We must beg of our reader to retrace his steps once more to the
valley of Glenflesk, but only for a fleeting moment. When last we left
Carrig-na-curra it was at night, the party were at supper in the old
tower, and Kerry stood outside, rehearsing to himself for the tenth time
the manner in which he should open his communication. The sound of
Mark's voice, raised above its ordinary pitch, warned him that his
mission might not be without danger, if perchance any thing on his part
might offend the youth. None knew better than Kerry the violent temper
of the young O'Donoghue, and how little restraint he ever put upon any
scheme he thought of to vent his humour on him who crossed him. It was
an account of debtor and creditor then with him, how he should act; on
the one side lay the penalties, on the other the rewards of his
venture--how was he to escape the one and secure the other? A moment's
reflection suggested the plan.
“I'll not go in, divil a step, but I'll tell I was convarsin' with them
this half hour, and that the rope and the bit of lead is a new way they
do have for catching mermaids and other faymale fishes in the Bay;
and sure if I only say that there's an act of Parlimint agin doin' it,
she'll not only believe it all, but she'll keep the saycret to her dying
bed;” and with this profound reflection on Mrs. Branagan's character,
and a face of very well got up surprise, Kerry re-entered the kitchen to
announce his discovery.
It is not our intention to dwell on the scene that followed; we have
merely adverted to the fact inasmuch as that on the trivial circumstance
of Kerry's resolve depended the discovery of a plot, which, if once
known to M'Nab, would immediately have been communicated to the
Government. The fates willed it otherwise, and when the party separated
in the old tower, Sir Archy was as little satisfied concerning Talbot's
character as ever, and as eager to ascertain whence and wherefore he
came, and with what intention he had made Mark's acquaintance. With many
a wily scheme for the morrow, the old man went to rest, determining to
spare no pains to unravel the mystery--a fruitless resolve after all,
for when day broke, Talbot and Mark were already away, many miles on the
road to Dublin.
The O'Donoghue's first act on completing his arrangements with Swaby,
was to place at Mark's disposal a sum of five hundred pounds, an amount
far greater than ever the young man had at any time possessed in
his life. Talbot, to whom the circumstance was told by Mark, readily
persuaded him to visit Dublin, not merely for the pleasures and
amusements of the capital, but that he might personally be made known to
the Delegates, and see and confer with those who were the directors
of the threatened rebellion.. Talbot understood perfectly the kind of
flattery which would succeed with the youth, and by allusion to his
ancient lineage, his more than noble blood, the rights to which he was
entitled, and to which he would unquestionably be restored, not only
stimulated his ardour in the cause, but bound him in a debt of gratitude
to all who encouraged him to engage in it.
Mark's character, whatever its faults, was candid and frank in every
thing; he made no secret to his new friend of his present unhappiness,
nor did he conceal that an unpaid debt of vengeance with respect to
young Travers weighed heavily on his spirits. It was the first time in
his life he had tasted the bitterness of an insult, and it worked like
a deadly poison within him, sapping the springs of his health and
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 witnessing the splendour
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 ruminated on the chances of meeting his enemy and provoking him
to a duel.
It was on the evening of the third day after they left Carrig-na-curra
that they drew near the capital, and after a promise from Mark that in
every thing he should be guided by his friend, nor take any step without
his counsel and advice, they both entered the city.
“You see, Mark,” said Talbot, as after passing through some of the wider
and better lighted thoroughfares, they approached a less frequented and
more gloomy part of the town; “you see, Mark, that the day is not come
when we should occupy the place of honour, an humble and quiet hotel
will best suit us for the present, but the hour is not very distant, my
boy, when the proudest mansion of the capital 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,
commanded a view of the river through one of the narrow streets leading
down to the quay.
“This was the fashionable house some fifty years back,” said Talbot as
he assisted his friend to alight; “and though the heyday of its youth
is over, there are many generous qualities in its good old age--not your
father's cellar can boast a better bottle of Burgundy.”
