It was with an impatience almost amounting to madness that Mark
O'Donoghue awaited the dawn of day; long before that hour had arrived he
had made every preparation for joining his friend. A horse stood ready
saddled awaiting him in the stable, and his pistols--the weapons Talbot
knew so well how to handle--were carefully packed in the heavy holsters.
The time settled for the meeting was seven o'clock, but he was certain
that Talbot would be near the place before that hour, if not already
there. The scene which followed Talbot's escape also stimulated his
anxiety to meet with him; not that any, even the faintest suspicion of
his friend's honour ever crossed Mark's mind, but he wished to warn him
of the dangers that were gathering around him, for were he arrested on a
suspicion, who was to say what material evidence might not arise against
him in his real character of a French spy. Mark's was not a character
long to brood over doubtful circumstances, and seek an explanation
for difficulties which only assumed the guise of suspicions. Too prone
always to be led by first impressions of every body and every thing, he
hated and avoided whatever should disturb the opinions he thus hastily
formed. When matters too complicated and knotty for his immediate
comprehension crossed him, he turned from them without an effort,
and rather satisfied himself that it was a point of honour to “go on
believing,” than harbour a doubt even where the circumstances were
calculated to suggest it. This frame of mind saved him from all
uneasiness on the score of Talbot's honour; he had often heard how many
disguises and masks his friend had worn in the events of his wild and
dangerous career, and if he felt how incapable he himself would have
been to play so many different parts, the same reason prevented his
questioning the necessity of such subterfuges. That Harry Talbot had
personated any or all of the persons mentioned by the constable, he
little doubted, and therefore he regarded their warrant after him
as only another evidence of his skill and cleverness, but that his
character were in the least involved, was a supposition that never once
occurred to him. Amid all his anxieties of that weary night, not one
arose from this cause; no secret distrust of his friend lurked in any
corner of his heart; his fear was solely for Talbot's safety, and for
what he probably ranked as highly--the certainty of his keeping his
appointment with Frederick Travers; and what a world of conflicting
feelings were here! At one moment a sense of savage, unrelenting hatred
to the man who had grossly insulted himself, at the next a dreadful
thrill of agony that this same Travers might be the object of his
cousin's love, and that on _his_ fate, _her_ whole happiness in life
depended. Had the meeting been between himself and Travers--had the time
come round to settle that old score of insult that lay between them,
he thought that such feelings as these would have been merged in the
gratified sense of vengeance, but now, how should he look on, and see
him fall by another's pistol?--how see another expose his life in the
place he felt to be his own? He could not forgive Talbot for this, and
every painful thought the whole event suggested, embittered him against
his friend as the cause of his suffering. And yet, was it possible for
him ever himself to have challenged Travers? Did not the discovery of
Kate's secret, as he called it to her, on the road below the cliff, at
once and for ever, prevent such a catastrophe? Such were some of the
harassing reflections which distracted Mark's mind, and to which his own
wayward temper and natural excitability gave additional poignancy; while
jealousy, a passion that fed and ministered to his hate, lived through
every sentiment and tinctured every thought. Such had been his waking
and sleeping thoughts for many a day-thoughts which, though lurking,
like a slow poison, within him, had never become so palpable to his mind
before; his very patriotism, the attachment he thought he felt to his
native country, his ardent desire for liberty, his aspirations for
national greatness, all sprung from this one sentiment of hate to the
Saxon, and jealousy of the man who was his rival. Frederick Travers was
the embodiment of all those feelings he himself believed were enlisted
in the cause of his country.
As these reflections crowded on him, they suggested new sources of
suffering, and in the bewildered frame of mind to which he was now
reduced, there seemed no possible issue to his difficulties. Mark was
not, however, one of those who chalk out their line in life in moments
of quiet reflection, and then pursue the career they have fixed upon.
His course was rather to throw passion and impulse into the same scale
with circumstances, and take his chance of the result. He had little
power of anticipation, nor was his a mind that could calmly array facts
before it, and draw the inferences from them. No, he met the dangers of
life, as he would have done those of battle, with a heart undaunted, and
a spirit resolved never to turn back. The sullen courage of his nature,
if it did not suggest hope, at least supplied resolution--and how many
go through life with no other star to guide them!
At last the grey dawn of breaking day appeared above the house-tops,
and the low distant sounds that prelude the movement of life in great
cities, stirred faintly without.
