The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“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.

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.’”