Talbot's recommendation was far from being unmerited, the “Black Jack”
as the inn was named, was a most comfortable house of the old school,
with large, low-ceilinged rooms, wide stairs, and spacious corridors;
the whole, furnished in a style, which, though far from pretending to
elegance or fashion, possessed strong claims for the tired traveller,
seeking rest and repose. Here then our young travellers alighted.
Talbot being received with all the courteous urbanity due to an old
acquaintance; the landlord himself appearing to do the honours of the
house, and welcome a valued guest.
“We must get our host, Billy Crossley, to sup with us, Mark. No one can
tell us so much of how matters are doing here, for, 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 pretensious exterior. Mr. Crossley doing the
honours of the table, like a host entertaining his friends.
“I scarcely had expected to see you so soon, Mr. Talbot,” said he, when
the servants had left the room, and the party drew round the fire. “They
told me you would pass the winter in the country.”
“So I had intended, Billy, but as good luck would have it, I made
an acquaintance in the south, which changed my plans, my friend, Mr.
O'Donoghue here, and as he had never seen the capital, and knew nothing
of your gay doings, I thought I'd just take a run back, and show him at
least, the map of the land.”
“My service to you, sir,” said Billy, bowing to Mark; “it would be hard
to have got a better guide than you have in Master Harry. I can assure
you, so far as wickedness goes, he's a match for any thing here--from
the Royal Barracks to Trinity College.”
“Flattery, gross flattery, Bill. I was your own pupil, and you can't
help partiality.”
“You are a most favourable specimen of private tuition, there's no doubt
of it,” said Crossley, laughing, “and I have reason to be proud of you.
Did Mr. O'Donoghue ever hear of your clearing out Hancey Hennessy at
hazard--the fellow that carried the loaded dice?”
“Have done, Bill. None of these absurd stories now.”
“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'Donoghue. You'd swear the beast had a bad blood spavin
if you saw him move, and he all the time a three-quarter bred horse,
without a stain or a blemish about him.”
Talbot seemed for a second or two somewhat uneasy at these familiar
reminiscences of his friend Crossley, not knowing precisely how Mark
might take them; but when he saw that a hearty laugh was the 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 postillion to Steevens' chaise,
because that way he was sure to win his wager. All went right. The
bluejacket 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 horse-shoe 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.'
“By my conscience, he is not,” said Talbot, for at that moment he spied
Steevens starting from the door at a round trot, and with that he turned
the bishop's horses sharp round, laid the whip heavily over them, and
took the lead towards Wicklow.
[Illustration: 304]
“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 gee 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 preparations 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 humour in circumstances of difficulty. An irresistible impulse
to play the fool, even at a moment when high interests were at stake,
has saved me more than once from detection; and from habit I have
acquired a kind of address at the practice, that with the world passes
for cleverness. And so, in turn, I have been an actor, a smuggler,
a French officer, an Irish refugee, a sporting character, a man of
pleasure, and a man of intrigue; and however such features may have
blended themselves into my true character, my real part has remained
undetected. Master Crossley here might furnish a hint or two towards it;
but--but, as Peachem says, 'we could hang one another'--eh, Bill?”
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 hear, 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
suspicions, 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 collected--so
do they feel all the excitement of hazard in the game of address. Under
an impulse of this kind was it that Talbot spoke, and the unguarded
freedom of his manner showed even to so poor an observer as Mark, that
the words contained a hidden meaning.
“And our gay city of Dublin--what of it, Billy?” said he, at length
rallying from his mood of thought, as he nodded his head, and drank to
Crossley.
“Pretty much as you have always known it. 'A short life and a merry
one,' seems the adage in favour here. Every one spending his money and
character--”
“Like gentlemen, Bill--that's the phrase,” interrupted Talbot; “and a
very comprehensive term it is, after all. But what is the Parliament
doing?”
“Voting itself into Government situations.”
“And the Viceroy?”
“Snubbing the Parliament.”
“And 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 playmen now?”
“The old set. Tom Whaley and Lord Drogheda--your old friend, Giles
Daxon--Sandy Moore----”
“Ah, what of Sandy? They told me he won heavily at the October races.”
