Kitabı oku: «The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago», sayfa 27

CHAPTER XXXVI. SUSPICIONS ON EVERY SIDE

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.

CHAPTER XXXVII. HEMSWORTH’S LETTER

The letter, over which Sir Archy bent in deep thought, was from Hemsworth. It was dated from the night before, and addressed to Kate O’Donoghue, and, although professing to have been hurriedly written, an observer, as acute as Sir Archy, could detect ample evidence of great care and consideration in its composition. Statements seemingly clear and open, were in reality confused and vague; assertions were qualified, and, in lieu of direct and positive information, there were scattered throughout, hopes, and fears, wishes, and expectations, all capable of being sustained, whatever the issue of the affair they referred to.

The letter opened with a respectful apology for addressing Miss O’Donoghue; but pleading that the urgency of the case, and the motives of the writer, might be received as a sufficient excuse. After stating, in sufficiently vague terms, to make the explanation capable of a double meaning, the reasons for selecting her, and not either of her uncles, for the correspondence, it entered at once upon the matter of the communication, in these words: —

“I have hesitated and doubted, Miss O’Donoghue, how far my interference in the affairs of your family may be misconstrued, and whether the prejudices which were once entertained to my disadvantage might not now be evoked to give a false colouring to my actions. These doubts I have resolved, by reflecting that they are for the most part personal, and that if I succeed in rendering real service, the question is comparatively indifferent what light or shadow it may seem to throw on my conduct. A candid and impartial judgment I certainly look to from you, and I confess myself at liberty to lay less store by the opinions of others.”

Continuing for a brief space in this strain, the letter went on to mention that the sudden return of Mark had left the writer no alternative but to venture on this correspondence, whatever the consequences – consequences which, the writer palpably inferred, might prove of the last moment to himself. The explanation – and, for the reader’s sake, it is better to spare him Hemsworth’s involved narrative, and merely give its substance – was chiefly, that information of Mark O’Donoghue’s complicity in the plot of the United Irish party had been tendered to Government, and supported by such evidence that a Judge’s warrant was issued for his apprehension and the seizure of all his papers; partly from friendly interference – this was dubiously and delicately put by Hemsworth – and partly from the fact that his extreme youth and ignorance of the real views of the insurgents were pleaded in his favour, the execution of this warrant was delayed, and the young man suffered to go at large. So long as he withdrew himself from the company of the other conspirators, and avoided publicity, the Government was willing to wink at the past. It had been, however, determined on, that should he either be found mixed up with any of the leaders of the movement in future, or should he venture to return to Glenflesk, where his influence amongst the peasantry was well known to, and apprehended by the Government, then there should no longer be any hesitation in the line to be followed. He was immediately to be apprehended and sent up under a sufficient escort to Dublin, to take his trial, with five others, for high treason. The proofs of his guilt were unquestionable, consisting of letters written and received, conversations to which witnesses could depose, as well as an intimacy for months long with Barrington, whose active participation in the schemes of rebellion was as well known, as the notorious fact of his being a convicted felon. To found a hope upon his innocence was thus shown to be perfectly impossible. His most trusted associates were the evidence against him; documents in his hand-writing were also in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown, and, in fact, far more than enough to bring him to the scaffold.

Hemsworth, who gently hinted all through, how far his interference had been beneficial, was one of those entrusted with Mark’s arrest, should he ever dare to re-appear in his native country. The orders of the Privy Council on this score were positive and clear, and admitted of no possible misconception.

