CHAPTER XXXVII. HEMSWORTH'S LETTER
The letter, over which Sir Archy bent in deep thought, was from Hemsworth. It was dated from the night before, and addressed to Kate O'Donoghue, and, although professing to have been hurriedly written, an observer, as acute as Sir Archy, could detect ample evidence of great care and consideration in its composition. Statements seemingly clear and open, were in reality confused and vague; assertions were qualified, and, in lieu of direct and positive information, there were scattered throughout, hopes, and fears, wishes, and expectations, all capable of being sustained, whatever the issue of the affair they referred to.
The letter opened with a respectful apology for addressing Miss O'Donoghue; but pleading that the urgency of the case, and the motives of the writer, might be received as a sufficient excuse. After stating, in sufficiently vague terms, to make the explanation capable of a double meaning, the reasons for selecting her, and not either of her uncles, for the correspondence, it entered at once upon the matter of the communication, in these words:—
“I have hesitated and doubted, Miss O'Donoghue, how far my
interference in the affairs of your family may be
misconstrued, and whether the prejudices which were once
entertained to my disadvantage might not now be evoked to
give a false colouring to my actions. These doubts I have
resolved, by reflecting that they are for the most part
personal, and that if I succeed in rendering real service,
the question is comparatively indifferent what light or
shadow it may seem to throw on my conduct. A candid and
impartial judgment I certainly look to from you, and I
confess myself at liberty to lay less store by the opinions
of others.”
Continuing for a brief space in this strain, the letter went on to mention that the sudden return of Mark had left the writer no alternative but to venture on this correspondence, whatever the consequences—consequences which, the writer palpably inferred, might prove of the last moment to himself. The explanation—and, for the reader's sake, it is better to spare him Hemsworth's involved narrative, and merely give its substance—was chiefly, that information of Mark O'Donoghue's complicity in the plot of the United Irish party had been tendered to Government, and supported by such evidence that a Judge's warrant was issued for his apprehension and the seizure of all his papers; partly from friendly interference—this was dubiously and delicately put by Hemsworth—and partly from the fact that his extreme youth and ignorance of the real views of the insurgents were pleaded in his favour, the execution of this warrant was delayed, and the young man suffered to go at large. So long as he withdrew himself from the company of the other conspirators, and avoided publicity, the Government was willing to wink at the past. It had been, however, determined on, that should he either be found mixed up with any of the leaders of the movement in future, or should he venture to return to Glenflesk, where his influence amongst the peasantry was well known to, and apprehended by the Government, then there should no longer be any hesitation in the line to be followed. He was immediately to be apprehended and sent up under a sufficient escort to Dublin, to take his trial, with five others, for high treason. The proofs of his guilt were unquestionable, consisting of letters written and received, conversations to which witnesses could depose, as well as an intimacy for months long with Barrington, whose active participation in the schemes of rebellion was as well known, as the notorious fact of his being a convicted felon. To found a hope upon his innocence was thus shown to be perfectly impossible. His most trusted associates were the evidence against him; documents in his hand-writing were also in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown, and, in fact, far more than enough to bring him to the scaffold.
Hemsworth, who gently hinted all through, how far his interference had been beneficial, was one of those entrusted with Mark's arrest, should he ever dare to re-appear in his native country. The orders of the Privy Council on this score were positive and clear, and admitted of no possible misconception.
