Early on the following morning Mark O'Donoughue was on his way to “the
Lodge.” To see Hemsworth, and dare him to a proof of his assertions
regarding him, or provoke him, if possible, to a quarrel, were his
waking thoughts throughout the night, and not even all his weariness and
exhaustion could induce sleep. He did not, indeed, know the full depth
of the treachery practised against him; but in what he had discovered
there were circumstances that portended a well-planned and systematic
scheme of villainy. The more Mark reflected on these things, the more
he saw the importance of proceeding with a certain caution. Hemsworth's
position at Carrig-na-curra, the advances he had made in his father's
esteem, the place he seemed to occupy in Kate's good graces, were such
that any altercation which should not succeed in unmasking the infamy
of his conduct, would only be regarded as a burst of boyish intemperance
and passion; and although Mark was still but too much under the
influence of such motives, he was yet far less so than formerly;
besides, to fix a duel on Hemsworth might be taken as the consequences
of a sense of rivalry on his part, and anger that his cousin had
preferred him to himself. This thought was intolerable; the great effort
he proposed to his heart, was to eradicate every sentiment of affection
for his cousin, and every feeling of interest. To be able to regard her
as one whose destiny had never crossed with his own--to do this, was now
become a question of self-esteem and pride. To return her indifference
as haughtily as she bestowed it, was a duty he thought he owed to
himself, and therefore he shrunk from anything which should have the
faintest semblance of avenging his own defeat.
Such were some of the difficulties of his present position, and he
thought over them long and patiently, weighing well the consequences
each mode of acting might entail, and deliberating with himself as to
what course he should follow. His first resolve, then, which was to
fasten a hostile meeting upon Hemsworth, was changed for what seemed
a better line of procedure--which was simply to see that gentleman,
to demand an explanation of the statements he had made concerning him,
calling upon him to retract whenever anything unfounded occurred, and
requiring him to acknowledge that he had given a colouring and semblance
to his conduct at total variance with fact. By this means, Mark
calculated on the low position to which Hemsworth would be reduced in
Kate's estimation, the subterfuges and excuses he would be forced to
adopt,--all the miserable expedients to gloss over his falsehood, and
all the contemptible straits to conceal his true motives. To exhibit him
in this light before Kate's eyes, she whose high sense of honour never
brooked the slightest act that savoured of mere expediency, would be
a far more ample revenge than any which should follow a personal
rencontre.
“She shall see him in his true colours,” muttered he to himself, as
he went along; “she shall know something of the man to whom she would
pledge honour and affection; and then, when his treachery is open as the
noon-day, and the blackness of his heart revealed, she shall be free to
take him, unscathed and uninjured. I'll never touch a hair of his head.”
Mark had a certain pride in thus conducting himself on this occasion, to
show that he possessed other qualities than those of rash and impetuous
courage--that he could reason calmly and act deliberately, was now the
great object he had at heart. Nor was the least motive that prompted
him the desire he felt to exhibit himself to Kate in circumstances more
favourable than any mere outbreak of indignant rage would display him.
The more he meditated on these things, the more firm and resolute were
his determinations not to suffer Hemsworth to escape his difficulties,
by converting the demand for explanation into an immediate cause of
quarrel. Such a tactique he thought it most probable Hemsworth would at
once adopt, as the readiest expedient in his power.
“No,” said Mark to himself, “he shall find that he has mistaken me; my
patience and endurance will stand the proof; he must and shall avow his
own baseness, and then, if he wish for fighting----”
The clenched lip and flashing eye the words were accompanied by, plainly
confessed that, if Mark had adopted a more pacific line of conduct, it
certainly was not in obedience to any temptations of his will.
Immersed in his reveries, he found himself in front of “the Lodge”
before he was aware of it; and, although his thoughts were of a nature
that left him little room for other considerations, he could not help
standing in surprise and admiration at the changes effected in his
absence. The neat but unpretending cottage had now been converted into a
building of Elizabethean style; the front extended along the lake side,
to which it descended in two terraced gardens. The ample windows, thrown
open to the ground, displayed a suite of apartments furnished with all
that taste and luxury could suggest--the walls ornamented by pictures,
and the panels of both doors and window-shutters formed of plate glass,
reflecting the mountain scenery in every variety of light and shadow. The
rarest flowers, the most costly shrubs, brought from long distances,
at great risk and price, were here assembled to add their beauties to a
scene where nature had already been so lavish.
