“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 without any waste
of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor's throat. “You're nothing the
worse, man,” added he, roughly; “you've given many a more dangerous dose
yourself, I'll be bound, and people have survived it too.”
“I'm better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something
better; 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.”
“Where's the pony and the gig, then?” called out Roach, suddenly
remembering the last sight he had of them.
“I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty
kettles at his tail. They'll stop him at last; and if they shouldn't, I
don't suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn't worth a five pound
note--no, even giving the owner into the bargain,” muttered he, as he
turned away.
[Illustration: 132]
The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon Roach; as if
galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust
his hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his
invariable signal for close action. “What, sir, do you tell me that my
conveniency, with the pony, harness and all--”
“Have patience, Roach,” interposed the old man; “Mark was but jesting.
Come over and join us here.” At the same instant the door was flung
suddenly wide, and Sir Archy rushed in, with a speed very unlike his
ordinary gait. “There's a change for the better,” cried he, joyfully;
“the boy has made a rally, and if we could overtake that d----d auld
beestie, Roach, and bring him back again, we might save the lad.”
“The d----d auld beestie,” exclaimed Roach, as he sprung from the sofa
and stood before him, “is very much honoured by your 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 convulsion. “Look, Archy,” cried
he--“see now!--hear me, Roach,” were the only words he could utter
between the paroxysms, while M'Nab, the very picture of shame and
confusion, stood overwhelmed with his blunder, and unable to say a word.
“Let us not stand fooling here,” said Mark, gruffly, as he took the
Doctor's arm; “come and see my brother, and try what can be done for
him.”
With an under-growl of menace and rage, old Roach suffered himself to be
led away by the young man, Sir Archy following slowly, as they mounted
the stairs.
Although alone, the O'Donoghue continued to laugh over the scene he had
just witnessed; nor did he know which to enjoy more--the stifled rage 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 proprieties of
life, formed so strong a contrast with his own careless and indifferent
habits.
“Archy will never get over it--that's certain, and begad he shan't do
so for want of a reminder. The d----d auld beestie!” and with the words
came back his laughter, which had not ceased as Mark re-entered 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 forgetfulness of his father.
“Ah! better, is he? Well, that is good news, Mark; and Roach thinks he
may recover?”
“He has a chance now; a few hours will decide it. Roach will sit up
with him till four o'clock, and then, I shall take the remainder of the
night, for my uncle seems quite worn out with watching.”
“No, Mark, my boy, you must not lose your night's rest; you've had a
long and tiresome ride to-day.”
“I'm not tired, and I'll do it,” replied he, in the determined tone
of his self-willed habit--one, which his father had never sought to
control, from infancy upwards. There was a long pause after this, which
Mark broke, at length, by saying--“So, it is pretty clear now that
our game is up--the mortgage is foreclosed. Hemsworth has noticed the
Ballyvourney tenants not to pay us the rents, and the ejectment goes
on.”
“What of Callaghan?” asked the O'Donoghue, in a sinking voice.
“Refused--flatly refused to renew the bills. If we give him five hundred
down,” said the youth, with a bitter laugh, “he says, he'd strain a
point.”
“You told him how we were circumstanced, Mark? Did you 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
withering glance at his father.
“Then there's nothing but ruin before us,” said the O'Donoghue, in a
solemn tone--“nothing!”
The old man's head fell forward on his bosom, and, as his hands dropped
listlessly down at either side, he sat the very impersonation of
overwhelming affliction, while Mark, with heavy step and slow, walked up
and down the roomy chamber.
“Hemsworth's clerk hinted something about this old banker's intention
of building here,” resumed he, after a long interval of silence.
“Building where?---over at 'the Lodge?'”
“No, here--at Carrig-na-curra--throwing down this old place, I 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 possession, 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 honour they could
receive, an invitation to this house. In the very room where we are
sitting, I've seen thirty guests assembled, whose names comprised the
rank and station of the province; and yet, all--every man of them,
regarded him as their chief, and he was so, too--the descendant of one
who was a king.”
The animated features of the young man, as he listened, encouraged the
O'Donoghue, and he went on. “Thirty-seven thousand acres 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 fancy to wait for the winner to claim the stakes.
Could I but see you safely out of the scrape, I'd be many a mile away,
ere a week was over.”
“You would not leave me, boy!” cried the old man, as he grasped the
youth's hands in his, and gazed on him with streaming eyes. “You would
not desert your poor old father. Oh, no--no, Mark; this would not be
like you. A 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 every
thing,” said he, with an impassioned tone, as he fixed his eyes upon
the youth's countenance. “I ask for nothing but to be near you. The
house--the property--all shall be yours.”
“What house--what property--do you speak of?” said Mark, rudely. “Are we
not beggars?”
The old man's head dropped heavily; he relinquished the grasp of his
son's hand, and his outstretched arm fell powerless to his side. “I was
forgetting,” murmured he, in a broken voice--“it is as you say--you are
right, Mark--you _must_ go.”
Few and simple as the words were, the utterance sunk deep into the young
man's heart; they seemed the last effort of courage wrung from despair,
and breathed a pathos he was unable to resist.
“I'll not leave you,” said he, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper:
“there's my hand upon it,” and he wrung in his strong grasp the
unresisting fingers of the old man. “That's a promise, father, and now
let us speak no more about it.”