“You may judge, then,” continued he, “what were my feelings
on seeing him suddenly enter the house last night—to think
that, while I was enjoying the pleasure of your society, and
the hospitable attentions of your home, I had actually in my
pocket at the moment the official order to apprehend the
eldest son of my entertainer—the friend and companion of
your childhood—to bring grief and mourning beneath the roof
where I had passed so many happy hours—to dispel all the
dreams I had begun to nourish of a neighbourhood connected
by ties of kindness and good will. I had to choose between
the alternative of this, or else, by a palpable avoidance of
my duty, criminate myself, and leave my conduct open to the
most dangerous comments of my enemies. The latter involved
only myself. I have adopted it, and before this letter
reaches your hands, I shall be on my way up to Dublin,
nominally to attend the Council, but in reality to escape
the necessity my onerous position would impose. None save
those beneath your roof know that I have met Mr. Mark
O'Donoghue, and I shall be half-way to Dublin before his
arrival in the country is suspected. So much, in brief, for
the past and the present. Now for the future. There are two
courses open to this young gentleman, or to those who would
serve and befriend him. One is, by a free and unlimited
confession to the Government of all the circumstances of the
plot, so far as they have come to his knowledge, the parties
interested, their several shares in the undertaking, with
every detail of date and time, to sue for a pardon for
himself—a grace which, I need scarcely say, I will use all
my influence to obtain. The other mode is, by a
temporary exile; to withdraw himself from the notice of the
Government, until the danger having perfectly passed over,
political acrimony will have abated, and the necessity for
making severe examples of guilt be no longer urgent. This
latter course I opine to be preferable, on many grounds. It
demands no sacrifice of private feeling—no surrender of
honour. It merely provides for safety, reserving the future
untrammelled by any pledge. Neither need the absence be long;
a year or two at farthest; the probabilities are, that
with their present knowledge of the schemes of the
insurgents, the Government can either precipitate events, or
retard and protract them at will. Their policy, in this
respect, depending on the rank and importance of those who,
by either line of procedure, would be delivered into their
hands. Arguing from what they have already done, I should
pronounce it likely that their game will be to wait, to
weaken the hopes and break the spirit of the United party,
by frequent defections; to sow distrust and suspicion
amongst them, and thus, while avoiding the necessity of
bloodshed, to wear out rebellion by a long and lingering
fear. If, then, others, whose age and position involved a
greater prominence in these schemes, would require a longer
banishment to erase the memory of the acts, your young
relative, who has both youth and its rashness to plead for
him, need not reckon on so lengthened an absence from his
native land.
“Above all things, however, remember that not an hour is to
be lost. Any moment may disclose to the Crown some new
feature of the plot, and may call forth measures of
stringent severity, The proclamation offering a reward for
the apprehension of four persons, of whom your cousin is
one, is already printed, and in the office of the Secretary.
An hour would see it all over the walls of the capital, in a
day or two more, it would reach every remote corner, of the
land. Then, all efforts on my part would be ineffectual,
were they even possible. Reflect on this. It is not a mere
question of fine or even imprisonment. It is life itself is
on the issue, and life which, in surrendering, will blast a
great name with dishonour, and a great house with obloquy
and shame; for there has been no struggle, no effort, no
bold and generous exposure to danger, to palliate treason,
and gloss over its faults. All has been plotting and
contriving for alien assistance and foreign help; no self-
reliance, no patriotism, which, if mistaken, was still
sincere and manly. Reflect on all this, and think that a
life offered up in such a cause has no martyrdom to throw
lustre on the grave shared with the felon and the
highwayman. Forgive me if, in the warmth of my zeal, I have
said one word which may offend. If I had not spoken thus
forcibly, I should be a traitor to my own heart.
“I have written hurriedly, and I doubt not, in some
respects, unadvisedly; but the sincerity of my purpose will
plead for me, should the indiscretion of my zeal require
apology. You will, perhaps, ask why I should have imposed a
task difficult as this upon you—why I should have loaded
you with a responsibility so weighty? My answer is simply, I
dared not write to the O'Donoghue on the subject of his
son's indiscretion—to impugn the acts of the young man,
would be to forfeit all influence with the old one. You will
then say, why not address Sir Archibald? For the simple
reason, that the prejudices of his country are too strong in
him to make due allowances for those who err from excitable
or impetuous natures; not only would he judge too harshly
of Mark, but he would be anxious to record that judgment as
a warning to Herbert, for whom alone he is interested. I
therefore make it a strenuous request—nay, more, I esteem
it as the term of a compact between us, that you do not show
this letter either to the O'Donoghue or to his brother. I
have expressed myself openly and candidly to you, but with a
tacit assurance that my confidence is not to be extended to
others. In the part I have taken, I already incur
considerable risk. This is a period when loyalty cannot
afford to be even suspected; yet have I jeoparded mine in
befriending this youth. I now conclude, dear madam, assuring
you that any danger I incur, or any anxiety I feel, will be
amply repaid if I only know that you think not unworthily of
“William Hemsworth.”
