The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

This evasive answer seemed perfectly to satisfy Talbot, who assented with a shake of the head, as he said —

“Very well, Lanty; if you will come here to-morrow, I’ll exchange your gold for you.”

“Thank your honor kindly,” said Lanty, with a bow; but still making no sign of leaving the room, where he stood, changing from one foot to the other, in an attitude of bashful diffidence. “There was another little matter, sir, but I’d be sorry to trouble you about it – and sure you couldn’t help it, besides.”

“And that is – Let us hear it, Lanty.”

“Why, sir, it’s the horse – the mare with the one white fetlock. They say, sir, that she was left at Moran’s stables by the man that robbed Mr. Moore of Moorecroft. Deaf Collison, the post-boy, can swear to her; and as I bought her myself at Dycer’s, they are calling me to account for when I sold her, and to whom.”

“Why, there’s no end to your trouble about that unlucky beast, Lanty,” said Talbot, laughing; “and I confess it’s rather hard, that you are not only expected to warrant your horse sound, but must give a guarantee that the rider is honest.”

“Devil a lie in it, but that’s just it,” said Lanty, who laughed heartily at the notion.

“Well, we must look to this for you, Lanty; for although I have no desire to have my name brought forward, still you must not suffer on that account. I remember paying my bill at Rathmallow with that same mare. She made an overreach coming down a hill, and became dead lame with me; and I gave her to the landlord of the little inn in the square, in lieu of my score.”

“See now, what liars there’s in the world!” said Lanty, holding up his hands in pious horror. “Ould Finn of the Head Inn tould me she ate a feed of oats at the door, and started again for Askeaton, with a gentleman just like your honor, the night after I sold her. He knew the mare well; and by the same token he said she was galled on the shoulder with holsters that was fixed to the saddle. Now, think of that, and he after buying her! Is it early in the morning I’m to come to your honor?” said he, moving towards the door.

“Yes – that is – no, Lanty, no – about twelve o’clock. I’m a late riser. Wait a moment, Lanty; I have something more to say to you, if I could only remember it.” He passed his hand across his brow as he spoke, and looked like one labouring to recall some lost thought. “No matter,” said he, after a pause of some minutes; “I shall perhaps recollect it before to-morrow.”

“Good night to you, then, sir,” said Lanty, with a most obsequious bow, as he opened the door.

Their eyes met: it was only for a moment; but with such intelligence did each glance read the other, that they both smiled significantly. Talbot moved quickly forward at the instant, and closing the door with one hand, he laid the other gently on Lanty’s shoulder.

“Come, Lanty,” said he, jocularly, “I can afford to sport ten pounds for a whim. Tell me who it was sent you after me this evening, and I’ll give you the money.”

“Done, then!” cried Lanty, grasping his hand; “And you’ll ask no more than his name?”

“Nothing more. I pledge my word; and here’s the money.”

“Captain Hemsworth, the agent to the rich Englishman in Glen-flesk.”

“I don’t think I ever saw him in my life – I’m certain I don’t know him. Is he a tall, dark man?”

“I’ll tell you no more,” said Lanty. “The devil a luck I ever knew come of speaking of him.”

“All fair, Lanty – a bargain’s a bargain; and so, good-night.” And with a shake-hands of affected cordiality, they parted.

“Your conference has been a long one,” said Mark, who waited with impatience, until the silence without permitted him to come forth.

“Not so long as I could have wished it,” was Talbot’s reply, as he stood in deep thought over what had passed. “It is just as I feared, Mark; there is danger brewing for me in some quarter, but how, and in what shape, I cannot even guess. This same horsedealer, this Lanty Lawler – ”

“Lanty Lawler, did you say?”

“Yes. You know him, then?”

“To be sure I do. We’ve had many dealings together. He’s a shrewd fellow, and not over-scrupulous in the way of his trade; but, apart from that, he’s a true-hearted, honest fellow, and a friend to the cause.”

“You think so, Mark,” said Talbot, with a smile of significant meaning.

“I know it, Talbot. He is not an acquaintance of yesterday with me. I have known him for years long. He is as deep in the plot as any, and perhaps has run greater risks than either of us.”

“Well, well,” said Talbot, sighing, as though either weary of the theme, or disinclined to contradict the opinion; “let us think of other matters. Shall we go to this ball or not? I incline to say nay.”

“What! Not go there?” said Mark, starting back in astonishment. “Why, what in heaven’s name have we been waiting for, but this very opportunity? – and what reason is there now to turn from our plans?”

“There may be good and sufficient ones, even though they should be purely personal to myself,” said Talbot, in a tone of ill-dissembled pique. “But come; we will go. I have been walking over a mine too long to care for a mere petard. And now, let us lose no more time, but dress at once.”

“Must I really wear this absurd dress, Talbot? For very shame’s sake, I shall not be able to look about me.”