“Thank heaven, the night is over at last,” was Mark's exclamation, as he
gazed upon the leaden streak of cloud that told of morning.
All his preparations for departure were made, so that he had only to
descend to the stable, and mount his horse. The animal, he was told,
had formerly belonged to Talbot, and nothing save the especial favour of
Billy Crossley could have procured him so admirable a mount.
“He has never left the stable, sir,” said Billy, as he held the stirrup
himself--“he has never left the stable for ten days, but he has wind
enough to carry you two and twenty miles within the hour, if you were
put to it.”
“And if I were, Billy,” said Mark, for a sudden thought just flashed
across him--“if I were, and if I should not bring him back to you, his
price is----
“I wouldn't take a hundred guineas for him from any man living save Mr.
Talbot himself; but if it were a question of saving him from danger, or
any man he deems his friend, then, then, sir, I tell you fairly, Billy
Crossley isn't so poor a man, but he can afford to do a generous thing.
Take him. I see you know how to sit on him; use him well and tenderly,
keep him until you find the time to give him back, and now a good
journey to you wherever you go; and go quickly, whispered Billy, for
I see two fellows at the gate who appear listening attentively to our
conversation.
“Take that in any case as a pledge,” said Mark, as he pitched a purse,
containing above a hundred pounds in gold, towards Crossley, and before
the other could interpose to restore it, Mark had dashed his spurs
into the beast's flanks, and in another minute was hastening down
Thomas-street.
Mark had not proceeded far when he slackened his pace to a walk--he
remembered that it was yet two hours before the time, and with the old
spirit of a horseman, he husbanded the qualities of the noble animal
he bestrode. Whether it was, that as the moment approached which should
solve some of the many difficulties that beset him, or that the free
air of the morning, and the pleasure he felt on being once more in the
saddle, had rallied his mind and raised his courage, I know not, but
so it was; Mark's spirits grew each instant lighter, and he rode along
revolving other ones, if not happier thoughts, such as were at least in
a frame more befitting his youth and the bold heart that beat within
his bosom. The streets were deserted, the great city was sleeping, the
thoroughfares he had seen crowded with brilliant equipages and hurrying
masses of foot passengers, were still and vacant; and as Mark turned
from side to side to gaze on the stately public edifices now sleeping in
their own shadows, he thought of the dreadful conflict which, perchance,
it might be his own lot to lead in that same city--he thought of the
wild shout of the insurgent masses, as with long-pent-up, but now
loosened fury they poured into the devoted streets--he fancied the
swelling clangour which denoted the approach of troops, ringing through
the various approaches, and the clattering sounds of distant musketry as
post after post in different parts of the town was assailed. He halted
before the Castle gate, where a single dragoon sat motionless in his
saddle, his carbine at rest beneath his long cloak, the very emblem
of peaceful security, and as Mark gazed on him, his lip curled with an
insolent sneer as he thought over the false security of those within;
and that proud banner whose lazy folds scarce moved with the breath of
morning, “How soon may we see a national flag replace it?”--were the
words he muttered, as he resumed his way as slowly as before. A few
minutes after brought him in front of the College. All was still silent
in that vast area, along which at noon-day the wealth and the life of
the city poured. A single figure here appeared, a poor miserable object
in tattered black, who was occupied in affixing a placard on the front
of the Post-office. Mark stopped to watch him--there seemed something
sad and miserable in the lot of this one poor creature, singled out as
it were to labour while others were sunk in sleep. He drew near, and
as the paper was unfolded before him, read, in large letters, the words
“Capital Felony--£500 Reward”--and then followed a description of John
Barrington, which in every particular of height, age, look, and gesture,
seemed perfectly applicable to Talbot.
“Then, sorra one of me but would rather be tearing you down than putting
you up,” said the bill-sticker, as with his arms folded leisurely on his
breast, and his ragged hat set sideways on his head, he apostrophized
his handiwork.
“And why so, my good fellow,” said Mark, replying to the words. He
turned round rapidly, and pulling off his hat, exclaimed, in an accent
of unfeigned delight--“Tear-an-ages, captain, is it yourself? Och! och!
no,” added he, in a tone of as great despondency--“it is the black horse
that deceived me. I beg your honor's pardon.”
“And you know this horse,” said Mark, with some anxiety of manner.
The bill-sticker made no answer, but carefully surveyed Mark, for a few
moments from head to foot, and then, as if not perfectly satisfied with
the result of his scrutiny, he slowly resumed the implements of his
trade, and prepared to move on.
