The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“A luckless land, indeed!” said Mark, who, coming up at the moment, had overheard the last words. “You were right to call it so – where the son of an O’Donoghue sees no more glorious path to follow than that of a hollow compromise!”

Kate and Herbert started as he spoke, and while her face flashed with an emotion of mingled pride and shame, Herbert looked abashed, and almost angry at the reproach.

“Forgive me, Herbert,” said Mark, in a voice of deep melancholy. “Not even this theme should sow a difference between us. I came to bid you good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Mark?” cried Kate, starting with terrified surprise.

“Going to leave us, Mark!” exclaimed Herbert, in an accent of true sorrow.

“It is but for a few days – at least I hope that it will be no more,” said Mark. “But I have received intelligence that makes it necessary for me to remain in concealment for a short time. You see, Herbert,” said he, laughing, “that your theory has the advantage on the score of prudence. Had I followed it, the chances are, I should not have occupied the attention of his Majesty’s Privy Council.”

“The Privy Council! I don’t understand this, Mark.”

“Perhaps this is the easiest mode of explaining it,” said Mark, as he unfolded a printed paper, headed “Treason – Reward for the apprehension of Mark O’Donoghue, Esq., or such information as may lead to his capture.” “Is that enough? Come, come – I have no time for long stories just now. If you want to hear mine about the matter, you must visit me at my retreat – the low shealing at the west of Hungry Mountain. At least, for the present I shall remain there.”

“But is this necessary, Mark? Are you certain that any thing more is meant than to threaten?” said Kate.

“I believe that Carrig-na-curra will be searched by a military force to-night, or to-morrow at farthest – that the bribe has tempted three or four – none of our people – don’t mistake me – to set on my track. If my remaining would spare my father’s house the indignity of a search – or if the country had any better cause at heart than that of one so valueless as I am, I would stay, Kate – ”

“No, no, Mark. This were but madness, unworthy of you, unjust to all who love you.”

The last few words were uttered so faintly, as only to be heard by him alone; and as she spoke them a heavy tear rolled down her cheek, now pale as marble.

“But surely, Mark,” said Herbert, who never suspected any thing of his brother’s intrigues, “this must proceed on mere falsehood. There is no charge against you – you, whose life of quiet retirement here can defy any calumny.”

“But not deny the truth,” said Mark, with a sorrowful smile. “Once for all, I cannot speak of these things now. My time is running fast; and already my guide, yonder, looks impatient at my delay. Remember the shealing at the foot of the mountain. If there be any mist about, you have but to whistle.”

“Is poor Terry your guide, then?” said Kate, affecting to smile with some semblance of tranquillity.

“My guide and my host both,” said Mark, gaily, “It’s the only invitation I have received for Christmas, and I accept it most willingly, I assure you.”

An impatient gesture of Terry’s hand, as he stood on a small pinnacle of rock, about fifty feet above the road, attracted Mark’s attention, and he called out —

“Well! – what is it?”

“The dragoons!” shouted Terry, in a terrified voice. “They’re crossing the ford at Caher-mohill, two miles off – eight, nine, ten – ay, there’s twelve now, over; and the fellow in the dark coat, he’s another. Wait! they’re asking the way: that’s it, I’m sure. Well done! – my blessing be an ye this day, whoever ye are. May I never! if he’s not sending them wrong! They’re down the glen towards Killarney;” and as he finished speaking he sprang from the height, and hastened down the precipice at a rate that seemed to threaten destruction at every step.

“Even so, Terry. We have not more time than we need. It’s a long journey to the west of the mountain; and so, good-bye, my dear cousin. Good-bye, Herbert. A short absence it will be, I trust;” and, tearing himself away hurriedly, lest any evidence of emotion might be seen, the young man ascended the steep pathway after Terry; nor did he turn his head round, until distance enabled him to look down unnoticed, when again he cried out “Farewell! Remember the west side of Hungry!” and waving his cap, disappeared, while Herbert and his cousin wended their sorrowful way homeward.

