“Poor young creature,” said his grace gravely, “she shall command my utmost endeavors; Spencer is a cold-hearted rogue—and her father!” the duke shrugged his shoulders; “as for Clancarty, he’s more likely to be made an example than an exception.”
“He’s a brave man, your grace,” said Mackie generously, “and there are many of his persuasion.”
“A poor philosophy, my boy,” replied the duke; “this fellow is notorious, besides. Do you know his history?”
“No,” said Mackie sadly, “I see only her agony.”
“It was Ormond who introduced him to her at Newmarket, and I suspect that his grace knew who ‘Mr. Trevor’ really was, though he doesn’t admit it. But I believe she divined it at once. Clancarty has a history,” his grace went on; “he was bred a Protestant, but when he went back to Ireland, in the late king’s time, he fell in with Papist kinsfolk and it served his turn at court to be a Papist, so my young lord turned his coat; a wild rogue, sir, let me tell you, yet this young girl loves him! He sat in the Celtic Parliament at King’s Inns,—a very pretty recommendation to King William,—he commanded a regiment in King James’s army and was taken by Marlborough, but succeeded in getting off. The estates of Clancarty—they are held to be worth ten thousand a year—are confiscated, and you know who has the greater share?” added the duke significantly, “my Lord Woodstock. William will not despoil his Dutch favorites for a Jacobite.”
Young Mackie’s face was grave.
“She asks only for his life,” he said, “and she pleads so eloquently that I think no man but one of stone can refuse her.”
Devonshire smiled broadly.
“Not you, at least, my dear sir,” he replied, “if my eyes mistake not.”
The young man turned crimson.