“Not when you are alone, Mark?” said Kate, smiling.

“Ay—even then. I have a foolish habit of thinking aloud, of which I strive in vain to break myself; and he seems to know it, too.”

“There is another absent trick you have acquired also,” said she, laughing. “Do you remember having carried off the note that came while we were at breakfast?”

“Did I?” said he, reddening. “Did I take it off the table? Yes, yes; I remember something of it now. You must forgive me, cousin, if these careless habits take the shape of rudeness.” He seemed overwhelmed with confusion, as he added, “I know not why I put it into my pocket; here it is.”

And so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat a crushed and crumpled paper, and gave it into Kate's hand. She wished to say something in reply—something which would seem kind and good natured; but, somehow, she faltered and hesitated. She twice got as far as, “I know, Mark—I am certain, Mark;” then unable to say what, perhaps, her very indecision rendered more difficult, she merely uttered a brief “thank you,” and withdrew.

“Poor fellow!” said she, as she re-entered her own chamber, “his is the hardest lot of all.”

She had often wished to persuade herself that Mark's morose, sullen humour was the discontent of one who felt the ignominy of an inglorious life—that habits of recklessness had covered, but not obliterated the traces of that bold and generous spirit for which his family had been long distinguished; and now, for the first time, she believed she had fallen on the evidences of such a temper. She pondered long on this theme, and fancied how, under circumstances favourable to their development, Mark's good qualities and courageous temper, had won for him both fame and honour. “And here,” exclaimed she, half aloud, “here, he may live and die a peasant!” With a deep sigh, she threw herself into a chair, and as if to turn her thoughts into some channel less suggestive of gloom, she opened the letter Mark had given her. Scarcely, however, had she cast her eyes over it, when she uttered a faint cry, too faint, indeed, to express any mere sense of fear, but in an accent in which terror and amazement were equally blended.

The epistle was a brief one—not more than a few lines—and she had read it at a glance, before ever there was time to consider how far her doing so was a breach of confidence; indeed, the intense interest of the contents left little room for any self-examinings. It ran thus:—

“Dear Brother—No precipitation—no haste—nothing can be
done without France. T. has now good hopes from that
quarter, and if not 30,000, 20,000, or at least 15,000 will
be given, and arms for double the number. Youghal is talked
of as a suitable spot; and H. has sent charts, &c. over.
Above all, be patient; trust no rumours, and rely on us for
the earliest and the safest intelligence. L. will hand you
this. You must contrive to learn the cipher, as any
correspondence discovered would ruin all.
“Your's ever, and in the cause,
“H. R.”

Here, then, was the youth she had been commiserating for his career of lowly and unambitious hopes—here, the mere peasant! the accomplice of some deep and desperate plot, in which the arms of France, should be employed against the government of England. Was this the secret of his pre-occupation and his gloom? Was it to concentrate his faculties on such a scheme, that he lived this lonely and secluded life? “Oh, Mark, Mark, how have I misjudged you!” she exclaimed, and as she uttered the words, came the thought, quick as a lightning flash, to her mind—what terrible hazards such a temperament as his must incur in an enterprise like this—without experience of men or any knowledge of the world whatever—without habitual prudence, or caution of any kind. The very fact of his mistaking the letter—a palpable evidence of his unfitness for trust. Reckless by nature—more desperate still from the fallen fortunes of his house. What would become of him? Others would wait the time and calculate their chances. He would listen to nothing but the call of danger. She knew him well, from boyhood upwards, and had seen him often more fascinated by peril, than others were by pleasure.