“I'll get to my bed, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, as he pressed his
hands upon his throbbing temples. It was many a day since 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
affliction--his support against every difficulty. To seek his fortune
in some foreign service--to win an honourable name, even though in a
strange land, was the whole ambition of his life; and so engrossed was
he in his own calculations, that he never deigned a thought of what his
father might feel about it. The poverty that eats its way to the heart
of families seldom fails to loosen the ties of domestic affection. The
daily struggle, the hourly conflict with necessity, too often destroy
the delicate and trustful sense of protection that youth should
feel towards age. The energies that should have expanded into homely
affection and mutual regard, are spent in warding off a common enemy;
and with weary minds and seared hearts the gentler charities of life
have few sympathies. Thus was it here. Mark mistook his selfishness
for a feeling of 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 air to blow upon his throbbing 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 hearth-stone. The old
tower itself flung a dark shadow upon the rock, and across the road
beneath it, and, except in the chamber of the sick boy, in a distant
part of the building, not a light was to be seen.
The night was calm and star-lit: a stillness almost painful reigned
around. It seemed as if exhausted nature, tired with the work of storm
and hurricane, had sunk into a deep and wearied sleep. Thousands of
bright stars speckled the dark sky; yet the light they shed upon the
earth, but dimly distinguished mountain and valley, save where the'
calm surface of the lake gave back their lustre, in a heaven, placid
and motionless as their own. Now and then, a bright meteor would shoot
across the blue vault, and disappear in the darkness; while in tranquil
splendour, the planets shone on, as though to say, the higher destiny
is to display an eternal brightness, than the brilliancy of momentary
splendour, however glittering its wide career.
The young man gazed upon the sky. The lessons which, from human lips, he
had rejected with scorn and impatience, now sunk deeply into his nature,
from those silent monitors. The stars looked down, like eyes, into his
very soul, and he felt as if he could unburthen his whole heart of its
weary load, and make a confidence with heaven.
“They point ever downwards,” said he to himself, as he watched the
bright streak of the 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 glittering spangles, shedding over glen and
mountain, a faint but beauteous gleam, scarce more lasting than the
meteor's flash. It was a rocket sent up from the border of the Bay, and
was quickly answered by another from the remote end of the Glen. The
youth started, and leaning out from the window, looked down the valley;
but nothing was to be seen or heard--all was silent as before, and
already the flash of the signals, for such they must have been he could
not doubt, had faded away, and the sky shone in its own spangled beauty.
“They are smugglers!” muttered Mark, as he sank back in his chair; for
in that wild district such signals were employed without much fear, by
those who either could trust the revenue as accomplices, or dare them
by superior numbers. More than once it had occurred to him to join this
lawless band, and many a pressing invitation had he received from the
leaders to do so; but still, the youth's ambition, save in his darkest
hours, took a higher and a nobler range: the danger of the career was
its only fascination to him. Now, however, all these thoughts were
changed: he had given a solemn pledge to his father never to leave him;
and it was with a feeling of half apathy he sat, pondering over what
cutter it might be that had anchored, or whose party were then preparing
to land their cargo.
“Ambrose Denner, belike,” muttered he to himself, “the 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 its Hans
'der Teufel,' though, as they call him; or Flahault--he's the best of
them, if there be a difference. I've half a mind to go down the Glen
and see;” and while he hesitated, a low, monotonous sound of feet, as
if marching, struck on his ear; and as he listened, he heard the distant
tramp of men, moving in, what seemed, a great number. These could not
be the smugglers, he well knew: reckless and fearless as they were, they
never came in such large bodies as these noises portended.
There is something solemn in the sound of marching heard in the
stillness of the night, and so Mark felt it, as with cautious breathing
he leaned upon the window, and bent his ear to listen. Nearer and nearer
they came, till at last the footfalls beat loudly on the dull ground
as, in measured tread, they stepped. At first a dark moving mass, that
seemed to fill the narrow road, was all he could discern, but as
this came closer, he could perceive that they marched in companies of
divisions, each headed by his leader, who, from time to time, stepped
from his place, and observed their order and precision. They were all
country people; their dress, as well as he could discern, the common
costume of every day, undistinguished by any military emblem. Nor did
they carry arms; the captains alone wore a kind of white scarf over the
shoulder, which could be distinctly seen, even by the imperfect light.
They, alone, carried swords, with which they checked the movements from
time to time. Not a word was uttered in the dense ranks--not a murmur
broke the stillness of the solemn scene, as that host poured on. The one
command, “Right shoulders forward--wheel!” being given at intervals, as
the parties defiled beneath the rock, at which place the road made an
abrupt turning.
So strange the spectacle, so different from all he had ever witnessed
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 an hazardous exploit. He has a son though,
and, as I hear, a bold fellow.”
“Look to him, Harvey: it is of moment that we should have one so near
the Bay. See to this quickly. If he be like what you say, and desires a
command--” The rest was lost in the sound of their retreating hoofs,
for already the party resumed their journey, and were in a few minutes
hidden from his view.
With many a conflicting doubt, and many a conjecture, each wilder than
the other, Mark pondered over what he had seen, nor noted the time as it
slipped past, till the grey tint of day-dawn warned him of the hour. The
rumbling sounds of a country cart just then attracted his attention, and
he beheld a countryman, with a little load of turf, on his way to the
market at Killarney. Seeing that the man must have met the procession,
he called aloud--
“I say, my good man, where were they all marching, to-night--those
fellows?”
“What fellows, your honour?” said the man, as he touched his hat
obsequiously.
“That great crowd of people--you could not help meeting them--there was
no other road they could take.”
“Sorra man, woman, or child I seen, your honour, since I left home, and
that's eight miles from this,” and so saying he followed his journey,
leaving Mark in greater bewilderment than before.