When Mark and Herbert separated on the mountain, each took a different
path downward. Mark, bent on assembling the people at once, and
proclaiming the arrival of their friends, held his course towards
Glengariff and the coast, where the fishermen were, to a man, engaged in
the plot. Herbert, uncertain how to proceed, was yet equally anxious to
lose no time, but could form no definite resolve what course to adopt
amid his difficulties To give notice of the French landing, to apprise
the magistrates of the approaching outbreak, was, of course, his duty;
but in doing this, might he not be the means of Mark's ruin;--while, on
the other hand, to conceal his knowledge would be an act of disloyalty
to his sovereign, a forfeiture of the principles he held dear, and the
source, perhaps, of the most dreadful evils to his country. Where, too,
should he seek for counsel or advice--his father, he well knew, would
only regard the means of his brother's safety, reckless of all other
consequences; Kate's opinions, vague and undefined as they were, would
be in direct opposition to his own. Hems-worth he dared not confide
in--what then remained! There was but one for miles round, in whose
judgment and honour together he had trust; but from him latterly he had
kept studiously aloof. This was his old tutor, Father Rourke. Unwilling
to inflict pain upon the old man, and still unable to reconcile himself
to anything like duplicity in the matter, Herbert had avoided the
occasion of meeting him, and of avowing that change in his religious
belief, which, although secretly working for many a year, had only
reached its accomplishment when absent from home. He was aware how such
a disclosure would afflict his old friend--how impossible would be the
effort to persuade him that such a change had its origin in conviction,
and not in schemes of worldly ambition; and to save himself the
indignity of defence from such an accusation, and the pain of an
interview, where the matter should be discussed, he had preferred
leaving to time and accident, the disclosure, which from his own
lips would have been a painful sacrifice to both parties. These
considerations, important enough as they regarded his own happiness, had
little weight with him now. The graver questions had swallowed up all
others--the safety of the country--his brother's fate. It was true the
priest's sympathies would be exclusively with one party; he would not
view with Herbert's eye the coming struggle; but still might he not
regard with him the results?--might he not, and with prescience stronger
from his age, anticipate the dreadful miseries of a land devastated
by civil war?--was it not possible that he might judge unfavourably of
success, and prefer to endure what he regarded as evils, rather than
incur the horrors of a rebellion, and the re-enactment of penalties it
would call down?
The hopes such calculations suggested were higher, because Mark
had himself often avowed, that the French would only consent to the
enterprize, on the strict understanding of being seconded by the almost
unanimous voice of the nation. Their expression was, “We are ready and
willing to meet England in arms, provided not one Irishman be in the
ranks.” Should Father Rourke, then, either from motives of policy or
prudence, think unfavourably of the scheme, his influence, unbounded
over the people, would throw a damper on the rising, and either deter
the French from any forward movement, or at least delay it, and afford
time for the Government to take measures of defence. This alone might
have its effect on Mark, and perhaps be the means of saving him.
Whether because he caught at this one chance of succour, when all around
seemed hopeless, or that the mind: fertilizes the fields of its own
discovery, Herbert grew more confident each moment that this plan would
prove successful, and turned with an eager heart towards the valley
where the priest lived. In his eagerness to press forward, however, he
diverged from the path, and at last reached a part of the mountain where
a tremendous precipice intervened, and stopped all further progress. The
storm increasing every minute made the way slow and perilous, for around
the different peaks the wind swept with a force that carried all before
it. Vexed at his mistake, he resolved, if possible, to discover some
new way down the mountain; but in the endeavour he only wandered still
further from his course, and finally found himself in front of the sea
once more.
The heavy rain and the dense drift shut out for some minutes the view;
but when at last he saw the Bay what was his surprise to perceive that
the French fleet was no longer there; he turned his eyes on every side,
but the storm-lashed water bore no vessel on its surface, and save some
fishing craft at anchor in the little nooks and bays of the coast, not a
mast could be seen.
Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses, he knelt down on
the cliff, and bent his gaze steadily on the Bay; and when at length
re-assured and certain that no deception existed, he began to doubt
whether the whole had not been unreal, and that the excitement of his
interview with Mark had conjured the images his wishes suggested, The
faint flickering embers of an almost extinguished fire on the Smuggler's
Rock decided the question, and he knew at once that all had actually
happened.
