The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“That’s folly; what is the other rumour?”

“A more likely one,” said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd glance beneath his half-closed eye-lids. “They say that he determined to go up to Dublin, and see the Lord Lieutenant, and ask him for a free pardon for Mark.”

Hemsworth sprung up in the bed at these words, as if he had been stung.

“And who says this, Wylie?”

“I believe I was the first that said so myself,” said Wylie, affecting modesty; “when Kerry told me, that the old man packed up a court dress and a sword.”

“You’re right, Sam; there’s not a doubt of it. How long is this ago?”

“Five weeks on Tuesday last.”

“Five weeks! – five weeks lost already! And have you heard what has been done by him? – what success he’s met with?”

“No, sir; but you can soon know something about it yourself.”

“How do you mean? – I don’t understand you.”

“These are the only two letters he has written as yet. This, one came on Saturday. I always went down in the mornings to Mary M’Kelly’s, before the bag came in, and as she could not read over well, I sorted the letters for her myself, and slipped in these among your own.”

Hemsworth and his companion exchanged looks. Probably never did glances more rapidly reveal the sentiments of two hearts. Each, well knew the villainy of the ether; but Hemsworth for the first time saw himself in another’s power, and hesitated how far the advantage of the discovery was worth the heavy price he should pay for it; besides that the habits of his life made him regard the breach of confidence, incurred in reading another man’s letter, in a very different light from his underbred associate, and he made no gesture to take them from his hand.

“This has an English post-mark,” said Wylie, purposely occupying himself with the letter, to avoid noticing Hemsworth’s hesitation.

“You have not broken the seals, I hope,” said Hemsworth, faintly.

“No, sir; I knew better than that,” replied Wylie, with well-assumed caution. “I knew your honour had a right to it, if you suspected the correspondence was treasonable, because you’re in the Commission, and it’s your duty; but I could’nt venture it, of myself.”

“I’m afraid your law is not very correct, Master Wylie,” said Hemsworth, who felt by no means certain as to the sincerity of the opinion.

“It’s good enough for Glenflesk, anyhow,” said the fellow, boldly; for he saw that in Hemsworth’s present nervous condition, audacity might succeed where subserviency would not.

“By which you mean that we have the case in our own hands, Wylie; well, you’re not far wrong in that; still, I cannot break open a letter.

“Well, then, I’m not so scrupulous when my master’s interests are concerned;” and so saying, he tore open each in turn, and threw them on the bed. “There, sir, you can transport me for the offence whenever you like.”

“You are a strange fellow, Sam,” said Hemsworth, whose nerves were too much shaken by illness, to enable him to act with his ordinary decision, and he took up one of the letters, and perused it slowly. “This is merely an announcement of his arrival in Dublin; he has waited upon, but not seen the Secretary – finds it difficult to obtain an audience – press of parliamentary business for the new session – no excitement about the United party. What tidings has the other? Ha! – . what’s this?” – and his thin and haggard face flushed scarlet. “Leave me, Sam; I must have a little time to consider this. Come back to me in an hour.”

Wylie said not a word, but moved towards the door; while in his sallow features a savage smile of malicious triumph shone.

As Hemsworth flattened out the letter before him on the bed, his eyes glistened and sparkled with the fire of aroused intelligence: the faculties which, during his long illness, had lain in abeyance, as if refreshed and invigorated by rest, were once more excited to their accustomed exercise; and over that face, pale and haggard by sickness, a flush of conscious power stole, lighting up every lineament and feature, and displaying the ascendancy of mental effort over mere bodily infirmity.

“And so this Scotchman dares to enter the list with me,” said he, with a smile of contemptuous meaning; “let him try it.”

CHAPTER XLIV. THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE

A little lower down the valley than the post occupied by Terry as his look-out, was a small stream, passable by stepping-stones; this was the usual parting place of the two brothers, whenever Herbert returned home for a day or so, and this limit Mark rarely or never transgressed, regarding it as the frontier of his little dominion. Beside this rivulet, as night was falling, Mark sat, awaiting with some impatience his brother’s coming, for already the third evening had passed in which Herbert promised to be back, and yet he had not come.

Alternately stooping to listen, or straining his eyes to see, he waited anxiously; and while canvassing in his mind every possible casualty he could think of to account for his absence, he half resolved on pushing forward down the glen, and, if necessary, venturing even the whole way to Carrig-na-curra. Just then a sound caught his ear – he listened, and at once recognized Terry’s voice, as, singing some rude verse, he came hastening down the glen at his full speed.

“Ha! I thought you’d be here,” cried he, with delight in his countenance; “I knew you’d be just sitting there on that rock.”

“What has happened, then, Terry, that you wanted me?”

“It was a message a man in sailor’s clothes gave me for your honour this morning, and, somehow, I forgot to tell you of it when you passed, though he charged me not to forget it.”

“What is it, Terry?”

“Ah, then, that’s what I misremember, and I had it all right this morning. Let me think a bit.”

Mark repelled every symptom of impatience, for he well knew how the slightest evidences of dissatisfaction on his part would destroy every chance of the poor fellow regaining his memory, and he waited silently for several minutes. At last, thinking to aid his recollection, he said —

“The man was a smuggler, Terry?”

“He was, but I never saw him before. He came across from Kinsale, over the mountains. Botheration to him, why didn’t he say more, and I wouldn’t forget it now.” “Have patience, you’ll think of it all by-and-by.”

“Maybe so. He was a droll-looking fellow, with a short cutlash at his side, and a hairy cap on his head; and he seemed to know yer honour well, for he said —

“‘How is the O’Donoghues – don’t they live hereabouts?”

“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘a few miles down that way.’

“‘Is the eldest boy at home,” says he.

“‘Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t,’ says I, for I wouldn’t tell him where you were.

“‘Could you give him a message,’ says he, from a friend?’

“‘Av it was a friend,’ says I.

“‘A real friend,’ says he. ‘Tell him – just tell him – ’

“There it is now – divil a one o’ me knows what he said.”

Mark suffered no sign of anger to escape him, but sat without speaking a word, while Terry recapitulated every sentence in a muttering voice, to assist him in remembering what followed.

“I have it now,” said he at last; and clapping his hands with glee, he cried out, “them’s the very words he said —

“‘Tell Mr. Mark, it’s a fine sight to see the sun rising from the top of Hungry Mountain; and if the wind last, it will be worth seeing tomorrow.’”

“Were those his words?” asked Mark eagerly.

“Them, and no other – I have it all in my head now.”

“Which way did he take when he left you?”

“He turned up the glen, towards Googawn Barra, and I seen him crossing the mountain afterwards; but here comes Master Herbert;” and at the same instant he was seen coming up the valley at a fast pace.