The time was now approaching when the Travers's were to remove to the
capital, and, at Sybella's urgent entreaty, Sir Marmaduke was induced
to request that Kate O'Donoghue might accompany them in their visit, and
thus enjoy the pleasures of a winter in Dublin, then, second to no city
of Europe, in all that constituted social excellence.
The note of invitation couched in terms the most flattering and cordial,
arrived when the O'Donoghues were seated at breakfast, and, as was usual
on all occasions of correspondence, was opened by Kate herself; scarcely
had she thrown her eyes over its contents, when, with a heightened
colour, and a slight tremor in her voice, she passed the letter across
the table to her uncle, and said--“This is for your consideration, sir.”
“Then, you must read it for me, Kate,” 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 favour, 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, to take our darling Kate away from
us, for a season, and show her some of the life and gaieties of the
capital.”
“Well, that is handsomely done, at least,” said the O'Donoghue, whose
first thought sprung from gratified pride, at the palpable 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
Archy; “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 to their country, may well be suspected of having less for its
daughters.”
Mark's brow grew dark with the flush that covered his face and
forehead in an instant; he bent his head almost to the table to avoid
observation, and, as if in the distraction of the moment, he took up the
note and seemed to pore over its contents; then suddenly crushing it in
his hand, he arose from the table and left the room.
“My sweet Kate,” said Sir Archy, as he led her within the deep recess of
a window, “tak care ye dinna light up a flame of treason, where ye only
hoped to warm a glow of patriotism; such eyes and lips 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 people have
abandoned many of their old grudges and seem disposed to unite.”
“And the gentry--where are they, who should stand at their head and
share their fortune?” cried Kate eagerly; for the warning, so far from
conveying the intended moral, only stimulated her ardour and excited her
curiosity.
“The gentry,” replied Sir Archy, in a firm, decided tone, “are better
satisfied to live under a government they dislike, than to be at the
mercy of a rabble they despise, I ha'e lived langer than you in this
dreary world, lassie, and trust me, the poetry of patriotism has little
relation to the revengeful fury of rebellion. You wish freedom for those
who cannot enjoy the portion of it they possess. It is time to outlive
the evil memories of the past, we want here--time, to blunt the
acuteness of former and long-past sufferings--time, to make traditions
so far forgotten as to be inapplicable to the present--time, to read the
homely lesson, that one half the energy a people can expend in revolt,
will raise them in the rank of civilized and cultivated beings.”
“Time, to make Irishmen forget that the land of their birth was ever
other than an English province,” added Kate, impetuously. “No, no, it
was not thus your own brave countrymen understood their 'devoirs.'”
“They rallied round the standard of a prince they loved, lassie,” said
M'Nab, in a tone whose fervour contrasted with his former accent.
“And will you tell me that the principle of freedom is not more sacred
than the person of the sovereign?” said Kate, tauntingly.
“There can be nae mistake about the one, but folks may have vara
unsettled notions of the other,” said he, drily; “but we mauna quarrel,
Kate dear; our time is e'en too short already. Sit ye down and sing me a
sang.”
“It shall be a rebel one, then, I promise you,” replied she, with an air
of defiance which it was impossible to pronounce 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 labouring 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 drawing-room being arrested by Sir Archy, who, with
a significant gesture, motioned him to follow him to his chamber.
“I will no' detain you many minutes, Mr. Swaby,” said he, as he made
signs for him to be seated. “I hae a sma' matter of business in which
you can serve me. I need scarcely observe, I reckon on 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 Archy, apparently satisfied with this pledge;
“I happen at this moment to need a certain sum of money, and would wish
to receive it on these securities. They are title deeds of a property,
which, for reasons I have no leisure at this moment to explain, is
at present held by a distant relative in trust for my heir. You may
perceive that the value is considerable”--and he pointed to a formidable
array of figures which covered one of the margins. “The sum I 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 parchments. “Devil take me, if I know
where it's all gone to. It was only last week I was trying to raise five
thousand for old Hoare on the Ballyrickan property, and I could not
get any one to advance me sixpence. The country is unsettled you see.
There's a notion abroad that we'll have a rising soon, and who knows
what's to become of landed property after.”
“This estate is in Perth,” said M'Nab, tapping the deeds with his
finger.
“So I perceive,” replied Swaby; “and they have no objection to a
'shindy' there too, sometimes. The Pretender got some of your countrymen
into a pretty scrape with his tricks. There are fools to be had for
asking, every where.”
“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 didn't say it was, all out,” said Swaby. “In about a week or two----”
“I must know before three days,” interrupted M'Nab.
“His honour's waiting for Mr. Swaby,” said Kerry, who now ap-peared in
the room, without either of the others having noticed his entrance.
Sir Archy rose with an angry brow, but spoke not a syllable, while he
motioned Kerry to leave the room.
“You must join my brother-in-law, sir,” said he at last; “and if our
conversation is not already become the gossip of the house, I entreat of
you to keep it a secret.”
“That, of course,” said Swaby; “but I'm thinking I've hit on a way to
meet your wishes, so we'll talk of the matter again this evening;” and
thus saying, he withdrew, leaving Sir Archy in a frame of mind very far,
indeed, from tranquil or composed.
