Mark Dermot, or, as he was most generally denominated, Black Mark, was one of those persons we sometimes meet with in the world, on whom prepossessing appearance and great natural ability are bestowed, only to be put to the basest possible uses. Character he had none, except of the very worst kind; his ostensible pursuit was smuggling, but crimes of the darkest nature were freely whispered about him, and yet, in spite of all this, his dashing dare-devil nature and indomitable impudence, enabled him to show himself in places where, although his evil reputation was well known, he was tolerated either from supineness, or more likely from the fear of his enmity.
It is not to be wondered at then, that as Luke stood by and saw this ruffian carry off his soul's beloved, his very heart should quake from apprehension. He was unaware until this moment that she ever knew him, and his feelings, as ever and anon Mark would seem to whisper something in Kathleen's ear, to which she would seem to smile an approval, can only be imagined by such of my readers, if any there be, who have seen another feeding upon smiles which they would fain monopolize.
Jealousy of the most painful nature took possession of Luke; he had often experienced sensations of annoyance before, but never to this extent. Her fame—her character—were compromised; for he knew Black Mark to be the very worst description of man for a woman to come in contact with at all, caring nothing for the ties of morality, or for the world's opinion—reckless, bad-hearted, and moreover uncomfortably handsome in the eyes of a lover.
The dance now over, Luke imagined that she would give up her partner and join him; but no, the silly girl seemed proud of her conquest, and to take a sort of mad delight in wounding Luke's feelings to the uttermost. She approached the spot where Luke with folded arms was standing, and leaning familiarly upon the arm of Mark, said laughingly:
"Why don't you dance, Luke? Come, I'll find a partner for you."
Galled to the very quick, Luke answered with asperity—"Thank you, Miss Dwyer, you have found one for yourself, and"—looking at Black Mark, as a jealous lover only can look—"you'll pardon me, but I don't like the sample."
Mark regarded him with a scowl of the deepest malignity, while Kathleen, the real feelings of her heart kept down by coquetry, exclaimed with a laugh:—
"Don't mind him, Mark, he's only jealous, poor fellow. Come, will you not dance again?"
"Aye, and again, and for ever," impetuously replied Mark; "Come."
And as they went to rejoin the dancers, Kathleen caught the expression of Luke's features, and there saw so much misery depicted, that she would have given worlds to have recalled her words. She yearned to implore his forgiveness, but her insatiable appetite for admiration restrained her. "Never mind," thought she, "when the dance is over, I can easily make it up with him," and away she went, thinking no more about it.