It was about two months after the events detailed in the last chapter,
on the evening of a bright day in midsummer, that a solitary traveller
was seen descending one of the mountain-passes which lead from Macroom
to Glengariff, and which were only known to those well acquainted with
the place. He led his horse by the bridle, for the ground did not admit
of riding; but were it otherwise, the beast showed too many signs of a
hard journey not to make the course advisable, and in this respect both
horse and rider well agreed. The man, though young and athletic, was
emaciated and weary-looking. His clothes, once good, seemed neglected;
and his beard, unshaven and uncared for, gave an air of savage
ferocity to a face pale and care-worn, while his horse, with as many
evidences of better days, exhibited unquestionable signs of fatigue
and bad-feeding. The path by which he descended was the cleft worn by a
mountain-torrent, a rough and rugged road, with many spots of difficulty
and danger, but neither these nor the scene which unfolded itself in the
glen beneath, attracted any share of his attention; and yet few scenes
were fairer to look upon. The sun was just setting, and its last glories
were lighting up the purple tints upon the mountains, and shedding a
flood of golden hue over lake and river. The bright yellow of the furze,
and the gay colours of the foxglove contrasted with the stern grandeur
of the dark rocks, while in the abundance of wild holly and arbutus
which grew from even the most precipitous places, the scene had a
character of seeming cultivation to an eye unpractised to the foliage of
this lovely valley. The traveller, who, for above an hour, had pursued
his way, treading with the skill of a mountaineer over places where
a false step might have perilled life, and guiding his horse with a
caution that seemed an instinct, so little of his attention did it
exact, at last halted, and, leaning his arm over his saddle, stood for
some time in contemplation of the picture. From the spot on which he
stood, one solitary cabin was discernible on the side of the road that
wound through the valley, and from whose chimney a thin blue smoke
slowly curled, and floated along the mountain side. On this little
habitation the traveller's eyes were fixedly bent, until their gaze was
dimmed by a passing emotion. He drew his hand roughly over his face, as
if angry at his own weakness, and was about to proceed on his way, when
a shrill whistle from a cliff above his head arrested his step. It was
a mountain recognition he well knew, and was about to reply to, when
suddenly, with a bounding speed that seemed perilous in such a place,
a creature clad in the most tattered rags, but with naked legs and bare
head, came springing towards him.
“I knew you from the top of Goorhaun dhub--I knew you well, Master Mark.
There's not many with a good coat on their back could venture over the
way you came, and I said to myself it was you,” cried Terry the Woods,
as with his pale features lit up his smiles, he welcomed the young
O'Donoghue to his native hills.
“How are they all yonder?” asked Mark, in a voice scarcely above a
whisper, pointing with his finger up the glen in the direction of
Car-rig-na-curra, but which was not visible from where they were.
“I saw the master yesterday,” replied Terry, who applied to the
O'Donoghue the respected title by which he was known in his own
household. “He was sitting on a big chair at the window, and the young
girl with the black eyes was reading to him out of a book--but sorra
much he was mindin' it, for when he seen me he beckoned this way, and
says he, 'Terry, you villain, why don't you ever come up here now and
talk to me?' 'Faix,' says I, 'I haven't the heart to do it. Since
Master Mark was gone, I didn't like the place,' and the master wiped his
eyes, and the young girl made a sign to me not to speak about that any
more.”
“And who is at 'the Lodge' now?” asked Mark, endeavouring tore-strain
any semblance of emotion, even before Terry.
“There's nobody but the agent. The family is over in England till the
house is ready for them. Oh, then, but you'll wonder to see the illigant
place it is now, wid towers and spires all over it--the ground all
gardens, with grass walks as fine as a carpet, and the beautifullest
flowers growin' against the walls and up against the windows, and a
fountain, as they call it, of cool water spouting up in the air, and
coming down like rain.”
“And my brother--where is he?”
“He's over in England with the family from 'the Lodge;' the black-eyed
girl, Miss Kate, wouldn't go. They say--but there's no knowing if it's
true--they say she likes Hemsworth better than the Captain--and troth,
if she does, its a dhroll choice.”
“Like Hemsworth! Do they say that my cousin likes Hemsworth?” said Mark,
whose anger was only kept down by gazing on the tranquil features of the
poor witless object before him.