“Stop a moment,” said Mark, “I know what you mean, this horse
belonged to----” and he pointed with his whip to the name on the
placard. “Don't be afraid of me, then, for I am his friend, perhaps the
nearest friend he has in the world.”
“Av you were his brother, you don't like him better than I do myself.
I'll never forget the night he got his head laid open for me on the
bridge there beyant. The polis wanted to take me up for a bit of a
ballad I was singing about Major Sirr, and they were hauling me along
through the gutter, and kicking me at every step, when up comes the
captain, and he sent one flying here, and the other flying there, and
he tripped up the chief, calling out to me the whole time, 'Run for it,
Dinny--run for it like a man; I'll give you five minutes fair start of
them any way.' And he kept his word, though one of them cut his forehead
clean down to the bone; and here I am now sticking up a reward to take
him, God pardon me”--and the poor fellow uttered the last words in a
voice of self-reproach, that actually brought the tears into his eyes.
Mark threw him a crown, and pressed on once more; but somehow the
convictions which resisted, before, were now shaken by this chance
meeting. The recognition of the horse at once identified Talbot with
Barrington, and although Mark rejected altogether any thought which
impugned the honour of his friend, he felt obliged to believe that, for
some object of intrigue, Talbot had assumed the name and character
of this celebrated personage. The very fact of his rescuing the
bill-sticker strengthened this impression. Such an act seemed to Mark
far more in unison with the wayward recklessness of Talbot's character,
than with the bearing of a man who might thus expose himself to capture.
With the subtlety which the will supplies to furnish arguments for its
own conviction, Mark fancied how readily Talbot might have made this
personation of Barrington a master-stroke of policy, and while thus he
ruminated, he reached the sea shore, and could see before him that long
bleak track of sand, which, uncovered save at high tide, is called “the
Bull.” This was the spot appointed for the meeting, and, although now
within half an hour of the time, no figure was seen upon its bleak
surface. Mark rode on, and crossing the narrow channel of water which
separates “the Bull” from the main-land, reached the place over which,
for above two miles in extent, his eye could range freely. Still no one
was to be seen; the light ripple of the ebbing tide was the only sound
in the stillness of the morning; there was a calmness over the surface
of the sea, on which the morning sunbeams were slanting faintly,
and glittering like freckled gold, wherever some passing breeze or
shore-current stirred the waters. One solitary vessel could be seen,
and she, a small schooner, with all her canvas bent, seemed scarcely to
move.
Mark watched her, as one watches any object which relieves the
dreariness of waiting, he gazed on her tall spars and white sails
reflected in the sea, when suddenly a bright flash burst from her side,
a light-blue smoke, followed by a booming sound, rolled forth, and a
shot was seen skimming the surface of the water, for above a mile in her
wake; the next moment a flag was run up to her peak, when it fluttered
for a moment and was then lowered again. Mark's experience of a
smuggling life taught him at once to recognize these signs as signals,
and he turned his gaze towards the land to discover to whom they were
made; but although for miles long the coast lay beneath his view, he
could see nothing that corresponded with this suspicion. A single figure
on horseback was all that he could detect, and he was too far off to
observe minutely. Once more Mark turned towards the ship, which now was
feeling a fresher breeze and beginning to bead beneath it. The white
curl that broke from her bow, and rushed foaming along her sides, showed
that she was making way through the water, not as it seemed without the
will of those on board, for as the wind freshened they shook out their
mainsail more fully, and continued at every moment to spread sail after
sail. The hollow tramp of a horse's feet galloping on the strand made
Mark turn quickly round, and he saw the rider, whom he had observed
before, bending his course directly towards him. Supposing it must be
Talbot, Mark turned to meet him, and the horseman, who never slackened
his speed, came quickly within view, and discovered the features of
Frederick Travers. He was unaccompanied by friend or servant, and
seemed, from the condition of his horse, to have ridden at the top of
his speed. Before Mark could think of what apology he should make for,
or how explain Talbot's absence, Travers addressed him----
“I half feared that it might not be you, Mr. O'Donoghue,” said he, as
he wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he seemed no less exhausted
than his horse.
“I'm alone, sir,” said Mark; “and were you not unaccompanied by a
friend, I should feel the difficulty of my present position more
severely.”
“I know--I am aware,” said Travers, hurriedly, “your friend is gone. I
heard it but an hour since; you, in all likelihood, were not aware of
the fact, till you saw the signal yonder.”