“You may judge, then,” continued he, “what were my feelings on seeing him suddenly enter the house last night – to think that, while I was enjoying the pleasure of your society, and the hospitable attentions of your home, I had actually in my pocket at the moment the official order to apprehend the eldest son of my entertainer – the friend and companion of your childhood – to bring grief and mourning beneath the roof where I had passed so many happy hours – to dispel all the dreams I had begun to nourish of a neighbourhood connected by ties of kindness and good will. I had to choose between the alternative of this, or else, by a palpable avoidance of my duty, criminate myself, and leave my conduct open to the most dangerous comments of my enemies. The latter involved only myself. I have adopted it, and before this letter reaches your hands, I shall be on my way up to Dublin, nominally to attend the Council, but in reality to escape the necessity my onerous position would impose. None save those beneath your roof know that I have met Mr. Mark O’Donoghue, and I shall be half-way to Dublin before his arrival in the country is suspected. So much, in brief, for the past and the present. Now for the future. There are two courses open to this young gentleman, or to those who would serve and befriend him. One is, by a free and unlimited confession to the Government of all the circumstances of the plot, so far as they have come to his knowledge, the parties interested, their several shares in the undertaking, with every detail of date and time, to sue for a pardon for himself – a grace which, I need scarcely say, I will use all my influence to obtain. The other mode is, by a temporary exile; to withdraw himself from the notice of the Government, until the danger having perfectly passed over, political acrimony will have abated, and the necessity for making severe examples of guilt be no longer urgent. This latter course I opine to be preferable, on many grounds. It demands no sacrifice of private feeling – no surrender of honour. It merely provides for safety, reserving the future untrammelled by any pledge. Neither need the absence be long; a year or two at farthest; the probabilities are, that with their present knowledge of the schemes of the insurgents, the Government can either precipitate events, or retard and protract them at will. Their policy, in this respect, depending on the rank and importance of those who, by either line of procedure, would be delivered into their hands. Arguing from what they have already done, I should pronounce it likely that their game will be to wait, to weaken the hopes and break the spirit of the United party, by frequent defections; to sow distrust and suspicion amongst them, and thus, while avoiding the necessity of bloodshed, to wear out rebellion by a long and lingering fear. If, then, others, whose age and position involved a greater prominence in these schemes, would require a longer banishment to erase the memory of the acts, your young relative, who has both youth and its rashness to plead for him, need not reckon on so lengthened an absence from his native land.

“Above all things, however, remember that not an hour is to be lost. Any moment may disclose to the Crown some new feature of the plot, and may call forth measures of stringent severity, The proclamation offering a reward for the apprehension of four persons, of whom your cousin is one, is already printed, and in the office of the Secretary.

An hour would see it all over the walls of the capital, in a day or two more, it would reach every remote corner, of the land. Then, all efforts on my part would be ineffectual, were they even possible. Reflect on this. It is not a mere question of fine or even imprisonment. It is life itself is on the issue, and life which, in surrendering, will blast a great name with dishonour, and a great house with obloquy and shame; for there has been no struggle, no effort, no bold and generous exposure to danger, to palliate treason, and gloss over its faults. All has been plotting and contriving for alien assistance and foreign help; no selfreliance, no patriotism, which, if mistaken, was still sincere and manly. Reflect on all this, and think that a life offered up in such a cause has no martyrdom to throw lustre on the grave shared with the felon and the highwayman. Forgive me if, in the warmth of my zeal, I have said one word which may offend. If I had not spoken thus forcibly, I should be a traitor to my own heart.

“I have written hurriedly, and I doubt not, in some respects, unadvisedly; but the sincerity of my purpose will plead for me, should the indiscretion of my zeal require apology. You will, perhaps, ask why I should have imposed a task difficult as this upon you – why I should have loaded you with a responsibility so weighty? My answer is simply, I dared not write to the O’Donoghue on the subject of his son’s indiscretion – to impugn the acts of the young man, would be to forfeit all influence with the old one. You will then say, why not address Sir Archibald? For the simple reason, that the prejudices of his country are too strong in him to make due allowances for those who err from excitable or impetuous natures; not only would he judge too harshly of Mark, but he would be anxious to record that judgment as a warning to Herbert, for whom alone he is interested. I therefore make it a strenuous request – nay, more, I esteem it as the term of a compact between us, that you do not show this letter either to the O’Donoghue or to his brother. I have expressed myself openly and candidly to you, but with a tacit assurance that my confidence is not to be extended to others. In the part I have taken, I already incur considerable risk. This is a period when loyalty cannot afford to be even suspected; yet have I jeoparded mine in befriending this youth. I now conclude, dear madam, assuring you that any danger I incur, or any anxiety I feel, will be amply repaid if I only know that you think not unworthily of

“William Hemsworth.”

Sir Archy studied this letter with the patient care a lawyer bestows upon a brief. He thought over each sentence, and weighed the expressions in his mind with deep thought. It had been his fortune, in early life, to have been thrown into situations of no common difficulty, and his mind had, in consequence, acquired a habit of shrewd and piercing investigation, which, though long disused, was not altogether forgotten; by the aid of this faculty, Hemsworth’s letter appeared to him in a very different light from that in which Kate viewed it. The knowledge of every circumstance concerning Mark evinced an anxiety which he was very far from attributing to motives of friendship. Sir Archy well knew the feelings of dislike which subsisted between these two men – how then account for this sudden change on Hemsworth’s part? – to what attribute this wonderful interest concerning him?