“They do,” said Terry quietly, “and it's razonable, too, seein' that
he's never out of the house from morning till night.”
“What house?--where do you mean?”
“What house but Carrig-na-curra--your father's house.”
Mark passed his hand across his forehead, and over his closed eyelids,
and for a second or two seemed trying to dispel some horrible vision,
for deep-rooted as was his jealousy of Frederick Travers, his most
gloomy forebodings had never conjured up the thought of such a rival
as Hemsworth, nor did he now credit it. His indignation was, however,
scarcely less to think that this man should now be received on terms of
intimacy, perhaps of friendship, by those he so long pursued with
insult and oppression. He paid no attention to Terry, as he continued
to narrate the changes effected in his absence, and the various surmises
current among the people to account for his long absence, when at length
they approached the high road that led up the valley. Here Terry halted,
and, pointing in the direction of Mary's cabin, about half a mile
distant, said--
“I can't go any further with you. I dar'n't go there.”
“And why not, my poor fellow?” said Mark, compassionately, for the
terror depicted in his face too plainly indicated the return of some
hallucination.
“They're there, now,” said Terry, in a faint whisper, “watching for me.
They're five weeks waiting to catch me, but if I keep in the mountains I
needn't care.”
“And who are they, Terry?”
“The soldiers,” said Terry, trembling all over. “I ran away from them,
and they want to shoot me for desarting.”
“And there are soldiers quartered at Mary's now?”
“Ay, and at Macroom, and at Bantry, and Kinsale--they have them all
round us; but devil a one o' me cares; so long as they keep to the
towns, I'll never trouble them.”
“And how does poor Mary bear it?” said Mark.
“Bad enough, I hear, for nobody ever goes into the house at all, since
she had the red-coats, and there she's pining away every day; but I must
be going. I'll come down and see you soon, Master Mark, and I hope you
won't lave us in a hurry again.” Terry did not wait for any rejoinder
to this speech, but with the agility of his wild life, sprung lightly
up the mountain, from whence his voice was heard gaily carolling as he
went, long afterwards.
Mark looked after him for a few moments, and probably amid the
compassionate feelings with which he regarded the poor creature, there
were mingled others of actual envy, so light-hearted and happy did he
seem amidst all his poverty.
“I could even change with him,” said Mark, aloud, and then, as if he had
unburdened his heart of its weary load, he resumed his way.
The grey twilight was fast merging into night, as he approached the
little inn, nor was it without emotion that he watched the light that
streamed from the windows across the road. Many an evening of his happy
boyhood had been passed beside that humble hearth--many a thrilling tale
and many a merry story had he listened to, there. Beneath that roof it
was he first imbibed the proud thoughts of his house and family, and
learned to know the estimation in which men held his name. It was there
he first felt the spirit of chieftainship, and there, too, he had first
devoted himself to the cause of his country. Alas! these were but sad
memories, how he had lived to find himself deceived, by every one he had
trusted; falsehood and treachery in so many shapes surrounded him, that
it needed only the extinction of hope to make him feel his life a weary
and unprofitable load. He stood for a few seconds before the door, and
listened with an indignant spirit to the coarse revelry of the soldiers
who caroused within. Their very laughter smote upon his ear like
derision, and he turned away from the spot, angry and impatient. Some
vague resolve to return home and take a last farewell of his father, was
the only plan he could fix on; whither, afterwards, or how, he knew not,
nor did he care. Like most men who attribute their failures in life to
evil destinies that sway them, and not to their own faults and follies,
his fatalism urged him to a recklessness of the future, and in place of
hope there sprung up in his heart a strange feeling of wonder to think,
what trials and straits fortune might yet have in store for him. He
often deliberated with himself how he should meet, and how part with his
father--whether acknowledge that he knew the secret of the deceit that
had been practised upon him, or whether he should conceal that knowledge
within his own bosom. To do the latter was his final resolve. To spare
the old man the added misery of knowing that his son had detected his
criminality, was the suggestion of his better and purer feeling, and
even though his leaving him should thus be wanting in the only excuse
he could proffer, he preferred this to the misery another course would
entail.
At last he reached the old gateway, and often as it had been his lot to
bring beneath its shadow a heavy and sorrow-struck heart, never had he
passed it so deeply depressed as now.
