The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago. Lever Charles James

and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against the wall, and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, by a narrow passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by Talbot, Flahault remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. Scarcely, however, had the two figures disappeared in the distance, when he shook Mary violently by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, but collected tone —

      “Mary – Mary, I say – is that fellow all safe?”

      “Ay is he safe,” said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a second. “Why do you ask now?”

      “I’ll tell you why – for myself I care not a sous – I’m here to-day, away to-morrow – but Talbot’s deep in the business – his neck’s in the halter – can we trust Lawler on his account – a man of rank and large fortune as he is, cannot be spared – what say you?”

      “You may trust him, Captain,” said Mary, “he knows his life would not be his own two hours if he turned informer – and then this Mr. Talbot, he’s a great man you tell me?”

      “He’s a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the game – that’s all I know, Mary – and, indeed, the present voyage was more to bring him over, than any thing else – but hush, here they come.”

      “You shall have your money – you’ve no objection to French gold, I hope – for several years I have seen no other,” said Talbot entering.

      “I know it well,” said Lanty, “and would just as soon take it, as if it had King George on it.”

      “You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far off – will that do?” said the youth, as he emptied a heavily filled purse of gold, upon the table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer.

      “As well as the best, sir,” said Lanty, as he stored the money in his long leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket.

      “Will Mrs. M’Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake,” said the youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Venetian work, and threw it gallantly over Mary’s; “this is the first shelter I have found, after a long exile from my native land; and you, my old comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are in the lugger – and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at once – I should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems over.”

      Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young man and the others; for, although he had mingled but little in the evening’s conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the charm of his good looks, had won their favourable opinions; besides that he was pledged to a cause which had all their sympathies.

      While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and bridled the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still raging fiercely, and the night dark as ever.

      “You’d better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him,” said Mary, as she looked out into the wild and dreary night.

      “‘Tis what I mean to do,” said Lanty, “I’ll show him as far as the turn of the road.”

      Though the stranger declined the proffered civility, Lanty was firm in his resolution, and the young man, vaulting lightly into the saddle, called out a last farewell: to the others, and rode on beside his guide.

      Mary had scarcely time to remove the remains of the supper, when Lanty re-entered the cabin.

      “He’s the noble-hearted fellow, any way,” said he, “and never took a shilling off the first price I asked him;” and with that he put his hand into his breast pocket to examine, once more, the strange coin of France. With a start, a tremendous oath broke from him – “My money – my pocket-book is lost,” exclaimed he, in wild excitement, while he ransacked pocket after pocket of his dress. “Bad luck to that glen, I dropt it out there, and with the torrent of water that’s falling, it will never be found – och, murther, this is too bad.”

      In vain the others endeavoured to comfort and console him – all their assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its being discovered the next morning, were in vain. Lanty re-lighted the lantern, and muttering maledictions on the weather, the road, and his? own politeness, he issued forth to search after his treasure, an occupation which, with all his perseverance, was unsuccessful; for when day was breaking, he was still groping along the road, cursing his hard fate, and every thing which had any share in inflicting it.

      “The money is not the worst of it,” said Lanty, as he threw himself down, exhausted and worn out, on his bed. “The money’s not the worst of it – there was papers in that book, I wouldn’t have seen for double the amount.”

      Long after the old smuggler was standing out to sea the next day, Lanty Lawler wandered backwards and forwards in the glen, now searching among the wet leaves that lay in heaps by the way side, or, equally in vain, sounding every rivulet and water-course which swept past. His search, was fruitless; and well it might be – the road was strewn with fragments of rocks and tree-tops for miles – while even yet the swollen stream tore wildly past, cutting up the causeway in its passage, and foaming on amid the wreck of the hurricane.

      Yet the entire of that day did he persevere, regardless of the beating rain, and the cold, drifting wind, to pace to and fro, his heart bent upon recovering what he had lost.

      “Yer sowl is set upon money; devil a doubt of it, Lanty,” said Mary, as dripping with wet,# and shaking with cold, he at last re-entered the cabin; “sorra one of me would go rooting there, for a crock of goold, if I was sure to find it.”

      “It is not the money, Mary, I tould you before – it’s something else was in the pocket-book,” said he, half angrily, while he sat down to brood in silence over his misfortune.

      “‘Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then,” said she, with a spice of jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his addresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable.

      “May be it is, and may be it is not,” was the cranky reply.

      “Well, she’ll have a saving husband, any way,” said Mary, tartly, “and one that knows how to keep a good grip of the money.”

      The horse-dealer made no answer to this enconium on his economy, but with eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on his loss; meanwhile Mrs. M’Kelly’s curiosity, piqued by her ineffectual efforts to obtain information, grew each instant stronger, and at last became irrepressible.

      “Can’t you say what it is you’ve lost? sure there’s many a one goes by, here, of a Saturday to market – and if you leave the token – ”

      “There’s no use in it – sorra bit,” said he, despondingly.

      “You know your own saycrets best,” said Mary, foiled at every effort; “and they must be the dhroll saycrets too, when you’re so much afraid of their being found out.”

      “Troth then,” said Lanty, as a ray of his old gallantry shot across his mind; “troth then, there isn’t one I’d tell a saycrct too as soon as yourself, Mary M’Kelly; you know the most of my heart already, and Why wouldn’t you know it all?”

      “Faix it’s little I care to hear about it,” said Mary, with an affectation of indifference, the most finished coquetry could not have surpassed. “Ye may tell it, or no, just as ye plaze.”

      “That’s it now,” cried Lanty – “that’s the way of women, the whole world over; keep never minding them, and bad luck to peace or case you get; and then try and plaze them, and see what thanks you have. I was going to tell you all about it.”

      “And why don’t you?” interrupted she, half fearing lest she might have pulled the cord over-tight already; “why don’t you tell it, Lanty dear?”

      These last words settled the matter. Like the feather that broke the camel’s back, these few and slight syllables were all that was wanting to overcome the horse-dealer’s resistance.

      “Well, here it is now,” said he, casting, as he spoke,