While Mark was yet looking about in quest of the entrance to the
building, he saw a man approach, with whose features he was well
acquainted. This was no other than Sam. Wylie, the sub-agent, the same
he had treated so roughly when last they met. The fellow seemed to know
that, though in certain respects the tables were now turned, yet, that
with such a foe as Mark O'Donoghue, any exhibition of triumph might be
an unsafe game; so he touched his hat, and was about to move past in
silence, when Mark cried out--
“I want to speak with your master--can I see him?”
“Master!” said Wylie, and his sallow face grew sallower and sicklier.
“If ye mean Mr. Hemsworth, sir----”
“Of course I do. If I spoke of Sir Marmaduke Travers, I should mean
_his_ master. Is he at home?”
“No, sir; he has left 'the Lodge.'”
“Left it!--since when? I saw him last night at ten o'clock.”
“He left here before eleven,” was Wylie's answer.
“When is he expected back?”
“Not for a week, at soonest, sir. It may be even longer, if, as he said,
it were necessary for him to go to England.”
“To England!” exclaimed Mark, in bitter disappointment, for in the
distance the hope of speedy vengeance seemed all but annihilated. “What
is his address in Dublin?” said he, recovering himself.
“To the office of the Upper Secretary, sir, I am to address all his
letters,” said Wylie, for the first time venturing on a slight approach
to a smile.
“His hotel, I mean. Where does he stop in the city?”
“He usually stays in the Lower Castle-yard, sir, when in town, and
probably will be there now, as the Privy Council is sitting, and they
may want to examine him.”
The slow measured tone in which these few words were uttered gave them a
direct application to Mark himself which made him flush deeply. He stood
for a few seconds, seemingly in doubt, and then turned his steps towards
home.
“Did you hear what the young O'Donoghue said, there, as he passed?” said
Wylie to a labouring man who stood gazing after the youth.
“I did, faix,” replied the other; “I heerd it plain enough.”
“Tell me the words, Pat--I'd like to hear them.”
“'Tis what he said--'He's escaped me this time; but, by G--, he'll not
have the same luck always.'”
“It was Mr. Hemsworth he was after,” said Wylie. “It was him he meant.”
“To be sure it was; didn't I hear him asking after him.”
“All right--so you did,” added Wylie, nodding. “Take care you don't
forget the words, that's all, and here's the price of a glass to keep
your memory fresh.”
And he chucked a sixpence to the man, who, as he caught it, gave a look
of shrewd intelligence, that showed he felt there was a compact between
them.
Mark moved homewards in deep thought. There was a time when
disappointment would have irritated him rather than have suggested
any new expedient for success. Now he was changed in this respect. If
baffled, he did not feel defeated. His first anger over, he began
to think how best he should obtain a meeting with Hemsworth, and a
retractation of his calumnies against himself. To venture back to Dublin
would have been unsafe on every account. The informations sworn against
him by Lanty Lawler might be at any moment used for his capture. In
Glenflesk alone was he safe; so long as he remained there, no force
Government would think of sending against him could avail; nor was it
likely, for the sake of so humble an individual as himself, that they
would take measures which would have the effect of disclosing their
knowledge of the plot, and thus warn other and more important persons
of the approaching danger. Mark's first determination to leave home
at once, was thus altered by these casual circumstances. He must await
Hemsworth's return, since, without the explanation he looked for, he
never could bring himself to take leave of his friends. As he pondered
thus, a servant in Hemsworth's livery rode rapidly past him. Mark looked
suddenly up, and perceived, with some surprise, from the train of dust
upon the road, that the man was coming from Carrig-na-curra. Slight as
the incident was, he turned his thoughts from his own fortunes to fix
them on those of his cousin Kate. By what magic this man Hemsworth
had won favour in her eyes he could not conceive. That he should have
overcome all the prejudices of his father was strange enough; but that
Kate, whose opinions of people seldom or ever underwent a change, and
who of all others professed to dislike that very plausibility of
manner which Hemsworth possessed, that she could forgive and forget the
tyrannies with which his name was associated--she whose spirit no sordid
bait could tempt, nor any mean object of personal ambition bias--this
was, indeed, inexplicable. Twice or thrice a thought flashed across him,
if it should not be true,--if it were merely one of those rumours which
the world builds on circumstances,--that Hemsworth's intimacy was the
sole foundation for the report, and the friendly interchange of visits
the only reason for the story.