CHAPTER XLI. A DISCOVERY

When Kate arrived at home, she found a note awaiting her, in Hemsworth’s hand-writing, and marked “haste.” Guessing at once to what it must refer, she broke the seal, with an anxious heart, and read: —

“My dear Madam,

“I have been unable to retard any longer the course of proceedings against your cousin. It would seem that the charges against him are far more grave and menacing than either of us anticipated, at least so far as I can collect from the information before me. The Privy Council has determined on arresting him at once. Orders to support the warrant by a military force have been transmitted to officers commanding parties in different towns of the south, and there is no longer a question of the intentions of the crown regarding him. But one, of two, chances is now open to him – to surrender and take his trial – or, should he, as he may, without any imputation on his courage, dread this, to make his escape to the coast, near Kenmare, where a lugger will lie off, on Wednesday night. By this means he will be able to reach some port in France or Flanders; or, probably, should the wind change, obtain protection from some of the American vessels, which are reported as cruising to the westward.

“In making this communication to you, I need scarcely observe the implicit faith I repose in the use you make of it. It is intended to be the means of providing for your cousin’s safety – but should it, by any accident, fall under other eyes than yours, it would prove the inevitable ruin of your very devoted servant,

“Wm. Hemsworth.”

“And they will not believe this man’s integrity?” exclaimed Kate, as she finished reading the note. “He who jeopardies his own station and character for the sake of one actually his enemy! Well, their injustice shall not involve my honor.” “Was it you brought this letter?” said she to Wylie, who stood, hat in hand, at the door.

“Yes, my lady, and I was told there might, perhaps, be an answer.”

“No – there is none; say ‘very well’ – that I have read it. Where is Mr. Hemsworth?”

“At Macroom. There was a meeting of magistrates there, which delayed him, and he wrote this note, and sent me on, instead of coming himself.”

“Say, that I shall be happy to see him – that’s enough,” said Kate, hurriedly, and turned back again into the house.

Through all the difficulties that beset her path hitherto, she had found Sir Archy an able and a willing adviser; but now, the time was come, when not only must she act independently of his aid, but, perhaps, in actual opposition to his views – taking for her guidance one distrusted by almost every member of her family. Yet what alternative remained – how betray Hemsworth’s conduct in a case which, if known, must exhibit him as false to the Government, and acting secretly against the very orders that were given to him? This, she could not think of, and thus by the force of circumstances, was constrained to accept of Hemsworth as an ally. Her anxious deliberations on this score were suddenly interrupted by the sound of horses galloping on the road, and as she looked out, the individual in question rode up the causeway, followed by his groom.

The O’Donoghue was alone in the drawing-room, musing over the sad events which necessitated Mark’s concealment, when Hemsworth entered, heated by a long and fast ride.

“Is your son at home, sir – your eldest son?” said he, as soon as a very brief greeting was over.

“If you’ll kindly ring that bell, which my gout won’t permit me to reach, we’ll inquire,” said the old man, with a well-affected indifference.

“I must not create any suspicion among the servants,” said Hemsworth, cautiously, “I have reason to believe that some danger is impending over him, and that he had better leave this house for a day or two.”

The apparent frankness of the tone in which he spoke, threw the O’Donoghue completely off his guard, and taking Hemsworth’s hand, he said —

“Thank you sincerely for this, the poor boy got wind of it this morning, and I trust before now, has reached some place of safety for the present – but what steps can we take? is there anything you can advise us to do? – I’m really so bewildered by all I hear, and so doubtful of what is true and what false, that I’m incapable of an opinion. Here comes the only clear head amongst us. Kate, my sweet child, Mr. Hemsworth, like a kind friend, has come over about this affair of Mark’s – will you and Sir Archy talk it over with him?”

“I beg your pardon for the interruption, sir, but I must recall to your memory that I am a magistrate, charged with your son’s arrest, and if by an unguarded expression,” here he smiled significantly, “I have betrayed my instructions – I rely on your honour not to expose me to the consequences.”

The O’Donoghue listened, without thoroughly comprehending the distinction the other aimed at, and then, as if disliking the trouble of a thought that puzzled him – he shook his head and muttered, “Aye, very well – be it so – my niece knows these matters better than I do.”

