“It is him—it is Mark,” said she to herself, in an ecstasy of delight, and with trembling fingers withdrew the heavy bolt, and undid the chain, while, with an effort of strength the emergency alone conferred, she threw wide the massive door, clasped and framed with iron.
“Oh, how I have watched for you,” exclaimed she, as a figure, dismounting hastily, advanced towards her, and the same instant the roice revealed Hemsworth, as he said—
“If I could think this greeting were indeed meant for me, Miss O'Donoghue, I should call this moment the happiest of my life.”
“I thought it was my cousin,” said Kate, as almost fainting, she fell back into a seat, “but you may have tidings of him, can you tell if he is safe?”
“I expected to have heard this intelligence from you,” said he, as recovering from the chagrin of his disappointment, he resumed his habitual deference of tone; “has he not returned?”
“No, we have not seen him, nor has the messenger yet come back. Herbert also is away, and we are here alone.”
As Hemsworth offered her his arm to return to the drawing-room, he endeavoured to reassure her on the score of Mark's safety, while he hinted that the French, who that morning had entered Bantry Bay with eleven vessels, unprepared for the active reception his measures had provided, had set sail again, either to await the remainder of the fleet, or perhaps return to France; “I would not wish to throw blame on those whose misfortune is already heavy, but I must tell you, Miss O'Donoghue, that every step of this business has been marked by duplicity and cowardice. I, of course, need not say, that in either of these, your friends stand guiltless, but your cousin has been a dupe throughout; the dupe of every one who thought it worth his while to trick and deceive him—he believed himself in the confidence of the leaders of the expedition—they actually never heard of his name. He thought himself in a position of trust and influence—he is not recognized by any—unnoticed by his own party, and unacknowledged by the French, his only notoriety will be the equivocal one of martyrdom.”
Every word of this speech, uttered in a voice of sad, regretful meaning, as though the speaker were sorrowing over the mistaken opinions of a dear friend, cut deeply into Kate's heart—she knew not well at the instant, whether she should not better have faced actual danger for her cousin, than have seen him thus deceived and played upon. Hemsworth saw the effect his words created, and went on—
“Would that the danger rested here, and that the fate of one rash, but high-spirited boy, was all that hung on the crisis”—as he spoke he threw a cautious look around the roomy apartment to see that they were, indeed, alone.
“Great Heaven! there is not surely worse than this in store for us,” cried Kate, in a voice of heartrending affliction.