CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRIEST'S COTTAGE.
When Mark and Herbert separated on the mountain, each took a different path downward. Mark, bent on assembling the people at once, and proclaiming the arrival of their friends, held his course towards Glengariff and the coast, where the fishermen were, to a man, engaged in the plot. Herbert, uncertain how to proceed, was yet equally anxious to lose no time, but could form no definite resolve what course to adopt amid his difficulties To give notice of the French landing, to apprise the magistrates of the approaching outbreak, was, of course, his duty; but in doing this, might he not be the means of Mark's ruin;—while, on the other hand, to conceal his knowledge would be an act of disloyalty to his sovereign, a forfeiture of the principles he held dear, and the source, perhaps, of the most dreadful evils to his country. Where, too, should he seek for counsel or advice—his father, he well knew, would only regard the means of his brother's safety, reckless of all other consequences; Kate's opinions, vague and undefined as they were, would be in direct opposition to his own. Hems-worth he dared not confide in—what then remained! There was but one for miles round, in whose judgment and honour together he had trust; but from him latterly he had kept studiously aloof. This was his old tutor, Father Rourke. Unwilling to inflict pain upon the old man, and still unable to reconcile himself to anything like duplicity in the matter, Herbert had avoided the occasion of meeting him, and of avowing that change in his religious belief, which, although secretly working for many a year, had only reached its accomplishment when absent from home. He was aware how such a disclosure would afflict his old friend—how impossible would be the effort to persuade him that such a change had its origin in conviction, and not in schemes of worldly ambition; and to save himself the indignity of defence from such an accusation, and the pain of an interview, where the matter should be discussed, he had preferred leaving to time and accident, the disclosure, which from his own lips would have been a painful sacrifice to both parties. These considerations, important enough as they regarded his own happiness, had little weight with him now. The graver questions had swallowed up all others—the safety of the country—his brother's fate. It was true the priest's sympathies would be exclusively with one party; he would not view with Herbert's eye the coming struggle; but still might he not regard with him the results?—might he not, and with prescience stronger from his age, anticipate the dreadful miseries of a land devastated by civil war?—was it not possible that he might judge unfavourably of success, and prefer to endure what he regarded as evils, rather than incur the horrors of a rebellion, and the re-enactment of penalties it would call down?
The hopes such calculations suggested were higher, because Mark had himself often avowed, that the French would only consent to the enterprize, on the strict understanding of being seconded by the almost unanimous voice of the nation. Their expression was, “We are ready and willing to meet England in arms, provided not one Irishman be in the ranks.” Should Father Rourke, then, either from motives of policy or prudence, think unfavourably of the scheme, his influence, unbounded over the people, would throw a damper on the rising, and either deter the French from any forward movement, or at least delay it, and afford time for the Government to take measures of defence. This alone might have its effect on Mark, and perhaps be the means of saving him.
Whether because he caught at this one chance of succour, when all around seemed hopeless, or that the mind: fertilizes the fields of its own discovery, Herbert grew more confident each moment that this plan would prove successful, and turned with an eager heart towards the valley where the priest lived. In his eagerness to press forward, however, he diverged from the path, and at last reached a part of the mountain where a tremendous precipice intervened, and stopped all further progress. The storm increasing every minute made the way slow and perilous, for around the different peaks the wind swept with a force that carried all before it. Vexed at his mistake, he resolved, if possible, to discover some new way down the mountain; but in the endeavour he only wandered still further from his course, and finally found himself in front of the sea once more.
The heavy rain and the dense drift shut out for some minutes the view; but when at last he saw the Bay what was his surprise to perceive that the French fleet was no longer there; he turned his eyes on every side, but the storm-lashed water bore no vessel on its surface, and save some fishing craft at anchor in the little nooks and bays of the coast, not a mast could be seen.
Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses, he knelt down on the cliff, and bent his gaze steadily on the Bay; and when at length re-assured and certain that no deception existed, he began to doubt whether the whole had not been unreal, and that the excitement of his interview with Mark had conjured the images his wishes suggested, The faint flickering embers of an almost extinguished fire on the Smuggler's Rock decided the question, and he knew at once that all had actually happened.
He did not wait long to speculate on the reasons of this sudden flight—enough for him that the most pressing danger was past, and time afforded to rescue Mark from peril; and without a thought upon that armament, whose menace had already filled him with apprehension, he sped down the mountain in reckless haste, and never halted till he reached the glen beneath. The violence of the storm—the beating rain, seemed to excite him to higher efforts of strength and endurance, and his courage appeared to rise as difficulties thickened around him. It was late in the day, however, before he came in sight of the priest's cottage, and where, as the gloom was falling, a twinkliug light now shone.
It was with a last effort of strength, almost exhausted by fatigue and hunger, that Herbert gained the door; this lay, as usual, wide open, and entering, he fell overcome upon a seat. The energy that had sustained him hitherto seemed suddenly to have given way, and he lay back scarcely conscious, and unable to stir. The confusion of sense, so general after severe fatigue, prevented him for some time from hearing voices in the little parlour beside him; but after a brief space he became aware of this vicinity, when suddenly the well-known accents of Mark struck upon his ear; he was speaking louder than was his wont, and evidently with an effort to control his rising temper, while the priest, in a low, calm voice, seemed endeavouring to dissuade and turn him from some purpose.