Sir Archy studied this letter with the patient care a lawyer bestows upon a brief. He thought over each sentence, and weighed the expressions in his mind with deep thought. It had been his fortune, in early life, to have been thrown into situations of no common difficulty, and his mind had, in consequence, acquired a habit of shrewd and piercing investigation, which, though long disused, was not altogether forgotten; by the aid of this faculty, Hemsworth's letter appeared to him in a very different light from that in which Kate viewed it. The knowledge of every circumstance concerning Mark evinced an anxiety which he was very far from attributing to motives of friendship. Sir Archy well knew the feelings of dislike which subsisted between these two men—how then account for this sudden change on Hemsworth's part?—to what attribute this wonderful interest concerning him?
“Let us see,” said the old man to himself, “let us see the fruit, and then we may pronounce upon the tree. Where and to what does Hemsworth's benevolence point, dishonour or banishment? Such are the terms he offers; such are the alternatives his kindness suggests. Might these have no other motive than friendship?—might they not he the offspring of feelings very different indeed? What benefit might he derive from Mark's expatriation—that is the question? Does he anticipate easier terms with the old man for the little remnant of property that still pertains to him—or is it merely the leaven of the old hate that still rises in his nature?—or”——and here his eye flashed with brilliancy as a new thought crossed his brain——“or does he suspect Mark of occupying a place in his cousin's affection, and is rivalry the source of this mysterious good nature?”
This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than Sir Archy recalled to mind all the circumstances of Hemsworth's recent behaviour—the endeavours he had made to recommend himself to their favourable notice—all his acts to ingratiate himself with Kate—the ample views he affected in politics—the wide-spread generosity of his plans for the amelioration of the people. That his conduct was unreal, that his principles were but assumed for the occasion, the shrewd Scotchman had long suspected; and this letter, so far from dispelling the doubts, increased them tenfold. Besides this, there seemed some reason to fear that Kate was not quite indifferent to him. The disparity of years was so far in his favour, as she could not but feel flattered by the notice of one so conversant with the world and its ways, who had travelled and seen so much, and might in every respect be deemed a competent judge in matters of taste. Any comparison of him with Mark must redound with great advantage to the former. The accomplished scholar, the agreeable and well-bred man of society, was a severe competitor for the half-educated and slovenly youth, whose awkward and bashful manner seemed rather ill-temper than mere diffidence. Mark was himself conscious of the disadvantages he laboured under, and although Sir Archy had few fears that such an admirer was likely to win favour with the gay and capricious girl, whose foreign habits had taught her to value social qualities at the highest price, still, there was a chance that Hemsworth might have thought differently, and that jealousy was the secret of the whole scheme. Kate, with her ten thousand pounds of a rent-charge, might be a very reasonable object of Hemsworth's ambition; and when already he had absorbed so large a portion of the family estates, this additional lien would nearly make him master of the entire. It was, then, perfectly possible that this was his game, and that in withdrawing Mark from the scene, he both calculated on the gratitude his generosity would evoke, and more securely provided for his own success. While Sir Archy thus pondered over Hemsworth's motives, he did not neglect the more pressing consideration of Mark's danger. It was evident that he had taken an active part in the insurrectionary movement, and without the slightest precautions for his personal safety. The first care, therefore, was to see and learn from him the full extent of his danger, what proofs there existed against him, and what evidence, either in writing or otherwise, might be adduced to his disadvantage.
“Tell me, frankly and freely, Mark,” said he, aloud, as he arose and paced the room; “tell me, openly, how you stand, who are your betrayers, what your dangers, and I'll answer for it the peril may be averted.”
“I have come to do so, sir,” said a voice behind him—and Mark O'Donoghue was standing at the door.