“Come on, good beast,” he said, patting the wearied horse, “you shall
have rest here, and that,” said he, with a sigh, “that, is more than I
can promise to myself.”
With these sad words he toiled up the steep ascent, and gained the
terrace in front of the Castle. There were lights burning in the old
tower and in the hall, but all the rest of the building was in darkness.
The door lay open, and as Mark stood within it, he could hear the mellow
sounds of a harp which came floating softly through the long-vaulted
corridor, blended with a voice that stirred the fibres of his strong
heart, and made him tremble like a child.
“Why should I not linger here?” thought he; “why not stay and listen to
these sweet sounds? I shall never hear them more!” and he stood and bent
his ear to drink them in, and stirred not until they ceased. The last
chord had died away in silence--then hastily fastening his horse to the
door-ring, he entered the long passage unnoticed by any, and reached the
door. The sound of voices, as of persons talking pleasantly together,
struck harshly on his ear, and the loud laughter that burst forth grated
strangely on his senses.
“They have little sorrow for the outcast--that is certain,” said he, as,
with a swelling heart and proud step, he opened the door and entered.
This part of the room lay in deep shadow, and while Mark could
distinctly perceive the others, they could but dimly discern the outline
of his figure, without being able to recognize him. His father and Sir
Archy were seated, as of old, on either side of the chimney; Kate was
leaning over her harp, which she had just ceased to play; while seated
near her, and bending forward in an attitude of eager attention, was
Hemsworth himself, the man of all others he least wished to see at such
a moment.
“Who is that?” cried the O'Donoghue, “who is standing yonder?” and they
all turned their eyes towards the door.
“Why don't you speak?” continued the old man. “Have you any tidings from
my son?--is it news of Mark you bring me?”
“Even so sir,” responded the other, as he slowly advanced into the
strong light, his arms folded upon his breast, and his brow stern and
contracted.
[Illustration: 353]
“Mark!--my boy! my child!” cried the old man, springing from his chair,
and, with a strength that seemed at once to defy age and infirmity,
rushed towards him, and threw his arms about him. “He's here--he's with
us once more!” said he, in accents half choked by sobs--“my son! my
hope! my pride!”--and while the old man poured forth these words of
happiness, the young one stood pale, cold, and seemingly apathetic.
His eyes bent on vacancy, and his features devoid of all expression of
passion, he turned from Sir Archy, who grasped one hand, and looked at
Kate, who held the other between hers, but in his gaze there was
rather the look of one suddenly recalled to consciousness out of some
long-fevered sleep, than the healthful aspect of waking life.
“You are not ill, Mark--you're only fatigued,” said Kate, as a tear
slowly trickled down her cheek, and fell upon his hand.
Mark started as he felt the drop, and looked at her with a searching
glance, then turned his eyes towards Hemsworth, and back again to her,
and for the first time a stern and scornful smile curled upon his lip.
Kate seemed to read the glance, and returned it with a look, proud and
haughty as his own, while dropping his hand, she walked towards her
chair without speaking.
“We maun let him hae a bit supper as soon as may be,” said Sir Archy,
whose practical good sense saw how much bodily fatigue influenced the
youth's demeanour.
“Supper!” said the O'Donoghue; “ay, faith, every bottle in the cellar
would be too little to celebrate the boy's return. Ring that bell,
Archy. Where is Kerry? What are the people doing not to know that their
young master is here?”
“At another moment, I should beg that Mr. O'Donoghue might remember me,”
said Hemsworth, with a deferential bow. “And I hope the time is coming
when I may be permitted to renew my acquaintance;--for the present, I
feel how unsuited the presence of a stranger is, on an occasion like
this, and cannot better show how deeply I appreciate your feeling than
by taking my leave.”
So saying, he courteously saluted the O'Donoghue, Sir Archy, and Kate;
while, turning to Mark, he proffered his hand, as he said--
“Pray, sir, let the occasion excuse the liberty, and permit me to add my
welcome also.”
“You do the honours of this house too early, sir,” was Mark's savage
reply, while he folded his arms upon his breast, and measured Hemsworth
with a glance of withering scorn. “I'm beneath my father's roof. It is
not for a stranger to bid me welcome here.”