A brief silence ensued, during which Mark paced the room with slow and heavy steps, then ceasing suddenly he said—
“Why was it, then, that we never heard of these scruples before, sir?—why were we not told that unbelieving France was no fitting ally for saintly Ireland? But why do I ask: had the whole fleet arrived in safety—were there not thirteen missing vessels, we should hear less of such Christian doubts.”
“You are unjust, Mark,” said the priest, calmly; “you know me too well and too long, to put any faith in your reproaches. I refuse to address the people, because I would not see them fall, or even conquer, in an unjust cause. Raise the banner of the Church——”
“The banner of the Church!” said Mark, with a mocking laugh.
“What does he say?” whispered a third voice, in French, as a new speaker mingled in the dialogue.
“He talks of the banner of the Church!” said Mark, scoffingly.
“'Oui, parbleu,' if he likes it,” replied the Frenchman, laughing; “it smacks somewhat of the middle ages; but the old proverb is right, 'a bad etiquette never spoiled good wine.'”
“Is it then in full canonicals, and with the smoke of censers, we are to march against the Saxon?” said Mark, with a taunting sneer.
“Hear me out, Mark,” interrupted the priest; “I didn't say that we were yet prepared even for this; there is much to be done, far more indeed than you wot of. Every expedition insufficiently planned and badly supported, must be a failure; every failure retards the accomplishment of our hopes; such must this enterprise be, if now——'
“Now or never,” interposed Mark, as he struck the table violently with his clenched hand—“now, or never, for me at least. You have shown me to these Frenchman, as a fool or worse. One with influence, and yet without a man to back me—with courage, and you tell me to desert them—with the confidence of my countrymen, and I come alone, unaccompanied, unaccredited, to tell my own tale amongst them. What other indignities have you in store for me, or in what other light am I next to figure? But for that, and perhaps you would dare to go further, and say I am not an O'Donoghue;” and in his passion Mark tore open a pocket-book, and held before the old man's eyes the certificate of his baptism, written in the priest's hand. “Yes, you have forced me to speak, of what I ever meant to have buried in my own heart. There it is, read it, and bethink you, how it becomes him who helped to rob me of my inheritance, to despoil me of my honour also.”
“You must unsay these words, sir,” said the priest in an accent as stern and commanding as Mark's own; “I was never a party to any fraud, nor was I in this country when your father sold his estates.”
“I care not how it happened,” cried Mark, passionately. “When my own father could do this thing, it matters little to me who were his accomplices;” and he tore the paper in fragments, and scattered them over the floor. “Another and a very different cause brought me here. The French fleet has arrived.”
The priest here muttered something in a low tone, to which Mark quietly replied—
“And if they have, it is because their anchors were dragging; you would not have the vessels go ashore on the rocks; the next tide they'll stand up the Bay again. The people that should have been ready to welcome them, hold back. The whole country round is become suddenly craven; of the hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seventeen appeared this morning, and they were wretches more eager for pillage than the field of honourable warfare. It is come then to this, you either come forth, at once, to harangue the people, and recall them to their sworn allegiance, or the expedition goes on without you—go on it shall.”
Here he turned sharply round, and said a few words in French, to which the person addressed replied—
“Certainly; the French Republic does not send a force like this for the benefit of a sea voyage.”
“Desert the cause, then,” continued Mark, in a tone of denunciation; “desert us, and by G—d, your fate will be worse than that of our more open enemies. To-night the force will land; to-morrow we march all day, aye and all night too: the blazing chapels shall light the way.”
“Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of outraged heaven is more terrible than you think of. Whatever be the crime and guilt of others, remember that you are an Irishman; that what the alien may do in recklessness, is sacrilege in him who is the son of the soil.”
“Save me, then, from this guilt—save me from myself,” cried Mark, in an accent of tender emotion. “I cannot desert this cause, and oh, do not make it one of dishonour to me.”
The old man seemed overcome by this sudden appeal to his affections, and made no reply, and the deep breathing of Mark, as his chest heaved in strong emotion, was the only sound in the stillness. Herbert, who had hitherto listened with that vague half consciousness of reality excessive fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the eventful moment was come, when, should the priest falter or hesitate, Mark might succeed in his request, and all hope of rescuing him be lost for ever. With the energy of a desperate resolve he sprang forward, and entered the room just as the priest was about to reply.
“No, Father, no,” cried he, wildly; “be firm, be resolute; if this unhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found in opposing ranks.”
“This from you, Herbert!” said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a cold, stern gaze upon his brother.
“And why not from him,” said the priest, hastily. “Is he not an Irishman in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as to us?”
“I give you joy upon the alliance, Father,” said Mark, with a scornful laugh. “Herbert is a Protestant.”
“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 glassy and lustreless.
“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, snatching 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 passed 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.