“I agree with that opinion, perfectly,” said Hemsworth, in an undertone, “and if Miss O’Donoghue will favor me with her company for a few minutes in the garden, I may be able to assist her to a clear understanding of the case.” Kate smiled assentingly, and Hemsworth moved towards the door and opened it; and then, as if after a momentary struggle with his own diffidence, he offered her his arm; this Kate declined, and they walked along, side by side.

They had nearly reached the middle of the garden before Hemsworth broke silence. At last he said, with a deep sigh – “I fear we are too late Miss O’Donoghue. The zeal, real or affected, of the country magistrates, has stimulated them to the utmost. There are spies over the whole country – he will inevitably be taken.”

Rate re-echoed the last words in an accent of deep anguish, and was silent.

“Yes,” resumed he, “escape is all but impossible – for even if he should get to sea, there are two cruisers on the look-out for any suspicious sail.

“And what if he were to surrender and stand his trial,” said Kate, boldly.

Hemsworth shook his head sorrowfully, but never spoke. “What object can it be with any Government to hunt down a rash, inexperienced youth, whose unguarded boldness has led him to ruin? On whom would such an example tell, or where would the lesson spread terror, save beneath that old roof yonder, where sorrows are rife enough already?”

“The correspondence with France – that’s his danger. The intercourse with the disturbed party at home might be palliated by his youth – the foreign conspiracy admits of little apology.” “And what evidence have they of this?”

“Alas! but too much – the table of the Privy Council was actually covered with copies of letters and documents – some, written by himself – almost all, referring to him as a confidential and trusty agent of the cause. This cannot be forgiven him! When I heard a member of the Council say, ‘Jackson’s blood is dried up already,’ I guessed the dreadful result of this young man’s capture.”

Kate shuddered at these words, which were uttered in a faint tone, tremulous through emotion. “Oh, God,” she cried, “do not let this calamity fall upon us. Poverty, destitution, banishment, anything, save the death of a felon!”

Hemsworth pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, and looked away, as the young girl, with upturned face, muttered a brief but fervent prayer to heaven.

“But you, so gifted and experienced in the world’s ways,” cried she, turning on him a glance of imploring meaning – “can you not think of anything? Is there no means, however difficult and dangerous, by which he might be saved? Could not the honor of an ancient house plead for him? Is there no pledge for the future could avail him.”

“There is but one such pledge – and that” – here he stopped and blushed deeply, and then, as if by an effort, resumed – “Do not, I beseech you, tempt me to utter what, if once spoken, decides the destiny of my life?”

He ceased, and she bent on him a look of wondering astonishment. She thought she had not heard him aright, and amid her fears of some vague kind, a faint hope struggled, that a chance of saving Mark yet remained. Perhaps, the mere expression of doubt her features assumed, was more chilling than even a look of displeasure, for Hemsworth’s self possession, for several minutes, seemed to have deserted him; when, at last recovering himself, he said —

“Pray, think no more of my words, I spoke them rashly. I know of no means of befriending this young man. He rejected my counsels when they might have served him. I find how impossible it is to win confidence from those whose prejudices have been fostered in adverse circumstances. Now, I am too late – my humble task is merely to offer you some advice, which the day of calamity may recall to your memory. The Government intends to make a severe example of his case. I heard so much, by accident, from the Under Secretary. They will proceed, in the event of his conviction – of which there cannot be a doubt – to measures of confiscation regarding his property – timely intervention might be of service here.”

This additional threat of misfortune did not seem to present so many terrors to Kate’s mind as he calculated on its producing. She stood silent and motionless, and appeared scarcely to notice his words.

“I feel how barbarous such cruelty is to an old and inoffensive parent,” said Hemsworth, “whose heart is rent by the recent loss of a son.”

“He must not die,” said Kate, with a hollow voice, and her pale cheek trembled with a convulsive motion. “Mark must be saved. What was the pledge you hinted at?”

Hemsworth’s eyes flashed, and his lip curled with an expression of triumph. The moment, long sought, long hoped for, had at length arrived, which should gratify both his vengeance and his ambition. The emotion passed rapidly away, and his features assumed a look of subdued sorrow.

“I fear, Miss O’Donoghue,” said he, “that my hope was but like the straw which the drowning hand will grasp at; but, tortured as my mind has been by expedients, which more mature thought has ever discovered to be impracticable, I suffered myself to believe that possible, which my own heart forbids me to hope for.”

