“The strong claim of true friendship,” said the old man, firmly, “a claim I have not met so much of in life, that I can afford to undervalue it when it does present itself. But for him, the ejectment would have been sued out last assizes—he saved us also from a foreclosure of Drake's mortgage—advanced me five thousand pounds upon my own bond, Archy being a co-surety, which you well know was a matter of form. This, besides saving us from any proceedings the Travers might have taken, in revenge for their own disappointment about Kate——”
“Speak more plainly, I beg you, sir, and above all, please to remember that I am ignorant of everything you allude to. What of Kate?”
“Oh, I forgot you were not with us then. It was a proposal of marriage. Young Travers made your cousin a brilliant offer, as far as money was concerned, which Kate refused. There was some negociation about leaving the thing open. Something about the future—I forget exactly what—but I only know she was peremptory and decided, as she always is, and wrote to me to take her home. Archy went up for her to Dublin, and the Travers soon after left Ireland in high indignation with us, and determined, as we soon found, to let us feel their enmity. Then it was that we learned to appreciate Hemsworth, whom all along we had so completely mistaken, and indeed, but for him, we should never have heard of you.”
“Of me. What did he know of me?”
“Everything, Mark—all—said the old man, in a low whisper, as he stole a prying glance through the room to satisfy himself that they were not overheard.
“Once more, sir, speak out, and intelligibly—say what this man seemed to know of me?”
“He knew Talbot—Barrington rather”—said the O'Donoghue, in a low voice—“knew of your intercourse with him—knew of the plot that fellow laid to entangle you in his schemes—knew all about the robbery at the Curragh, and saved you, without your knowing it, from being there. But for him, Mark, your name would have figured in the 'Hue-and-Cry.' A reward for your apprehension was actually deliberated at the Privy Council. Hemsworth rescued you from this——”
“The scoundrel—the base, black-hearted villain,” exclaimed Mark, “did he dare to speak thus of me?”
“You mistake, Mark, he never said you were culpable—he only deplored the fatal accident of your intimacy with Barrington—a man twice convicted and sentenced—that in company with this man you frequented certain houses of high play, where more than one large robbery was effected. Then came the Castle ball—was it not true that you went there? Well, the diamond snuff-box stolen from Lord Clan-goff, at the card table——”
“Hell and confusion, you will drive me mad,” cried Mark, stamping his foot with passion. “This infernal mixture of truth and falsehood—this half fact and all lying statement is more than my brain can bear. What does this scoundrel mean—is it that I am guilty of a robbery?”