Hemsworth smiled, and muttered some words in mild acquiescence, their
tone and accent were apologetic, and the manner in which he spoke them
humble even to humility. When they were uttered, he bowed deeply, and
with a look towards the others that seemed to indicate the absence of
any feeling of offence, withdrew.
“You are unco severe on Maister Hemsworth, Mark,” said Sir Archy,
gravely. “If his politeness wasna altogether correct, it was weel
intended.”
“Mark was all right, whatever he said,” cried the old man, exultingly.
“Egad, I'll not dispute with the boy to-night, if he thought proper to
throw the fellow out of the window.”
“I am sorry my rudeness should have offended others,” said Mark, with
a sidelong glance at Kate. “As for Mr. Hemsworth, we understand each
other. He neither thinks better nor worse of me than he did before.”
“D----n Hemsworth!” said the O'Donoghue; “why are we talking of him at
all? Sit down beside me, Mark. Let me see you again, my boy, in your
old place. Give me your hand, and let me think that my three months of
fretting have only been a dream.”
“Would it had been a dream to me,” said Mark, with a deep sigh, as he
seated himself beside the old man.
“Come, come, Mark,” said Sir Archy, “Ye hae often laughed at my Scotch
adage about 'byganes,' let me have my revenge now by applying it to your
own fortunes.”
“So, you have come at last,” cried the O'Donoghue, as Kerry O'Leary at
length made his appearance at the door. “Is Master Mark to go supperless
to bed----”
“Master Mark,” shouted Kerry, “Oh, murther alive, and is it himself
that's in it. Oh, blessed hour, but I'm glad to see you home again, and
your honor looking so well and hearty. Maybe we won't have bonfires over
the hills, when the boys hear it.”
“The supper, the supper. Confound the fellow, the boy is famished, and
the rascal stands prating there about bonfires.”
“My horse is far more in need of care than I am,” said Mark, suddenly,
remembering the wearied animal he left fastened to the door. “I must
look to the poor beast before I take anything myself;” and so saying he
left the room, none wishing to gainsay anything he desired to do.
“Poor fellow,” said the O'Donoghue, “how pale and careworn he looks--he
appears to have suffered heavily.”
“Depend upon it,” said Sir Archy, gravely, “the lad has learned much
since we saw him last. I dinna mislike the look his features have,
although it be one of sorrow. What says Kate?” No answer followed this
appeal, but the young girl turned away her head, and affected to assist
in arranging the table.
“Mind, Archy,” said the O'Donoghue, eagerly, “remember, not a word about
his absence, no questioning whatever--the boy has gone through too many
troubles already to bear the penalty of relating them. Take care, too,
that there be no allusion to Hemsworth, Mark does not yet know the
friendly part he has taken, and only knows him as we used to think and
speak of him of old--but hush, here he comes.”
When Mark re-entered the room, he seemed at least easier, if not
happier, than before. The cloud that Hemsworth's presence threw over him
had passed away, and he felt anxious to show himself in more favourable
colours than his first appearance had displayed. While, therefore,
he did his utmost to repay to his father and uncle, the kind and
affectionate greetings by which they met him--to his cousin Kate he was
either sternly distant, or totally indifferent in manner; and when
at last, repulsed in many efforts to attract his notice, she arose to
retire for the night, he took a formal leave of her, and seemed relieved
by her departure. This was not remarked by the O'Donoghue; but Sir Archy
was a shrewd observer, and noted the circumstance with displeasure;
still, too careful of consequences to show that he had observed it, he
reserved his interference for another and more favourable moment, and
soon afterwards, wished them good night, and left the room.
“It is time for me to go also,” said Mark, as, after a silence of some
moments, he arose, and lighted a candle. “I have not been accustomed to
a good bed latterly, and I feel that one sound night's sleep is due to
me.”
“But for that, Mark, I could not part with you just yet. I have so much
to say, so much to hear from you. There have been many things during
your absence I must tell you of.”
“And first of all,” said Mark, rapidly, “How comes that man, Hemsworth,
so intimate here? What claim has he to darken our door with his
presence?”
“The strong claim of true friendship,” said the old man, firmly, “a
claim I have not met so much of in life, that I can afford to undervalue
it when it does present itself. But for him, the ejectment would have
been sued out last assizes--he saved us also from a foreclosure of
Drake's mortgage--advanced me five thousand pounds upon my own bond,
Archy being a co-surety, which you well know was a matter of form. This,
besides saving us from any proceedings the Travers might have taken, in
revenge for their own disappointment about Kate----”
“Speak more plainly, I beg you, sir, and above all, please to remember
that I am ignorant of everything you allude to. What of Kate?”