He waited a few seconds to give her an opportunity of speaking, but she was silent, and he went on —

“The guarantee I alluded to would be the pledge of one, whose loyalty to the Government stands above suspicion; one, whose services have met no requital, but whose reward only awaits the moment of demanding it; such a one as this might make his own character and fortune the recognizance for this young man’s conduct, and truck the payment of his own services for a free pardon.”

“And who is there thus highly placed, and willing to befriend us.”

Hemsworth laid his hand upon his heart, and bowing with deep humility, uttered, in a low, faint voice —

“He who now stands before you!”

“You,” cried Kate, as clasping her hands in an ecstacy, she fixed her tearful eyes upon him. “You would do this?” Then growing suddenly pale, as a sick shudder came over her, she said, in a deep and broken voice, “At what price, sir?”

The steady gaze she fixed upon him seemed to awe and abash him, and it was with unfeigned agitation that he now spoke.

“A price which the devotion of a life long could not repay. Alas! a price I dare no more aspire to, than hope for.”

“Speak plainly, sir,” said Kate, in a firm, collected tone, “this is not a moment for misconception. What part have I to play in this compact, for by your manner I suppose you include me in it?”

“Forgive me, young lady, I have not courage to place the whole fortunes of my life upon one cast; already I feel the heaviness of heart that heralds in misfortune. I would rather live on with even this faint glimmer of hope than with the darkness of despair for ever.” His hands dropped powerless at his side, his head fell forward on his bosom, and as if without an effort of his will, almost unconsciously his lips muttered the words, “I love you.”

Had the accents been the sting of an adder they could not have called up an expression of more painful meaning than flashed over Kate’s features.

“And this, then, is the price you hinted at – this was to be the compact.”

The proud look of scorn she threw upon him evoked no angry feeling in his breast, he seemed overwhelmed by sorrow, and did not dare even to look up.

“You judge me hardly, unfairly too; I never meant my intercession should be purchased – humble as I am, I should he still more unworthy, had I harhoured such a thought; my hope was this, to make my intervention available, I should show myself linked with the fortunes of that house I tried to save – it should be a case, where, personally, my own interest was at stake, and where my fortune, all I possessed in the world was in the scale, if you consented” – here he hesitated, faltered, and finally became silent, then passing his hands across his eyes, resumed more rapidly – “but I must not speak of this; alas! that my tongue should have ever betrayed it; you have forced my secret from me, and with it my happiness for ever – forget this, I beseech you forget that, even in a moment so unguarded, I dared to lift my eyes to the shrine my heart has worshipped. I ask no pledge, no compact, I will do my utmost to save this youth; I will spare no exertion or influence I possess with the Government; I will make his pardon the recompense due to myself, but if that be impossible, I will endeavour to obtain connivance at his escape, and all the price I ask for this is, your forgiveness of my presumption.”

Kate held out her hand towards him, while a smile of bewitching loveliness played over her features; “this is to be a friend indeed,” said she.

Hemsworth bent down his head till his lips rested on her fingers, and as he did so, the hot tears trickled on her hand, then suddenly starting up, he said, “I must lose no time; where shall I find your cousin? – in what part of the country has he sought shelter?”

“The shealing at the foot of Hungry mountain, he mentioned to Herbert as the rendezvous for the present.”

“Is he alone – has he no companion?”

“None, save, perhaps, the idiot boy who acts as his guide in the mountains.”

“Farewell then,” said Hemsworth, “you shall soon hear what success attends my efforts; farewell” – and, without waiting for more, he hastened from the spot, and was soon heard descending the causeway at a rapid pace.

Kate stood for a few moments lost in thought, and as the sound of the retreating hoofs aroused her, she looked up, and muttering to herself, “It was nobly done,” returned with slow steps to the house.

As Hemsworth spurred his horse, and urged him to his fastest speed, expressions of mingled triumph and vengeance burst from him at intervals – “Mine at last,” cried he – “mine in spite of every obstacle, – Fortune is seldom so kind as this – vengeance and ambition both gratified together – me, whom they dispised for my poverty, and my low birth – that it should be my destiny to crush them to the dust!” These words were scarcely uttered, when his horse, pressed beyond his strength, stumbled over a rut in the road, and fell heavily to the ground, throwing his rider under him.

