to shudder at a crime when frequency has accus- 
 tomed them to discuss its details. 
 
 I must not — I dare not dwell longer on this theme. 
 Leslie felt all the accusations of an awakened conscience. 
 He saw himself the origin of many misfortunes, — of evils 
 of whose very existence he never heard before. Ere Owen 
 concluded his sad story, his mind was opened to some of 
 the miseries of Ireland ; and when he had ended he cried : 
 *'I will live at home with ye, amongst ye all, Owen! I 
 will try if Irishmen cannot learn to know who is their true 
 friend; and while repairing some of my own faults, may- 
 hap I may remedy some of theirs." 
 
 "Oh! why did you not do this before I came to my ruin? " 
 cried Owen, in a passionate burst of grief; for the poor 
 fellow all along had given himself up for lost, and imagined 
 that his own plea of guilt must bring him to the gallows. 
 Nor was it till after much persuasion and great trouble 
 that Leslie could reconcile him to himself, and assure him 
 that his own fortunate repentance had saved him from 
 destruction. 
 
 "You shall go back to j^our mountain-cabin, Owen; you 
 shall have your own farm again, and be as happy as ever," 
 said the young man. "The law must deal with those who 
 break it, and no one will go farther than myself to vindicate 
 the law; but I will also try if kindness and fair dealing will 
 not save many from the promptings of their own hearts, and 
 teach men that, even here, the breach of God's command- 
 ments can bring neither peace nor happiness." 
 
 My object in this little story being to trace the career of 
 one humble man through the trials and temptations inci- 
 dent to his lot in life, I must not dwell upon the wider theme 
 
280 ST. PATiaCK'S EVE. 
 
 of national distiubance. I have endeavored — Iion^ weaklv, 
 J am well aware — to siiow that soeial disorganizati«)M, 
 rather than political «j;rievaMees, are the source of Jrish 
 outrage; that neglect and abandonment of the people on the 
 part of those who stood in the position of friends and advis- 
 ers towards them, have disseminated evils deepei- and greater 
 than even a tyranny could have engendered. lUit for this 
 desertion of their tUilies, there had been no loss of their 
 rightful inlUience, nor would the foul crime of assassination 
 now stain the name of our land. Willi an educated and resi- 
 dent proprietary, Ir«l:iiid could never have become what she 
 now is; personal eoint'oit, if no higher motive could be 
 api)ealed to, would have necessitated a watchful observance 
 of the habits of the people, — the tares would iiave been 
 weeded from the wheat; thei'vil intlueiKH' of bad men would 
 not have been suftered to spicnd its coutagiou tlir«)uuh the 
 land. 
 
 J>et me not be supposed for a moment as joining in the 
 I)opular cry against the landlords of Ireland. As regards 
 the management of llirir esiatrs, aud tlir liberality of their 
 dealings with tln-ir tfiianlry, they are, of course, with the 
 exce[)tions which evtiy count ly exhibits, a class as blame- 
 less and irrei^roachable as can be found anywhere, — their 
 real dereliction being, in my mind, their desertion of tla^ 
 people. To this cause, I believe, can be traced every one 
 of the long catalogue n\' disasters to which Ireland is a 
 I)rey; the despaiiing poverty, reckless habits, indilT<*rence 
 to the mandates of \\\r law, have their source here. The 
 impassioned pui-suit of any political privilege, which they 
 are given to suppose will alleviate the evils of their state, 
 has thrown them into tin' hands of the tlemagogue, and 
 banded them in a leagiu' which they assume to be national. 
 You left them to drift on the waters, and you may now be 
 shij)wrecked atnong the lloating fragments! 
 
 My tale is ended. I have only one record more to add. 
 The exercise of the law, assisted by the energy and deter- 
 mination of a fearless and resident landlord, at length 
 suppressed outrnge and banishetl those who had been its 
 (uiginators. Through the evidence of Cialvan Daly, whose 
 treachery had been alreaily suspected, several of the leaders 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 
 
 281 
 
 were foui*»l guilty, and met the dreadful penalty of their 
 crimes. The fact of an informer havinsr been found amongst 
 
 long before either peace or happiness shed their true bless- 
 ings on that land: mutual distrust, the memory of some lost 
 
282 ST. PATRICK'S EVE. 
 
 friend, and the sad conviction of their own iniquity dark- 
 ened many a day, and made even a gloomier depth than 
 they had ever known in their poverty. 
 
 There came, however, a reverse for this. It was a fine 
 day in spring: the mountain and the lake were bright in 
 the sunshine; the valley, rich in the promise of the coming 
 year, was already green with the young wheat; the pleasant 
 sounds of happy labor rose from the fields fresh-turned by 
 the plough; the blue smoke curled into thin air from many 
 a cabin, no longer mean-looking and miserable as before, 
 but with signs of comfort around, in the trim hedge of the 
 little garden and the white walls that glistened in the sun. 
 
 Towards the great mountain above the lake, however, many 
 an eye was turned from afar, and many a peasant lingered 
 to gaze upon the scene which now marked its rugged face. 
 
 Along the winding path which traced its zigzag course 
 from the lake-side to the little glen where Owen's cabin 
 stood, a vast procession could be seen moving on foot and 
 on horseback. Some in country cars, assisted up the steep 
 ascent by men's strong shoulders; others mounted in twos 
 and threes upon some slow-footed beast; but the greater 
 number walking or rather clambering their way, — for in their 
 eagerness to get forward, they each moment deserted the 
 path to breast the ferny mountain-side. The scarlet cloaks 
 of the women, as they fluttered in the wind, and their white 
 caps, gave a brilliancy to the picture which, as the masses 
 emerged from the depth of some little dell and disappeared 
 again, had all the semblance of some gorgeous panorama. 
 Nor was the eye the only sense gladdened by the spectacle; 
 for even in the valley could be heard the clear ringing laugh- 
 ter as they went along, and the wild cheer of merriment that 
 ever and anon burst forth from happy hearts, while, high 
 above all, the pleasant sounds of the bagpipe rose, as, 
 seated upon an ass, and intrusted to the guidance of a bo}', 
 the musician moved along, his inspiriting strains taken 
 advantage of at every spot of level ground by some merry 
 souls who would not "lose so much good music." 
 
 As the head of the dense column wound its way upward, 
 one little group could be seen by thoso below, and were 
 saluted by many a cheer and the waving of handkerchiefs. 
 
THE THIRD ERA. 283 
 
 These were a party whose horses and gear seemed far better 
 than the rest; and among them rode a gentleman mounted 
 on a strong pony, — his chief care was bestowed less on 
 his own beast than in guiding that of a young country girl 
 who rode beside him. She was enveloped in a long blue 
 cloak of dark cloth, beneath which she wore a white dress ; 
 a white ribbon floated through her dark hair too ; but in her 
 features and the happy smile upon her lip, the bride was 
 written more palpably than in all these. 
 
 High above her head, upon a pinnacle of rock, a man 
 stood gazing at the scene; at his side a little child of some 
 four or five years old, whose frantic glee seemed perilous in 
 such a place, while his wild accents drew many an upward 
 glance from those below, as he cried, — 
 
 *'See, Nony, see! Mary is coming to us at last! '* 
 This, too, was a "St. Patrick's Eve," and a happy one. 
 May Ireland see many such! 
 
 THE END 
 
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