“So he did--beggared the whole club at hazard, and was robbed of the
money the night after, when coming up through Naas.”
“Ha! I never heard of that, Billy. Let us hear all about it.”
“It's soon told, sir. Sandy, who never tries economy till he has won
largely, and is reckless enough of money when on the verge of ruin,
heard, on leaving the course, that a strange gentleman was waiting to
get some one to join him in a chaise up to Dublin. Sandy at once sent
the waiter to open the negociations, which were soon concluded, and the
stranger appeared--a fat, unwieldy-looking old fellow, with a powdered
wig and green goggles--not a very sporting style of travelling
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'll follow the chaise--my son taught her that trick,' said the
old fellow, as he hobbled out of the inn, and took his place in the
carriage.
“Well, in jumped Sandy, all his pockets bursting with guineas, and a
book of notes crammed into his hat--very happy at his adventure, but
prouder of saving half the posting than all besides.
“'Keep to your ten miles an hour, my lad, or not a sixpence,' said the
old gentleman, and he drew his night-cap over his eyes, and was soon
snoring away as sound as need be.
“That was the last was seen of him, however, for when the postillion
drew up for fresh horses at Carrick's, they found Sandy alone in the
chaise, with his hands tied behind him, and his mouth gagged. His
companion and the dark chestnut were off, and all the winnings along
with them.”
“Cleverly done, by Jove,” cried Talbot, in an ecstacy of admiration.
“What a contemptible fellow your friend Sandy must be,” exclaimed Mark,
in the same breath. “Man to man--I can't 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 knowledge of mankind; his observations were ever
shrewd and caustic, and his views of life, those of one, who looked at
the world with a scrutinizing glance, and although the young O'Donoghue
would gladly have seen in his young companion some traces of the
enthusiasm he himself experienced in the contemplated rising, he felt
convinced that a cooler judgment, and a more calculating head than his,
were indispensable requisites to a cause beset with so many dangers. He,
therefore, implicitly yielded himself to Talbot's guidance, resolving
not to go anywhere, nor see any one, even his brother, save with his
knowledge and consent.
If the scenes into which Talbot introduced Mark O'Donoghue were not
those of fashionable 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 the company at each, and not a
little of their private history; still it seemed as if he himself were
but little known, and rather received for the recommendation of good
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 introducing
him to the leading members of the insurgent party, and latterly had even
but very rarely alluded to the prospect of the contemplated movement.
The young O'Donoghue was not one to harbour any secret thought long
unuttered in his breast, and he briefly expressed to Talbot his
surprise--almost his dissatisfaction--at the life they were leading. At
first Talbot endeavoured to laugh off such inquiries, or turn them aside
by some passing pleasantry; but when more closely pressed, he avowed
that his present part was a duty imposed upon him by his friends in
France, who desired above all things to ascertain the feeling among
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 thrown around them.
“There must be bribes for all temperaments, Mark,” said he, at the end
of a very lengthened detail of his views and stratagems. “Glory is 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 inconsistent, that I
may be least so in reality. I see you are not satisfied with me, Mark,
and I am sorry to incur a friend's reproach even for a brief season;
but come--I make you a pledge. To-day is the 12th; in five days more the
Viceroy gives his St. Patrick's ball, at which I am to meet one of
our confederates. You seem surprised at this; but where can man speak
treason so safely as under the canopy of the Throne?”
“But how do you mean to go there? You do not surely expect an
invitation.”
“Of course not; but I shall go notwithstanding, and you with me. Ay,
Mark, never frown and shake your head. This same ball is a public
assembly, to which all presented at the Levees are eligible, without
any bidding or invitation. Who is to say that Harry Talbot and Mark
O'Donoghue have not paid their homage to mock royalty? If you mean that
there is some danger in the step, I agree with you there is; but you are
not the man, I take it, to flinch on that account.”
This adroit stroke of Talbot's settled the matter; and Mark felt ashamed
to offer any objection to a course, which, however disinclined to, he
now believed was accompanied by a certain amount of peril.