For a long time no semblance of consciousness returned, and the groom, fearing to leave him, had to wait for hours until a country car should pass, in which his wounded master might be laid. There came one by at last, and on this Hemsworth was laid, and brought back to “the Lodge.” Before he reached home, however, sense had so far returned, as, that he felt his accident was attended with no serious injury; the shock of the fall was the only circumstance of any gravity.

The medical man of Macroom was soon with him, and partly confirmed his own first impressions, but strictly enjoining rest and quiet, as in the event of any unusual excitement, the worst consequences might ensue. Hemsworth bore up under the injunction with all the seeming fortitude he could muster, but in his heart he cursed the misfortune that thus delayed the hour of his long-sought vengeance.

“This may continue a week, then?” cried he, impatiently.

The doctor nodded an assent.

“Two – three weeks, perhaps?”

“It will be a month, at least, before I can pronounce you out of danger,” said the physician, gravely.

“A month! Great Heaven! – a month! And what are the dangers you apprehend, in the event of my not submitting?”

“There are several, and very serious ones – inflammation of the brain, fever, derangement even.”

“Yes, and are you sure this confinement will not drive me mad?” cried he, passionately; “will you engage that my brain will hold out against the agonizing thoughts that will not cease to torture me all this while? – or can you promise that events shall stand still for the moment when I can resume my place once more among men?”

The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only a more certain evidence of the truth of the medical fears; and, without venturing on any direct reply, the doctor gave some directions for his treatment, and withdrew.

The physician’s apprehensions were well founded. The first few hours after the accident seemed to threaten nothing serious, but as night fell, violent headache and fever set in, and before day-break, he was quite delirious.

No sooner did the news reach Carrig-na-curra, than Kerry was dispatched to bring back tidings of his state; for, however different the estimation in which he was held by each, one universal feeling pervaded all – of sorrow for his disaster, Day after day, Sir Archy or Herbert went over to inquire after him; but some chronic feature of his malady seemed to have succeeded, and he lay in one unvarying condition of lethargic unconsciousness.

In this way, week after week glided over, and the condition of the country seemed like that of the sick man – one of slumbering apathy. The pursuit of Mark, so eagerly begun, had, as it were, died out. The proclamations of reward, torn down by the country people on their first appearance, were never renewed, and the military party, after an ineffectual search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards towards Tralee, and soon after returned to head-quarters. Still, with all these signs of security, Mark, whose short experience of life, had taught him caution, rarely ventured near Carrig-na-curra, and never passed more than a few moments beneath his father’s roof.

While each had a foreboding that this calm was but the lull that preludes a storm, their apprehensions took very different and opposing courses, Kate’s anxieties increased with each day of Hemsworth’s illness; she saw the time gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, and yet knew not how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, coupling the activity with which Mark’s pursuit was first undertaken, with the sudden visit of Hemsworth to the country, and the abandonment of all endeavours to capture him, which followed on Hemsworth’s accident, felt strong suspicion that the agent was the prime mover in the whole affair, and that his former doubts, were well founded regarding him; while Herbert, less informed than either on the true state of matters, formed opinions, which changed and vacillated with each day’s experience.

In this condition of events, Sir Archy had gone over one morning alone, to inquire after Hemsworth, whose case, for some days preceding, was more than usually threatening – symptoms of violent delirium having succeeded to the dead lethargy in which he was sunk. Buried deeply in his conjectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, and how far his motives tallied with honourable intentions, the old man plodded wearily on, weighing every word he could remember that bore upon events, and carefully endeavouring to divest his mind of every thing like a prejudice. Musing thus, he accidentally diverged from the regular approach, and turned off into a narrow path, which led to the back of “the Lodge;” nor was he aware of his mistake, till he saw, at the end of the walk, the large window of a room he remembered as belonging to the former building.. The sash was open, but the curtains, were drawn closely, so as to intercept any view from within or without. He observed these things, as fatigued by an unaccustomed exertion, he seated himself, for some moments’ rest, on a bench beneath the trees.