He did not wait long to speculate on the reasons of this sudden
flight--enough for him that the most pressing danger was past, and time
afforded to rescue Mark from peril; and without a thought upon that
armament, whose menace had already filled him with apprehension, he sped
down the mountain in reckless haste, and never halted till he reached
the glen beneath. The violence of the storm--the beating rain, seemed to
excite him to higher efforts of strength and endurance, and his courage
appeared to rise as difficulties thickened around him. It was late in
the day, however, before he came in sight of the priest's cottage, and
where, as the gloom was falling, a twinkliug light now shone.
It was with a last effort of strength, almost exhausted by fatigue and
hunger, that Herbert gained the door; this lay, as usual, wide open, and
entering, he fell overcome upon a seat. The energy that had sustained
him hitherto seemed suddenly to have given way, and he lay back scarcely
conscious, and unable to stir. The confusion of sense, so general after
severe fatigue, prevented him for some time from hearing voices in the
little parlour beside him; but after a brief space he became aware of
this vicinity, when suddenly the well-known accents of Mark struck upon
his ear; he was speaking louder than was his wont, and evidently with
an effort to control his rising temper, while the priest, in a low, calm
voice, seemed endeavouring to dissuade and turn him from some purpose.
A brief silence ensued, during which Mark paced the room with slow and
heavy steps, then ceasing suddenly he said--
“Why was it, then, that we never heard of these scruples before,
sir?--why were we not told that unbelieving France was no fitting ally
for saintly Ireland? But why do I ask: had the whole fleet arrived in
safety--were there not thirteen missing vessels, we should hear less of
such Christian doubts.”
“You are unjust, Mark,” said the priest, calmly; “you know me too well
and too long, to put any faith in your reproaches. I refuse to address
the people, because I would not see them fall, or even conquer, in an
unjust cause. Raise the banner of the Church----”
“The banner of the Church!” said Mark, with a mocking laugh.
“What does he say?” whispered a third voice, in French, as a new speaker
mingled in the dialogue.
“He talks of the banner of the Church!” said Mark, scoffingly.
“'Oui, parbleu,' if he likes it,” replied the Frenchman, laughing; “it
smacks somewhat of the middle ages; but the old proverb is right, 'a bad
etiquette never spoiled good wine.'”
“Is it then in full canonicals, and with the smoke of censers, we are to
march against the Saxon?” said Mark, with a taunting sneer.
“Hear me out, Mark,” interrupted the priest; “I didn't say that we were
yet prepared even for this; there is much to be done, far more indeed
than you wot of. Every expedition insufficiently planned and badly
supported, must be a failure; every failure retards the accomplishment
of our hopes; such must this enterprise be, if now----'
“Now or never,” interposed Mark, as he struck the table violently with
his clenched hand--“now, or never, for me at least. You have shown me to
these Frenchman, as a fool or worse. One with influence, and yet without
a man to back me--with courage, and you tell me to desert them--with
the confidence of my countrymen, and I come alone, unaccompanied,
unaccredited, to tell my own tale amongst them. What other indignities
have you in store for me, or in what other light am I next to figure?
But for that, and perhaps you would dare to go further, and say I am not
an O'Donoghue;” and in his passion Mark tore open a pocket-book, and
held before the old man's eyes the certificate of his baptism, written
in the priest's hand. “Yes, you have forced me to speak, of what I ever
meant to have buried in my own heart. There it is, read it, and bethink
you, how it becomes him who helped to rob me of my inheritance, to
despoil me of my honour also.”
“You must unsay these words, sir,” said the priest in an accent as stern
and commanding as Mark's own; “I was never a party to any fraud, nor
was I in this country when your father sold his estates.”
“I care not how it happened,” cried Mark, passionately. “When my
own father could do this thing, it matters little to me who were his
accomplices;” and he tore the paper in fragments, and scattered them
over the floor. “Another and a very different cause brought me here.
The French fleet has arrived.”
The priest here muttered something in a low tone, to which Mark quietly
replied--
“And if they have, it is because their anchors were dragging; you would
not have the vessels go ashore on the rocks; the next tide they'll stand
up the Bay again. The people that should have been ready to welcome
them, hold back. The whole country round is become suddenly craven; of
the hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seventeen appeared
this morning, and they were wretches more eager for pillage than the
field of honourable warfare. It is come then to this, you either come
forth, at once, to harangue the people, and recall them to their sworn
allegiance, or the expedition goes on without you--go on it shall.”
Here he turned sharply round, and said a few words in French, to which
the person addressed replied--
“Certainly; the French Republic does not send a force like this for the
benefit of a sea voyage.”
