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
apparent 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 recognise 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 jealous, 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 recognised 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, which 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 homage shall be rendered to
a native Sovereign. Ha! there goes one of the privileged class--that
carriage, with the two footmen, is the Lord Chancellor's, he has the
right of the private 'entrée,' 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,
notwithstanding the strong force of mounted police that kept the street
clear, some adventurous spirit was always ready to rush forward 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 favour 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, boys--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 footmen behind the carriage.
“Here's Luttrel, here's Luttrel,” cried out several together, and in a
moment the excitement, which before was all of joy, assumed a character
of deepest execration.
Aware of the popular feeling towards him, this gentleman's carriage
was guarded by two troopers of the horse police--nor was the precaution
needless, for no sooner was he recognised, 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 traitor,” shouted a
savage-looking fellow, who stood a head and shoulders above the crowd.
“Couldn'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 on, 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 conciliated
mob estimation, than all the attributes of political partizanship.
“Bring us a lamp here, bring us a lamp,” cried a miserable 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 triumphal 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 humouring the
eccentricity of the people, lowered the glass to permit them to see in.
A respectful 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 favour, the carriage
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 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,” 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, leaning his head out, whispered a few words in a low
voice; whatever their import, their effect was magical, and a hurra, as
wild as the war-cry of an Indian, shook the street.
“What was it you said?” cried Mark.
“Three word in Irish,” said Talbot, laughing; “they are the only three
in my vocabulary, and their meaning is 'wait awhile;' and somehow, it
would seem a very significant intimation to Irishmen.”
The carriage moved on, and the two friends soon alighted in the
brilliantly-illuminated vestibule, now lined with battleaxe-guards, and
resounding with the clangor of a brass band. Mixing with the crowd
that poured up the staircase, they passed into the first drawing-room,
without stopping to write their names, as was done by the others, Talbot
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 dauntless 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 by rank
and personal appearance, in reality, their characters had little claim
to his respect. With such success did he demolish reputations--so
fatally did his 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,
unrelenting tyrant; that the bishop, whose simple bearing and
gentle quietude of manner were most winning, was in reality 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 profligacy 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 remarked.
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 splendour 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 current of his blood, and his pulse beat high and madly. All the
bitter thoughts he had harboured against his country's enemies could
not stand before his admiration of that gorgeous 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 familiar circles, all in the full enjoyment
of the brilliant festivity. Like a child roaming at will through some
beauteous 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 endeavoured 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
overheard 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 adversary 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
splendour of a gold snuff-box surrounded by enormous diamonds, evinced
the taste for magnificence for which he was celebrated. There was an air
of dignity with which he took his seat, saluting the acquaintances he
recognised 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 favours 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 favour with the softer sex.
“According to that theory, my lord, I have the advantage over you at
present.”
This adroit flattery of the other's earlier reputation as a gallant,
seemed to please him 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 Clangoff 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 studied insults had been a theme he was familiar with from boyhood.
All fear of his being recognised 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
concentrated on Talbot, never turned his eyes towards any other quarter.
The moment seemed favourable for Mark, and gently retiring through the
crowd, he at last disengaged himself, and sat down on a bench near a
door-way. 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 eyes 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 Lieutenant, 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'll take care that nothing unpleasant shall arise in consequence. Just
remain here for a moment.”
“Stay, sir,” said Mark, as Travers arose from his seat; “I hate
accepting favours, even should they release me from a position as
awkward as this is. Here comes my friend, Talbot, and he'll perhaps
explain what I cannot.”
“I have lost my money, Mark,” said Talbot, coming forward, 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 am 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' face flushed up, and his his 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 tomorrow.”
Mark turned one look towards Kate, who was just in the act of accepting
Travers' 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
honour 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.
“Because if I don't mistake much, you will not have the opportunity of
wiping out your old score with him. I'll 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 already 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 down stairs. 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 favoured with somewhat doubtful company.”
[Illustration: 326]
“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 instant 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 insulting glances
that fell upon him, and he was in the very act 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,” 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 stair?” said Talbot,
inquiringly.
“Yes; he was polite enough to come up when you 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 France, 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.”
“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 insure you
the possession of your property and estate, as it was left to you by
your grandfather, 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 willing 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 you 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 weakness, I scarcely ever thought to
feel. We shall soon be separated, who knows when we shall meet again,
if ever. Now, if men should speak of me in terms unworthy of one who has
been your friend, laying to my charge acts of dishonour----”
“Who will dare to do so before me?” said Mark, indignantly.
“It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your defence of me
when absent--as much as that you will yourself 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, showing him the
superscription.
“I know that hand-writing,” 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 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 you think I wanted this certificate of birth or
baptism to claim my name or my kindred?”
“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, flippantly, “to believe
your father, a man of honour, 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'll 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. Very 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 money 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 unjust. 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 those they have ever looked up to and revered.
But remember, 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 repair of his shattered
fortunes--of his affection 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 honoured 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 his 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 a purchase without
a title, must needs yield to any conditions you think fit to impose--you
have but to threaten-----”
“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 honour 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 Lawless
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 hindrance; 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'll be true to time; if not----”
The remainder of his sentence was cut short by the hurrying 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 circumstance, 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 they
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.
[Illustration: 334]
“You shall see my warrant when you have answered my question. Meanwhile
these may be of some consequence,” 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'll dash your
head against the wall.”
The insolence of this threat might have been followed by ill
consequences, had not Lanty sprung hastily forward, 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 warrant for the arrest 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 apartment and the bed-room 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 wasn'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----”
“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 continue to refuse information concerning him,
I'll take you as my prisoner. I have two warrants against him--one for
highway robbery, the other for treason.”
“Why 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. “Whoever he is, you are looking for, seems to have
a clear conscience.”
“Master Mark knows nothing at all about him, I'll go bail to any
amount.”
“We don't want your bail, my good friend; we want the man who calls
himself Harvey Middleton in Herts, Godfrey Middleton in Surrey, 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
pointing 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 listened to these
imputations on the honour 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?”
“Sure didn't you hear yourself,” replied Lanty, in a simpering, mock
bashful voice. “They say he's Barrington the robber, and faith, they've
strong evidence that they're not far out. 'Tis about a horse I sold
him that I came here. I didn't want to harm or hurt any body, 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 party, and arrange for the rising?”
“Is it in earnest you are?” cried Lanty, with an expression 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 horsedealer
looked confused, and for a second seemed undetermined how to act; but
suddenly recovering his composure, he smiled significantly at Mark,
wished him a good night, and departed.