“What!--Talbot's signal! Was that his?”
“Talbot, or Barrington,” said Travers, smiling; “perhaps we should
better call him by the name he is best known by.”
“And do you concur in the silly notion that confounds Harry Talbot with
a highwayman?” said Mark, sternly.
“I fear,” said Travers, “that in doing so I but follow the impression of
all the world. It was not the least clever thing he has eyer done, his
deception of you. Be assured, Mr. O'Donoghue, that the matter admits
of no doubt. The warrant for his apprehension, the informations sworn
against him, are not only plain and precise, but I have myself read
certain facts of his intimacy with you, the places you have frequented,
the objects for which, it is alleged, you were confederated--all these
are at this moment in the hands of the Secretary of State. Forgive me,
sir, if I tell you that you appear to have trusted too implicitly to
men who were not guided by your own principles of honor. This very day
a warrant for your own arrest will be issued from the Privy Council, on
the information of a man whom, I believe, you never suspected. He is a
horsedealer named Lawler--Lanty Lawler.”
“And he has sworn informations against me?”
“He has done more; he has produced letters written by your hand, and
addressed to different leaders of the United Irish party, letters whose
treasonable contents do not admit of a doubt.
“And the scoundrel has my letters?” said Mark, as his face grew purple
with passion.
“He has them no longer,” said Travers. “Here they are, sir. They Were
shown in confidence to my father, by one, who certainly is not your
friend. Sir Marmaduke asked permission to let me see them, and I have
taken on myself, without permission, to give them back to you.”
“At whose suggestion,” said Mark, proudly, “comes this act of grace?
Is it your father, who extends his protection to a tenant, or is it
yourself, whose wish is to humble me by an obligation?”
“There is none,” said Travers, frankly. “I believe, that scoundrels
without heart or courage have laid a trap for a man who has both one
and the other. I do not desire you should accept my conduct as a favour,
still less as offering any bar to such a reckoning between us as two
gentleman of equal place and standing may demand or expect from one
another.”
“Say you so, indeed!” cried Mark, as his eyes flashed with joy: “is that
your meaning?”
“There's my hand on it,” said Travers, “as friend or foe!”
Mark grasped his hand, and wrung it with a convulsive pressure.
“Then you are aware that you owe me such a reparation,” said he, in
a voice tremulous with emotion. “You do not forget the day at
Carrig-na-curra--beside the hearth--before my brother?”
“I remember it well,” said Travers. “I ask your pardon for the insult.
It was unworthy of me to have made the speech, nor have I been on good
terms with myself since I uttered it.”
Mark dropped his head, and uttered not a word. He could better have
looked on Travers wounded and bleeding than have seen him thus elevated
above himself by temper and manly candour. The vengeance he had
yearned after so long was not only snatched from his grasp, but in the
bitterness of disappointment its sting was turned against himself.
“This would be an unworthy cause of quarrel,” said Travers; “one of
which I could not but feel ashamed, and wherein you could have no pride.
If we are not to be friends--and I seek no man's friendship who is
not as willing to accept of mine--if we are not to be friends, let
our enmity be ratified on some better cause--we surely can have little
difficulty in finding one.”
Mark nodded assentingly, and Travers resumed--
“There is something still more pressing than this. My father will be
able to defer the issue of the warrant against you for three days, when
the Privy Council will again be summoned together. Until that time you
are safe. Make good use of it, therefore. Leave the capital--reach some
place of security; and, after some time, when the excitement of the
affair has passed away----”
“By a due expression of sorrow and penitence, I might be fortunate
enough to obtain the King's pardon. You were about to say so much. Is't
not so?”
“Not exactly,” said Frederick, smiling; “but now that the Government are
in possession of the secret details of this plot, and thoroughly aware
of the men engaged in it, and what their objects are, to persist in
it, would be hopeless folly. Believe me, the chances were never in your
favour, and at present you have not a single one left. For your sake,
Mr. O'Donoghue, this is most fortunate. The courage that would seem
madness in a hopeless cause, will win you fame and honour where the
prospects are fairer. There is a new world beyond the seas, where men of
hardy minds and enterprising spirits achieve rank and fortune--in India,
where war has all the features of chivalry, where personal daring and
heroism are surer roads to distinction than influence and patronage; no
prize will be too high for your aspirations.”
