When the long-wished-for evening drew nigh, in which Talbot had pledged
himself to reveal to Mark the circumstances of their enterprise, and
to make him known to those concerned in the plot, his manner became
flurried and excited;--he answered, when spoken to, with signs of
impatience, and seemed so engrossed by his own thoughts, as to be unable
to divert his attention from them. Mark, in general the reverse of a
shrewd observer, perceived this, and attributing it to the heavy losses
he had latterly incurred at play, forebore in any way to notice
the circumstance, 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 himself of some unwelcome reflections.
“It is almost time to dress, Mark,” said he, with an effort to seem easy
and unconcerned. “Let us have another flask of Burgundy 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 drank too much already, Mark? Not far
wrong there, perhaps, and under ordinary circumstances such would be the
case; but there are times when the mind, like the body, demands double
nourishment, and with me wine strengthens, never confuses thought.
Do you know, Mark, that I have a presentiment of some evil before
me;--whence, and in what shape it is to come, I 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.
Talbot made no answer, but leaned his head on the chimney-piece, and
seemed buried in deep thought;--then recovering himself, he said, in a
low, but distinct accent--
“Did you take notice of a fellow at the tennis-court the other day,
who stood beside me all the time I was settling with the marker? Oh!
I forgot--you were not there. Well, there was such a one--a
flashy-looking, vulgar fellow, with that cast of countenance that
betokens shrewdness and cunning. I met him yesterday in the Park, and
this evening, as I came to dinner, I saw him talking to the landlord's
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 your's? Let us begin to take fright
at shadows, and we shall make but a sorry hand of it, when real dangers
approach us.”
“The shadows 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 own fears,” said Mark, rudely, and walked towards the window. “Is
that anything like your friend, Talbot?” added he, as he beheld the dark
outline of a figure, which seemed standing, intently looking up at 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 muffled up with great-coat and cravat, I cannot clearly
distinguish him.”
“Indeed! Do, for heaven's sake, think of where you saw him, and when,
Mark; for I own my anxiety about him is more than common.”
“I'll soon find out for you,” said Mark, suddenly seizing his hat;--but
at the same instant the door opened, and a waiter appeared.
“There's a gentleman below stairs, Mr. Talbot, would be glad to speak a
few words with you.”
Talbot motioned, by an almost imperceptible gesture, that Mark should
retire into the adjoining room; and then, approaching the waiter, asked,
in a low cautious voice, if the stranger were known to him.
“No, sir--never saw him before. He seems like one from the 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 chesnut
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 wouldn't pass any more of it, till I seen yourself,
and maybe you'd change it for me.”
While he was speaking, Talbot's eye never wandered from him--not fixed,
indeed, with any seeming scrutiny, but still intently watching every
play of his features.
“You told me at the time, however, that French gold was just as
convenient to you as English,” said he, smiling good-humouredly, “and
from the company I met you in, I found no difficulty in 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--
“Very well, Lanty; if you will come here to-morrow, I'll exchange your
gold for you.”
“Thank your honor kindly,” said Lanty, with a bow; but still making no
sign of leaving the room, where he stood, changing from one foot to the
other, in an attitude of bashful diffidence. “There was another little
matter, sir, but I'd be sorry to trouble you about it--and sure you
couldn't help it, besides.”
“And that is--Let us hear it, Lanty.”
“Why, sir, it's the horse--the mare with the one white fetlock. They
say, sir, that she was left at Moran's stables by the man that robbed
Mr. Moore of Moorecroft. Deaf Collison, the post-boy, 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 of 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 more to say to you, if I could
only remember it.” He passed his hand across his brow as he spoke, and
looked like one labouring to recall some lost thought. “No matter,” said
he, after a pause of some minutes; “I shall perhaps recollect it before
to-morrow.”
“Good night to you, then, sir,” said Lanty, with a most obsequious bow,
as he opened the door.
Their eyes met: it was only for a moment; but with such 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'll give
you the money.”
“Done, then!” cried Lanty, grasping his hand; “And you'll ask no more
than his name?”
“Nothing more. I pledge my word; and here's the money.”
“Captain Hemsworth, the agent to the rich Englishman in Glen-flesk.”
“I don't think I ever saw him in my life--I'm certain I don't know him.
Is he a tall, dark man?”
“I'll tell you no more,” said Lanty. “The devil a luck I ever knew come
of speaking of him.”
“All fair, Lanty--a bargain's a bargain; and so, good-night.” 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 is just as I feared, Mark;
there is danger brewing for me in some quarter, but how, and in
what shape, I cannot even guess. This same horsedealer, this Lanty
Lawler----”
“Lanty Lawler, did you say?”
“Yes. You know him, then?”
“To be sure I do. We've had many dealings together. He's a shrewd
fellow, and not over-scrupulous in the way of his trade; but, apart from
that, he's a true-hearted, honest fellow, and a friend to the cause.”
“You think so, Mark,” said Talbot, with a smile of significant meaning.
“I know it, Talbot. He is not an acquaintance of yesterday with me. I
have known him for years long. He is as deep in the plot as any, and
perhaps has run greater risks than either of us.”
“Well, well,” said Talbot, sighing, as though either weary of the
theme, or disinclined to contradict the opinion; “let us think of other
matters. Shall we go to this ball or not? I incline to say nay.”
“What! Not go there?” said Mark, starting back in astonishment.
“Why, what in heaven's name have we been waiting for, but this very
opportunity?--and what reason is there now to turn from our plans?”
“There may be good and sufficient ones, even though they should be
purely personal to myself,” said Talbot, in a tone of ill-dissembled
pique. “But come; we will go. I have been walking over a mine too long
to care for a mere petard. And now, let us lose no more time, but dress
at once.”
“Must I really wear this absurd dress, Talbot? For very shame's sake, I
shall not be able to look about me.”
“That you must, Mark. Remember that your safety lies in the fact that we
attract no notice of any kind. To be as little remarked as 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'll give you all your instructions. And now to dress, as
quickly as may be.”