“I must know this,” said Mark; “it may not be too late to save her. I
may have come back in the very nick of time, and if so, I shall deem
this piece of fortune more than enough to requite all the mischances of
my life.”
As he spoke thus he had reached the little flower-garden, which, in
front of the tower, was the only spot of cultivation around the old
building. His eye wandered over the evidences of care, few and slight as
they were, with pleasant thoughts of her who suggested the culture, when
at the turn of a walk he beheld his cousin coming slowly towards him.
“Good morrow, Mark,” said she, extending her hand, and with a smile that
betokened no angry memory of the preceding night; “you took but little
sleep for one so much fatigued as you were.”
“And you, cousin, if I mistake not, even as little. I saw a light
burning in your room when day was breaking.”
“An old convent habit,” said she, smiling; “our matins used to be as
early.”
A low, soft sigh followed this speech.
“Yes,” said Mark, “you have reason to regret it; your life was happier
there; you had the pleasure of thinking, that many a mile away in this
remote land, there were relatives and friends to whom you were dear, and
of whom you might feel proud; sad experience has told you how unworthy
we are of your affection, how much beneath your esteem. The cold
realities that strip life of its ideal happiness are only endurable when
age has blunted our affections and chilled our hearts. In youth their
poignancy is agony itself. Yes, Kate, I can dare to say it, even to you,
would that you had never come amongst us.”
“I will not misunderstand you, Mark; I will not affect to think that,
in your speech, there is any want of affection for me; I will take it
as you mean it, that it had been better for me; and, even on your own
showing, I tell you, nay. If I have shed some tears within these old
walls, yet have my brightest hours been passed within them. Never, until
I came here, did I know what it was to minister to another's happiness;
never did I feel before the ecstacy of being able to make joy more
pleasurable, and sorrow less afflicting. The daughter feeling has filled
up what was once a void in my poor heart; and when you pity me for this
life of loneliness, my pulse has throbbed with delight to think how a
duty, rendered by one as humble and insignificant as I am, can ennoble
life, and make of this quiet valley a scene of active enjoyment.”
“So you are happy here, Kate,” said he, taking her hand, “and would not
wish to leave it?”
“No, Mark, never; there would be no end to my ambition were the great
world open to me, and the prizes all glittering before me--ambitions
which should take the shape not of personal aggrandizement, but high
hope for objects that come not within a woman's sphere. Here, affection
sways me; there, it might be prejudice or passion.”
“Ambition!” muttered Mark, catching at the word; “ambition, the penalty
you pay for it is far too high; and were the gain certain, it is dearly
bought by a heart dead to all purer emotions, cold to every affection of
family and kindred, and a spirit made suspecting by treachery. No, Kate,
no, the humblest peasant on that mountain, whose toil is for his daily
bread, whose last hope at night is for the health that on the morrow
shall sustain more labour, he, has a nobler life than those who nourish
high desires by trading on the crimes and faults of others. I had
ambition once; God knows, it grew not in me from any unworthy hope of
personal advantage. I thought of myself then as meanly as I now do; but
I dreamt, that, by means, humble and unworthy as mine, great events
have been sometimes set in motion. The spark that ignites the train is
insignificant enough in itself, though the explosion may rend the solid
masonry that has endured for ages. Well, well, the dream is over now;
let us speak of something else. Tell me of Herbert, Kate. What success
has he met with in the University?”