Mark was silent, and Travers conjecturing that his words were sinking
into his heart with a persuasive power, went on to re-picture the
adventurous life which should open to him, if he would consent to leave
his country, and seek fortune beyond the seas. As he continued to speak,
they rode along side by side, and at last came to that part of the
shore, where a road branched off. Here Mark suddenly drew up, and said--
“I must say good-bye here, Mr. Travers. My path will lie this way for
the present. Do not suspect me of want of feeling because I have not
thanked you for the part you have taken; but in truth you have averted
the evil from one whose life has nothing worth living for. You have
saved me from a danger, but I am without a hope. Betrayed and cheated
by those I trusted, I have little care for the future, because I have no
confidence in any thing. Nay, nay--don't speak of that again. I will not
go to India,--I will not accept of favours from a country that has been
the enemy of my own. The epaulette which _you_ wear with honour, would
be a badge of disgrace upon _my_ shoulder. Good-bye, I can afford to
thank you, because you have not made a service take the form of an
'amende.'”
Travers forbore to press him further. He wisely judged that enough had
been done for the present, and that his safety being provided for, time
and opportunity would both present themselves for the remainder. He
shook his proffered hand with cordiality, and they separated, Frederick
to return to Dublin, Mark to wander wherever chance might incline him.
“He said truly,” exclaimed Mark, as soon as he once more found himself
separated from his companion--“he said truly, the chances were never
in our favour, and at present we have not a single one left. The cause
which depends on such elements as these is worse than hopeless.” Such
were the words that broke from him, as, in sorrow and humiliation, he
remembered the character of his associates, and felt, in deep shame, the
companionship he had fallen into. “Had there been but one true to me!”
exclaimed he, in accents of misery, “I could have stood against the
shock, stout hearted; but to find all false--all!”
Seeking out some of the least frequented lanes, he rode on for
several miles, caring little which way, so long as he turned from the
capital;--for although as yet no personal danger threatened him,
a nervous sense of shame made him dread the sight of his former
acquaintances. Again and again did the thought recur to him: “How will
Kate hear me spoken of? In what light will my actions be displayed to
her? Is it as the miserable dupe of such a wretch as Lawler, or is it
as the friend and chosen companion of Barrington, I would be known? And
yet, what have I to fear, to whom no hope is left!”
Among the many sources of his sorrow, one recurred at every moment, and
mingled itself with every other thought: “What would their noble-hearted
friends in France say of them?--how would they speak of a land whose
struggle for freedom is stained with treachery, or which cannot number
in the ranks of its defenders but the felon or the outlaw?”
For the deceit practised on the people he felt bitterly. He knew with
what devotedness they followed the cause--the privations they had borne
in silence, awaiting the time of retribution--how they had forborne all
ebullitions of momentary passion, in expectation of the day of a greater
reckoning--with what trust they obeyed their leaders--how implicitly
they confided in every direction given for their guidance. Can
patriotism like this survive such a trial? Will they ever believe in
the words of their chief again?--were questions which his heart answered
despondingly.
The day wore over in these sad musings, and by evening, Mark, who had
made a wide circuit of the country, arrived at the village of Lucan,
where he passed the night. As day was breaking, he was again on the
road, directing his steps towards Wicklow, where in the wild district
near Blessington, he had acquaintance with several farmers, all
sincerely devoted to the “United party.” It was as much to rescue his
own character from any false imputations that might be cast on it, as
from any hope of learning favourable tidings, that he turned hither. The
mountain country, too, promised security for the present, and left him
time to think what course he should follow.
Mark did not miscalculate the good feeling of the people in this
quarter. No success, however triumphant, would have made him one half
so popular as his disasters had done. That he had been betrayed, was an
appeal stronger than all others to their best affections; and had the
deliverance of Ireland depended on his safety, there could not have been
greater efforts to provide for it, nor more heartfelt solicitude for his
own comfort. He found, too, that the treachery of individuals did not
shake general confidence in the success of the plot, so much hope had
they of French assistance and co-operation. These expectations were
often exaggerated, because the victories of the French armies had been
represented as triumphs against which no opposition availed; but
they served to keep up national courage; and the theme of all their
discourses and their ballads was the same: “The French will do us
right.”
If Mark did not fully concur in the expectations so confidently formed,
he was equally far from feeling disposed to throw any damper on them;
and at length, as by daily intercourse these hopes became familiarized
to his mind, he ended by a partial belief in that future to which all
still looked, undismayed by past reverses: and in this way time rolled
on, and the embers of rebellion died not out, but smouldered.