“Still, no letter from Archy, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue, when they were alone; “once more the post is come, and nothing for us. I am growing more and more uneasy about Mark; these delays will harass the poor boy, and drive him perhaps to some rash step.”
“Mr. Hemsworth is doing everything, however, in his power,” said Kate, far more desirous of offering consolation to her uncle, than satisfied in her own mind as to the state of matters. “He is in constant correspondence with Government; the only difficulty is, they demand disclosures my cousin neither can, nor ought to make. A pardon is no grace, when it commutes death for dishonour. This will, I hope, be got over soon.”
While she was yet speaking, the door softly opened, and Kerry, with a noiseless step, slipped in, and approaching the table unseen and unheard, was beside the O'Donoghue's chair before he was perceived.
“Whisht, master dear—whisht, Miss Kate,” said he, with a gesture of warning towards the door. “There's great news without. The French is landed—twenty-eight ships is down in Bantry Bay. Bony himself is with them. I heard it all, as Sam Wylie was telling Hems-worth; I was inside the pantry door.”
“The French landed!” cried the O'Donoghue, in whom amazement overcame all sensation of joy or sorrow.
“The French here in Ireland!” cried Kate, her eyes sparkling with enthusiastic delight; but before she could add a word, Hemsworth reentered. Whether his efforts to seem calm and unmoved were in reality well-devised, or that, as is more probable, Hemsworth's own pre-occupation prevented his strict observance of the others, he never remarked that the O'Donoghue and his niece exhibited any traits of anxiety or impatience; while Kerry, after performing a variety of very unnecessary acts and attentions about the table, at last left the room, with a sigh over his inability to protract his departure.
Hemsworth eye wandered to the door to see if it was closed before he spoke; and then leaning forward, said, in a low, cautious voice—
“I have just heard some news that may prove very important. A number of the people have assembled in arms in the glen, your son Mark at their head. What their precise intentions, or whither they are about to direct their steps, I know not; but I see clearly that young Mr. O'Donoghue will fatally compromise himself, if this rash step become known. The Government never could forgive such a proceeding on his part. I need not tell you that this daring must be a mere hopeless exploit; such enterprises have but one termination—the scaffold.”
The old man and his niece exchanged glances—rapid, but full of intelligence. Each seemed to ask the other, “Is this man false? Is he suppressing a part of the truth at this moment, or is this all invention? Why has he not spoken of the great event—the arrival of the French?”
Kate was the first to venture to sound him, as she asked—