“Oh, I forgot you were not with us then. It was a proposal of marriage.
Young Travers made your cousin a brilliant offer, as far as money was
concerned, which Kate refused. There was some negociation about leaving
the thing open. Something about the future--I forget exactly what--but I
only know she was peremptory and decided, as she always is, and wrote
to me to take her home. Archy went up for her to Dublin, and the Travers
soon after left Ireland in high indignation with us, and determined, as
we soon found, to let us feel their enmity. Then it was that we learned
to appreciate Hemsworth, whom all along we had so completely mistaken,
and indeed, but for him, we should never have heard of you.”
“Of me. What did he know of me?”
“Everything, Mark--all--said the old man, in a low whisper, as he stole
a prying glance through the room to satisfy himself that they were not
overheard.
“Once more, sir, speak out, and intelligibly--say what this man seemed
to know of me?”
“He knew Talbot--Barrington rather”--said the O'Donoghue, in a low
voice--“knew of your intercourse with him--knew of the plot that fellow
laid to entangle you in his schemes--knew all about the robbery at the
Curragh, and saved you, without your knowing it, from being there. But
for him, Mark, your name would have figured in the 'Hue-and-Cry.' A
reward for your apprehension was actually deliberated at the Privy
Council. Hemsworth rescued you from this----”
“The scoundrel--the base, black-hearted villain,” exclaimed Mark, “did
he dare to speak thus of _me_?”
“You mistake, Mark, he never said you were culpable--he only deplored
the fatal accident of your intimacy with Barrington--a man twice
convicted and sentenced--that in company with this man you frequented
certain houses of high play, where more than one large robbery was
effected. Then came the Castle ball--was it not true that you went
there? Well, the diamond snuff-box stolen from Lord Clan-goff, at the
card table----”
“Hell and confusion, you will drive me mad,” cried Mark, stamping his
foot with passion. “This infernal mixture of truth and falsehood--this
half fact and all lying statement is more than my brain can bear. What
does this scoundrel mean--is it that I am guilty of a robbery?”
“Heaven forbid, boy, but that you lived on terms of closest friendship
with one branded as a felon, and that information of your intimacy with
him was obtained by the police, who, for political reasons--you are
aware of what I mean--would strain a point to have caught you within
their grasp. There were letters too, Mark, written by you, and of such
a character as would, if proved against you, haye cost your life; these,
Hemsworth, by some means, obtained and destroyed.”
“Ah, did he so,” cried Mark, eagerly, for now a sudden light broke in
upon him of the game that Hemsworth had played, “and so, he burned my
letters?”
“You know now, then, something of the services he rendered you,” said
the old man, who began at last to be satisfied that his conviction was
coming home to Mark's mind.
“I do,” replied he, calmly, “I believe that I can appreciate his
kindness, and I believe also I may promise that I shall not prove
ungrateful--and Kate, sir, what said she to those revelations concerning
me?”
“What we all said, Mark, that nothing dishonourable would ever lie at
your door--there might be rashness, imprudence, and folly, but guilt or
dishonour never.”
“And my uncle, he is generally a shrewd and cautious judge--what was his
opinion?”
“Faith it is hard to say, Mark, but I think with all his affected
freedom from prejudice, he nourishes his old notions about Hemsworth as
strong as ever, and persists in thinking the Travers' family everything
amiable and high-minded, indeed, he forced me to let Herbert accompany
them to England, for I let him take the boy into his own hands, and so,
as the invitation had been made and accepted before Kate had refused the
Captain's offer, I thought it would look better even to suffer matters
to take their course quietly, as if nothing had happened.”
“It was well done,” said Mark, assentingly, “and now I have heard
enough to dream over for one night at least, and so I'll to bed.”
“Remember, Mark,” said the O'Donoghue, grasping his son's arm, “remember
I am solemnly pledged to Hemsworth never to tell you anything of these
matters--it was a promise he exacted from me--I rely upon you, Mark, not
to betray me.”
“My discretion is above price, sir,” said Mark, smiling dubiously, and
left the room.