“Desert the cause, then,” continued Mark, in a tone of denunciation;
“desert us, and by G--d, your fate will be worse than that of our more
open enemies. To-night the force will land; to-morrow we march all day,
aye and all night too: the blazing chapels shall light the way.”
“Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of outraged heaven is
more terrible than you think of. Whatever be the crime and guilt of
others, remember that you are an Irishman; that what the alien may do in
recklessness, is sacrilege in him who is the son of the soil.”
“Save me, then, from this guilt--save me from myself,” cried Mark, in
an accent of tender emotion. “I cannot desert this cause, and oh, do not
make it one of dishonour to me.”
The old man seemed overcome by this sudden appeal to his affections, and
made no reply, and the deep breathing of Mark, as his chest heaved in
strong emotion, was the only sound in the stillness. Herbert, who
had hitherto listened with that vague half consciousness of reality
excessive fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the eventful
moment was come, when, should the priest falter or hesitate, Mark might
succeed in his request, and all hope of rescuing him be lost for ever.
With the energy of a desperate resolve he sprang forward, and entered
the room just as the priest was about to reply.
“No, Father, no,” cried he, wildly; “be firm, be resolute; if this
unhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found
in opposing ranks.”
“This from you, Herbert!” said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a cold,
stern gaze upon his brother.
“And why not from him,” said the priest, hastily. “Is he not an Irishman
in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as to us?”
“I give you joy upon the alliance, Father,” said Mark, with a scornful
laugh. “Herbert is a Protestant.”
“What!--did I hear aright?” said the old man, as with a face pale as
death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth by either arm. “Is
this true, Herbert? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so.”
“It is true, sir, most true; and if I have hitherto spared you the pain
it might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the avowal
might cost _me_.”
The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a livid
hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew glassy and
lustreless.
“We may well be wretched and miserable,” exclaimed he with a faint sigh,
“when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to each
other.”
The French officer--for such he was--muttered some words into Mark's
ear, who replied--“I cannot blame you for feeing impatient; this is
no time for fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, we'll
meet again soon;” and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from the
room with his companion.
Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to say something,
yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the old man's chair, he
said--
“There is yet time to avert the danger; the people are irresolute--many
actually averse to the rising; my brother will fall by his rashness.”
“Better to do so than survive in dishonour,” said the priest, snatching
rudely away his hand from Herbert's grasp. “Leave me, young man--go;
this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it sheltered
the apostate.”
“I never thought I should hear these words, here,” said Herbert, mildly;
“but I cannot part from you in anger.”
“There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, Herbert,”
said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke; “kneel now, my
child.”
Herbert knelt at the priest's feet, when placing his hand on the
young man's head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, as he
concluded--
“And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and bring you
back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth.”
He kissed the young man's forehead, and then covering his eyes with his
hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts.
At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice without; he
stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little porch, found
Kerry O'Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had reached the cottage,
after several hours' endeavour to cross the watercourses, swollen into
torrents by the rain.
“A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir,” said Kerry; for heartily sick
of his excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to
which brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his
unpleasant mission.
The note began, “My dear son;” and, without the mention of a name, simply
entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert felt both duty and
inclination called him, and without a moment's delay left the cottage,
and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra.
The night was dark and starless, as they plodded onward, and as the rain
ceased, the wind grew stronger, while for miles inland the roaring of
the sea could be heard like deep continuous thunder. Herbert, too much
occupied with his own thoughts, seldom spoke, nor did Kerry, exhausted
as he felt himself, often break silence as they went. As they drew near
the castle, however, a figure crossed the road, and advancing towards
them said--
“Good night.”
“Who could that be, Kerry?” said Herbert, as the stranger passed on.
“I know the voice well,” said Kerry, “though he thought to disguise it.
That's Sam Wylie, and it's not for any thing good he's here.”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang down upon and
seized them.
“This is our man,” said one of the party, as he held Herbert by the
collar, with a grasp there was no resisting; “but secure the other
also.”
Herbert's resistance was vain, although spiritedly made, and stifling
his cries for aid, they carried him along for some little distance to a
spot, where a chaise was standing with four mounted dragoons on either
side. Into this he was forced, and seated between two men in plain
clothes, the word was given to start.
“You know your orders if a rescue be attempted,” said a voice, Herbert
at once knew to be Hemsworth's.
The answer was lost in the noise of the wheels; for already the horses
were away at the top of their speed, giving the escort all they could do
to keep up beside them.