“That you must, Mark. Remember that your safety lies in the fact that we attract no notice of any kind. To be as little remarked as possible is our object; and for this reason I shall wear the uniform of an English militia regiment, of which there are many at every Levee. We shall separate on entering the room, and meet only from time to time; but as we go along, I’ll give you all your instructions. And now to dress, as quickly as may be.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE ST. PATRICK’S BALL

Much as O’Donoghue marvelled at the change effected in his own appearance by the court dress, he was still more surprised at finding what a complete transformation his friend Talbot had undergone. The scarlet uniform seemed to make him appear larger and fatter; while the assumption of a pair of dark whiskers added several years to his apparent age, and totally changed the character of his countenance.

“I see by your face, Mark,” said he, laughing, “that the disguise is complete. You could scarcely recognise me – I may safely defy most others?”

“But you are taller, I think?”

“About an inch and a-half only – false heels inside my boots give me a slight advantage over you. Don’t be jealous, however, I’m not your match on a fair footing.”

This flattery seemed successful, for Mark smiled, and reddened slightly. As they drove along, Talbot entered minutely into an account of the people they should meet with – warning Mark of the necessity there existed to avoid any, even the most trivial, sign of astonishment at anything he saw – to mix with the crowd, and follow the current from room to room, carefully guarding against making any chance acquaintance – and, above all, not to be recognised by his cousin Kate, if by any accident he should be near her.

In the midst of these directions, Talbot was interrupted by the sudden stoppage of the carriages in the line, which already extended above a mile from the Castle gate.

“Here we are at last, Mark, in the train of the courtiers – does your patriotism burn for the time when your homage shall be rendered to a native Sovereign. Ha! there goes one of the privileged class – that carriage, with the two footmen, is the Lord Chancellor’s, he has the right of the private ‘entrée,’ and takes the lead of such humble folk as we are mixed up with.”

A deep groan from the mob burst forth, as the equipage, thus noticed, dashed forward. Such manifestations of public feeling were then frequent, and not always limited to mere expressions of dislike. The very circumstance of quitting the regular line, and passing the rest, seemed to evoke popular indignation, and it was wonderful with what readiness the mob caught up allusions to the public or private life of those, thus momentarily exposed to their indignation. Some speech or vote in Parliament – some judicial sentence – or some act or event in their private history, was at once recalled and criticised, in a manner far more frank than flattering. None escaped this notice, for, notwithstanding the strong force of mounted police that kept the street clear, some adventurous spirit was always ready to rush forward to the carriage window, and in a moment announce to the others the name of its occupant. By all this, Mark was greatly amused – he had few sympathies with those in little favour with the multitude, and could afford to laugh at the sallies which assailed the members of the Government. The taunting sarcasms and personal allusions, of which the Irish members were not sparing in the house, were here repeated by those, who suffered the severity to lose little of its sting in their own version.

“Look at Flood, boys – there’s the old vulture with broken beak and cadaverous aspect – a groan for Flood,” and the demand was answered by thousands.

“There’s Tom Connolly,” shouted a loud voice, “three cheers for the Volunteers – three cheers for Castletown.”

“Thank you, boys, thank you,” said a rich mellow voice, as in their enthusiasm the mob pressed around the carriage of the popular member, and even shook hands with the footmen behind the carriage.

“Here’s Luttrel, here’s Luttrel,” cried out several together, and in a moment the excitement, which before was all of joy, assumed a character of deepest execration.

Aware of the popular feeling towards him, this gentleman’s carriage was guarded by two troopers of the horse police – nor was the precaution needless, for no sooner was he recognised, than a general rush was made by the mob, and for a moment or two the carriage was separated from the rest of the line.

“Groan him, boys, groan him, but don’t touch the traitor,” shouted a savage-looking fellow, who stood a head and shoulders above the crowd.

“Couldn’t you afford to buy new liveries with the eighty thousand pounds the Government gave you,” yelled another, and the sally was responded to with a burst of savage laughter.

“Throw us out a penny,” called a third, “it will treat all your friends in Ireland – let him go, boys, let him go on, he’s only stopping the way of his betters.”

“Here’s the man that knows how to spend his money – three cheers for the Englishman from Stephen’s-green – three cheers for Sir Marmaduke Travers,” and the cheers burst forth with an enthusiasm that showed, how much more a character for benevolence and personal kindness conciliated mob estimation, than all the attributes of political partizanship.

“Bring us a lamp here, bring us a lamp,” cried a miserable object in tattered rags, “take down a lamp, boys, till we have a look at the two beauties,” and strange as the suggestion may seem, it was hailed with a cry of triumphal delight, and in another moment a street lamp was taken from its place and handed over the heads of the mob, to the very window of Sir Marmaduke’s carriage; while the old Baronet, kindly humouring the eccentricity of the people, lowered the glass to permit them to see in. A respectful silence extended over that crowd, motley and miserable as it was, and they stood in mute admiration, not venturing upon a word nor a remark, until as it were overcome by a spontaneous feeling of enthusiasm they broke forth into one loud cheer that echoed from the College to the very gates of the Castle; and with blessings deep and fervent, as they would have bestowed for some real favour, the carriage was allowed to proceed on its way once more.