“He failed the first time, but the second trial made ample amends for
that defeat. He carried away both prizes from his competitors, Mark,
and stands now, confessedly, the most distinguished youth of his day;
disappointment only nerved his courage. There was a failure to avenge,
as well as a goal to win, and he has accomplished both.”
“Happy fellow, that his career in life could depend on efforts of his
own making--who needed but to trust his own firm resolve, and his own
steady pursuit of success, and cared not how others might plot, and
plan, and intrigue around him.”
“Very true, Mark; the prizes of intellectual ambition have this
advantage, that they are self won; but, bethink you, are not other
objects equally noble--are not the efforts we make for others more
worthy of fame than those which are dictated by purely personal desire
of distinction?”
Mark almost started at the words, whose direct application to himself
could not be doubted, and his cheek flushed, partly with pride, partly
with shame.
“Yes,” said he, after a brief pause, “these are noble themes, and can
stir a heart as sorrow-struck as mine--but the paths that lead upwards,
Kate, are dark and crooked--the guides that traverse them are false and
treacherous.”
“You have, indeed, found them so,” said Kate, with a deep sigh.
“How do you mean, I have found them so?” cried Mark, in amazement at the
words.
“I mean what I have said, Mark, that betrayal and treachery have tracked
you for many a day. You would not trust me with your secret, Mark, nor
yet confide in me, when an accident left it in my possession. Chance has
revealed to me many circumstances of your fortune, and even now, Mark,
I am only fearful lest your own prejudices should hazard your safety.
Shall I go on? May I speak still more plainly?”
Mark nodded, and she resumed--
“One who never favoured the cause you adopted, probably from the very
confederates it necessitated--yet saw with sympathy how much truth
and honour were involved in the struggle, has long watched over
you--stretching out, unseen, the hand to help, and the shield to protect
you. He saw in you the generous boldness of one whose courage supplies
the nerve, that mere plotters trade upon, but never possess. He saw,
that once in the current, you would be swept along, while they would
watch you from the shore. He, I say, saw this, and with a generosity the
greater, because no feelings of friendship swayed him, he came forward
to save you.”
“And this unseen benefactor,” said Mark, with a proud look of scornful
meaning, “his name is----”
“I will not speak it, if you ask me thus,” said Kate, blushing, for she
read in his glance the imputation his heart was full of. “Could you
so far divest yourself of prejudice as to hear calmly, and speak
dispassionately, I could tell you anything--everything, Mark.”
“No, Kate, no,” said he, smiling dubiously; “I have no right to ask,
perhaps not to accept of such a confidence.”
“Be it so, then,” said she, proudly, “we will speak of this no more;
and with a slight bow, and a motion of her hand, she turned into another
alley of the garden, and left Mark silently musing over the scene.
Scarcely, however, had she screened herself from his view by the
intervening trees, than she hastened her steps, and soon gained the
house. Without stopping to take breath, she ascended the stairs, and
tapped at Sir Archy's door.
“Come in, my sweet Kate,” said he, in his blandest voice, “I should know
that gentle tap amid a thousand; but, my dear child, why so pale?--what
has agitated you?--sit down and tell me.”
“Read this, sir,” said she, taking a letter from the folds of her
handkerchief--“this well tell you all, shorter and more collectedly than
I can. I want your advice and counsel, and quickly too, for no time is
to be lost.
“This is Mr. Hemsworth's writing,” said Sir Archy, as he adjusted his
spectacles to read. “When did you receive it?”
“About an hour ago,” answered Kate, half impatient at the unhurried
coolness of the old man's manner, who at last proceeded to examine the
epistle, but without the slightest show of anxiety or eagerness. His
apathy was, however, short-lived--short expressions of surprise broke
from him, followed by exclamations of terror and dismay, till at length,
laying down the letter, he said, “Leave me, sweet Kate, leave me to read
and reflect on this alone; be assured I'll lose no time in making up
my mind about it, for I see that hours are precious here.” And as she
glided from the room, Sir Archy placed the open letter on a table before
him, and sat down diligently to re-consider its contents.