The O'Donoghue Part 68

"What!--did I hear aright?" said the old man, as with a face pale as death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth by either arm. "Is this true, Herbert? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so."

"It is true, sir, most true; and if I have hitherto spared you the pain it might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the avowal might cost _me_."

The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a livid hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew gla.s.sy and l.u.s.treless.

"We may well be wretched and miserable," exclaimed he with a faint sigh, "when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to each other."

The French officer--for such he was--muttered some words into Mark's ear, who replied--"I cannot blame you for feeing impatient; this is no time for fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, we'll meet again soon;" and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from the room with his companion.

Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to say something, yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the old man's chair, he said--

"There is yet time to avert the danger; the people are irresolute--many actually averse to the rising; my brother will fall by his rashness."

"Better to do so than survive in dishonour," said the priest, s.n.a.t.c.hing rudely away his hand from Herbert's grasp. "Leave me, young man--go; this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it sheltered the apostate."

"I never thought I should hear these words, here," said Herbert, mildly; "but I cannot part from you in anger."

"There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, Herbert,"

said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke; "kneel now, my child."

Herbert knelt at the priest's feet, when placing his hand on the young man's head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, as he concluded--

"And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and bring you back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth."

He kissed the young man's forehead, and then covering his eyes with his hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts.

At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice without; he stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little porch, found Kerry O'Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had reached the cottage, after several hours' endeavour to cross the watercourses, swollen into torrents by the rain.

"A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir," said Kerry; for heartily sick of his excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to which brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his unpleasant mission.

The note began, "My dear son;" and, without the mention of a name, simply entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert felt both duty and inclination called him, and without a moment's delay left the cottage, and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra.

The night was dark and starless, as they plodded onward, and as the rain ceased, the wind grew stronger, while for miles inland the roaring of the sea could be heard like deep continuous thunder. Herbert, too much occupied with his own thoughts, seldom spoke, nor did Kerry, exhausted as he felt himself, often break silence as they went. As they drew near the castle, however, a figure crossed the road, and advancing towards them said--

"Good night."

"Who could that be, Kerry?" said Herbert, as the stranger pa.s.sed on.

"I know the voice well," said Kerry, "though he thought to disguise it.

That's Sam Wylie, and it's not for any thing good he's here."

Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang down upon and seized them.

"This is our man," said one of the party, as he held Herbert by the collar, with a grasp there was no resisting; "but secure the other also."

Herbert's resistance was vain, although spiritedly made, and stifling his cries for aid, they carried him along for some little distance to a spot, where a chaise was standing with four mounted dragoons on either side. Into this he was forced, and seated between two men in plain clothes, the word was given to start.

"You know your orders if a rescue be attempted," said a voice, Herbert at once knew to be Hemsworth's.

The answer was lost in the noise of the wheels; for already the horses were away at the top of their speed, giving the escort all they could do to keep up beside them.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE DAY OF RECKONING

Never had the O'Donoghue and Kate pa.s.sed a day of more painful anxiety, walking from window to window, whenever a view of the glen might be obtained, or listening to catch among the sounds of the storm for something that should announce Mark's return; their fears increased as the hours stole by, and yet no sign of his coming appeared.

The old castle shook to its very foundations, as the terrific gale tore along the glen, and the occasional crash of some old fragment of masonry, would be heard high above the roaring wind--while in the road beneath were scattered branches of trees, slates, and tiles, all evidencing the violence of the hurricane. Under shelter of the great rock, a s.h.i.+vering flock of mountain sheep were gathered, with here and there amidst them a heifer or a wild pony, all differences of habit merged in the common instinct of safety. Within doors every thing looked sad and gloomy; the kitchen, where several country people, returning from the market, had a.s.sembled, waiting in the vain hope of a favourable moment to proceed homeward, did not present any of its ordinary signs of gaiety. There was no pleasant sound of happy voices; no laughter, no indulgence in the hundred little narratives of personal adventure by which the peasant can beguile the weary time. They all sat around the turf fire, either silent, or conversing in low cautious whispers, while Mrs. Branagan herself smoked her pipe in a state of moody dignity, that added its shade of awe to the solemnity of the scene.