Swaby's surprise at his interview with Sir Archy, whom he never had
the slightest suspicion of possessing any property whatever, was
even surpassed by his astonishment on hearing the favourable turn of
O'Donoghue's affairs; and, while he bestowed the requisite attention
to follow the old man's statement, his shrewd mind was also engaged
in speculating what probable results might accrue from this unexpected
piece of fortune, and how they could best be turned to his own benefit.
O'Donoghue was too deeply interested in his own schemes, to question
Swaby respecting his business with M'Nab, of which Kerry O'Leary
had already given him a hint. The attorney was, therefore, free to
deliberate in his own mind how far he might most advantageously turn the
prosperity of the one, to the aid of the other, for the sole benefit of
himself. It is not necessary, nor would it conduce to the object of
this story, to ask the reader's attention to this interview. It will be
enough to say, that Swaby heard with pleasure O'Donoghue's disclosure,
recognizing, with practised acuteness, how far he could turn such
unlooked-for prosperity to his own purposes, and subsidize one
brother-in-law, at the expense of both.
While thus each within the limit of this narrow household was following
out the thread of his destiny, eagerly bent on their several objects,
Kate O'Donoghue sat alone, at the window of her chamber, buried in deep
thought. The prospect of her approaching visit to the capital presented
itself in so many aspects, that, while offering 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 any 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 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 proffered with so much kindness.
The note itself must open the way, thought she, and at the instant she
remembered how Mark had taken it from the breakfast-table.
She heard his heavy step as he paced backwards and forwards in his
chamber overhead, and without losing another moment, hastily ascended
the stairs to his door; her hand was already outstretched to knock, when
suddenly she hesitated; a strange confusion came over her faculties--how
would Mark regard her request?--would he attribute it to over-eagerness
on the subject of the invitation. Such were the questions which occurred
to her; and as quick came the answer--“And let him think so. I shall
certainly not seek to undeceive him. He alone, of all here, has
vouchsafed me neither any show of his affection nor his confidence.”
The flush mounted to her cheek, and her eyes darkened with the momentary
excitement; and at the same instant the door was suddenly thrown open,
and Mark stood before her.
Such was his astonishment, however, that for some seconds he could not
speak; when at last he uttered in a low, deep voice--
“I thought I heard a hand upon the lock, and I am so suspicious of that
fellow, Kerry, who frequently plays the eaves-dropper 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
confusion, 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
humour was the discontent of one who felt the ignominy of an inglorious
life--that habits of recklessness had covered, but not obliterated the
traces of that bold and generous spirit for which his family had been
long distinguished; and now, for the first time, she believed she had
fallen on the evidences of such a temper. She pondered long on this
theme, and fancied how, under circumstances favourable to their
development, Mark's good qualities and courageous temper, had won for
him both fame and honour. “And here,” exclaimed she, half aloud, “here,
he may live and die a peasant!” With a deep sigh, she threw herself
into a chair, and as if to turn her thoughts into some channel less
suggestive of gloom, she opened the letter Mark had given her. Scarcely,
however, had she cast her eyes over it, when she uttered a faint cry,
too faint, indeed, to express any mere sense of fear, but in an accent
in which terror and amazement were equally blended.
The epistle was a brief one--not more than a few lines--and she had read
it at a glance, before ever there was time to consider how far her
doing so was a breach of confidence; indeed, the intense 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, and arms for double the number. Youghal is talked
of as a suitable spot; and H. has sent charts, &c. over.
Above all, be patient; trust no rumours, and rely on us for
the earliest and the safest intelligence. L. will hand you
this. You must contrive to learn the cipher, as any
correspondence discovered would ruin all.
“Your's 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
pre-occupation and his gloom? Was it to concentrate his faculties on
such a scheme, that he lived this lonely and secluded life? “Oh, Mark,
Mark, how have I misjudged 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 mistaking 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 conjured up. She knew he was the only tie that bound his father
to existence, and that any misfortune to Mark, would be the old man's
death-blow. Nor were these the most poignant of the 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 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 meditated
revolt, and if unable to dissuade him from participation, at least to
mingle with his resolves all she could of prudence, or good counsel. The
determination was scarcely formed, when she was once more at the door of
his chamber; she knocked twice, without any reply following, then gently
opened the door. The room was vacant, he was gone. I will write to him,
said she hurriedly, and with this new resolve, hastened to her chamber,
and began a letter.
The task she proposed to herself, was not so easy of accomplishment; a
dozen times, she endeavoured while explaining the accident that divulged
his secret, to impress him with the hazard of an undertaking,
so palpably depicted, and to the safe keeping of which, his own
carelessness, might prove fatal; but each effort 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 venturous career would expose him, she felt how every word
contradicted the tenor of her own assertions for many a day and week
previous. In utter despair how to act, she ended by enclosing the letter
with merely these few words:--
“I have read the enclosed, but your secret is safe with me.
“K. O'D.”
This done, she sealed the packet and had just written the address, when,
with a tap at the door, Sir Archy entered, and approached the table.
With a tact and delicacy he well understood, Sir Archy explained the
object of his visit--to press upon Kate's acceptance a sum of money
sufficient for her outlay in the capital. The tone of half authority he
assumed disarmed her at once, and made her doubt how far she could feel
justified in opposing the wishes of her friends concerning her.
“Then you really desire I should go to Dublin,” said she.
“I do, Kate, for many reasons--reasons which I shall have 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, drily; whileat
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 saying, he pressed her hand
fervently between his own and left the room.