“It is, then, agreed upon, that you will write this letter at once,” said Hemsworth, leaning over the old man's chair, as he whispered the words into his ear.
The O'Donoghue nodded an assent.
“Without knowing that,” continued Hemsworth, “I should be uncertain how to proceed. I must not let the Government suppose me either ignorant or lukewarm. Lose no time, therefore; send off the letter, and leave the rest to me.”
“You are not going to ride, I hope,” said Kate, as she looked out of the window down the glen, where already the rain was falling in torrents, and the wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Hemsworth muttered a few words in a low tone, at which Kate coloured, and looked away.
“Nay, Miss O'Donoghue,” said he, still whispering, “I am not one of those who make a bargain for esteem; if I cannot win regard, I will never buy it.”
There was a sadness in his words, and an air of self-respect about him, as he spoke them, that touched Kate far more than ever she had been before by any expression of his feelings. When she saw him leave the room, her first thought was, “It is downright meanness to suspect him.”
“Is it not strange, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue, as he took her hand in his, “he never mentioned the French landing to us? What can this mean?”
“I believe I can understand it, sir,” said Kate, musingly; for already she had settled in her mind, that while Hemsworth would neglect no measures for the safety of Carrig-na-curra, he scrupled to announce tidings which might overwhelm them with alarm and terror. “But let us think of the letter; Kerry, I suppose, is the best person to send with it.”
“Yes, Kerry can take it; and as the way does not lead past Mary's door, there's a chance of his delivering it without a delay of three hours on the road.”
“There, sir, will that do?” said Kate, as she handed him a paper, on which hastily a few lines were written.