It was a strange feature of the converse, nor would it be worth to mention here, save as typifying the wonderful caution and reserve of the people in times of difficulty; but no one spoke of the "rising," nor did any allude, except distantly, to the important military preparations going forward at Macroom. The fear of treachery was at the moment universal; the dread that informers were scattered widely through the land, prevailed everywhere, and the appearance of a stranger, or of a man from a distant part of the country, was always enough to silence all free and confidential intercourse. So it was now--none spoke of anything but the dreadful storm--the injury it might do the country--how the floods would carry away a bridge here, or a mill there, what roads would be impa.s.sable--what rivers would no longer be ford-able--some had not yet drawn home their turf from the bog, and were now in despair of ever reaching it--another had left his hay in a low callow, and never expected to see it again--while a few, whose speculations took a wider field ventured to expatiate on the terrible consequences of the gale at sea, a topic which when suggested led to many a sorrowful tale of s.h.i.+pwreck on the coast.

It was while they were thus, in low and muttering voices, talking over these sad themes, that Kate, unable any longer to endure the suspense of silent watching, descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen, to try and learn there some tidings of events. The people stood up respectfully as she came forward, and while each made his or her humble obeisance, a muttered sound ran through them, in Irish, of wonder and astonishment at her grace and beauty; for, whatever be the privations of the Irish peasant, however poor and humble his lot in life, two faculties pertain to him like instincts--a relish for drollery, and an admiration for beauty--these are claims that ever find acknowledgment from him, and in his enjoyment of either, he can forget himself, and all the miseries of his condition. The men gazed on her as something more than mortal, the character of her features heightened by costume strange to their eyes, seemed to astonish almost as much as it captivated them--while the women, with more critical discernment, examined her more composedly, but, perhaps, with not less admiration; Mrs. Branagan, at the same time throwing a proud glance around, as though to say, "You didn't think to see the likes of that, in these parts."

Kate happened on this occasion to look more than usually handsome. With a coquetry it is not necessary to explain, she had dressed herself most becomingly, and in that style which distinctly marks a French woman--the only time in his life Mark had ever remarked her costume was when she wore this dress, and she had not forgotten the criticism.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," said Kate, with her slightly foreign accent; "pray sit down again--well, then, I must leave you, if you won't--every one let's me have my own way--is it not true, Mrs.

Branagan?"

Mrs. Branagan's reply was quite lost in the general chorus of the others, as she said--

"And why wouldn't you, G.o.d bless you for a raal beauty!" while a powerful looking fellow, with dark beard and whiskers, struck his stick violently against the ground, and cried out in his enthusiasm--

"Let me see the man that would say agin it--that's all."

Kate smiled at the speaker, not all ungrateful for such rude chivalry, and went on--"I wanted to hear if you have any news from the town--was there any stir among the troops, or anything extraordinary going forward there?"

Each looked at the other as if unwilling to take the reply upon himself, when at last an old man, with a head as white as snow, answered--

"Yes, my lady, the soldiers is all under arms since nine o'clock, then came news that the French was in the Bay, and the army was sent for to Cork."

"No, 'tis Limerick I heerd say," cried another.

"Limerick indeed! sorra bit, 'tis from Dublin they're comin wid cannons; but it's no use, for the French is sailed off again as quick as they come."

"The French fleet gone!--left the Bay--surely you must mistake," said Kate, eagerly.

"Faix, I won't be sure, my lady; but here's Tom McCarthy seen them going away, a little after twelve o'clock."

The man thus appealed to, seemed in nowise satisfied with the allusions to him, and threw a quick distrustful look around, as though far from feeling content with the party before whom he should explain, a feeling that increased considerably as every eye was now turned towards him.

Kate, with a ready tact that never failed her, saw his difficulty, and approaching close to where he stood, said, in a voice only audible by himself----

"Tell me what you saw in the Bay, do not have any fear of _me_."

M'Carthy, who was dressed in the coa.r.s.e blue jacket of a fisherman!

possessed that sharp intelligence so often found among those of his calling, and seemed at once to have his mind relieved by this mark of confidence.

"I was in the boat, my lady," said he, "that rowed Master Mark out to the French frigate, and waited for him alongside to bring him back. He was more than an hour on board talking with the officers, sometimes down in the cabin, and more times up on the quarter-deck, where there was a fierce-looking man, with a blue uniform, lying on a white skin--a white bear, Master Mark tould me it was. The officer was wounded in the leg before he left France, and the sea voyage made it bad again, but, for all that, he laughed and joked away like the others."