The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

If he was puzzled at the aspect of a peasantry, highly gifted with intelligence, yet barbarously ignorant – active and energetic, yet indolent and fatalist – the few hints he had gathered of his neighbour, the O’Donoghue, amazed him still more; and by no effort of his imagination could he conceive the alliance between family pride and poverty – between the reverence for ancestry, and an utter indifference to the present. He could not understand such an anomaly as pretension without wealth; and the only satisfactory explanation he could arrive at, to himself, was, that in a wild and secluded tract, even so much superiority as this old chieftain possessed, attracted towards him the respect of all humbler and more lowly than himself, and made even his rude state seem affluence and power. If in his advances to the O’ Donoghue he had observed all the forms of a measured respect, it was because he felt so deeply his debtor for a service, that he would omit nothing in the repayment: his gratitude was sincere and heartfelt, and he would not admit any obstacle in the way of acknowledging it.

Reflecting thus, he was suddenly startled by the sound of wheels coming up the glen – he listened, and now heard the low trot of a horse, and the admonitions of a man’s voice, delivered in tones of anger and impatience. The moment after, an old-fashioned gig, drawn by a small miserable pony, appeared, from which a man had dismounted to ascend the hill.

“A fine evening, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, as the stranger, whose dress bespoke one of the rank of gentleman, drew near.

The other stopped suddenly, and surveyed the baronet without speak ing; then, throwing down the collar of his great coat, which he wore high round his face, he made a respectful salute, and said —

“A lovely evening, sir. I have the honour to see Sir Marmaduke Travers, I believe? May I introduce myself, Doctor Roach, of Killarney?”

“Ah, indeed! Then you are probably come from Mr. O’Donoghue’s house? Is the young gentleman better this evening?”

Roach shook his head dubiously, but made no reply.

“I hope, sir, you don’t apprehend danger to his life?” asked Sir Marmaduke, with an effort to appear calm as he spoke.

“Indeed I do, then,” said Roach, firmly; “the mischiefs done already.”

“He’s not dead?” said Sir Marmaduke, almost breathless in his terror.

“Not dead; but the same as dead: effusion will carry him off some time to-morrow.”

“And can you leave him in this state? Is there nothing to be done? Nothing you could suggest?” cried the old man, scarcely able to repress his indignant feeling at the heartless manner of the doctor.

“There’s many a thing one might try,” said Roach, not noticing the temper of the question, “for the boy is young; but for the sake of a chance, how am I to stay away from my practice and my other patients? And indeed slight a prospect as he has of recovery, my own of a fee is slighter still. I think I’ve all the corn in Egypt in my pocket this minute,” said he, slapping his hand on his purse: “one of the late king’s guineas, wherever they had it lying by till now.”

“I am overjoyed to have met you, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke hastily, and by a great exertion concealing the disgust this speech suggested. “I wish for an opinion about my daughter’s health – a cold, I fancy – but to-morrow will do better. Could you return to Mr. O’Donoghue’s tonight? I have not a bed to offer you here. This arrangement may serve both parties, as I fervently hope something may yet be done for the youth.”

“I’ll visit Miss Travers in the morning with pleasure.”

“Don’t leave him, sir, I entreat you, till I send over; it will be quite time enough when you hear from me: let the youth be your first care, doctor; in the mean while accept this slight retainer, for I beg you to consider your time as given to me now,” and with that he pressed several guineas into the willing palm of the doctor.

As Roach surveyed the shining gold, his quick cunning divined the old baronet’s intentions, and with a readiness long habit had perfected, he said —

“The case of danger before all others, any day. I’ll turn about at once and see what can be done for the lad.”

Sir Marmaduke leaned towards him, and said some words hastily in a low whispering voice.

“Never fear – never fear, Sir Marmaduke,” was the reply, as he mounted to the seat of his vehicle, and turned the pony’s head once more down the glen.

“Lose no time, I beseech you,” cried the old man, waving his hand in token of adieu; nor was the direction unheeded, for, using his whip with redoubled energy, the doctor sped along the road at a canter, which threatened annihilation to the frail vehicle at every bound of the animal.

“Five hundred!” muttered Sir Marmaduke to himself, as he looked after him. “I’d give half my fortune to see him safe through it.”

Meanwhile Roach proceeded on his way, speculating on all the gain this fortunate meeting might bring to him, and then meditating what reasons he should allege to the O’Donoghue for his speedy return.

“I’ll tell him a lucky thought struck me in the glen,” muttered he; “or, what! if I said I forgot something – a pocket-book, or case of instruments – any thing will do;” and, with this comfortable reflection, he urged his beast onward.

The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow causeway, which led to the old keep; and here, now, Kerry O’Leary was closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a bolt and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. The sound of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman’s ear, for he hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of the gate, and as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred with iron, resembled the grated aperture of a convent door.

“You’re late this time, any how,” cried Kerry. “Tramp back again, friend, the way you came; and be thankful it’s myself seen you; for, by the blessed Father, if it was Master Mark was here, you’d carry away more lead in your skirts than you’d like.”

“What, Kerry? – what’s that you’re saying?” said the astonished doctor; “don’t you know me, man?”

“Kerry’s my name, sure enough; but artful as you are, you’ll just keep the other side of the door. Be off now, in God’s name. ‘Tis a fair warning I give you; and faix if you won’t listen to my son, you might hear worse;” and as he spoke, that ominous sound, the click of a gun-cock, was heard, and the muzzle of a carbine peeped between the iron bars.

“Tear-and-ounds! ye scoundrel! you’re not going to fire a bullet at me?”

“‘Tis slugs they are,” was the reply, as Kerry adjusted the piece, and seemed to take as good an aim as the darkness permitted; “divil a more nor slugs, as you’ll know soon. I’ll count three, now, and may I never wear boots, if I don’t blaze, if you’re not gone before it’s over. Here’s one,” shouted he, in a louder key.

“The saints protect me, but I’ll be murdered,” muttered old Roach, blessing himself, but unable from terror to speak aloud, or stir frozen the spot.

“Here’s two!” cried Kerry, still louder.

“I’m going! – I’m going! give me time to leave this blasted place; bad luck to the day and the hour I ever saw it.”

“It’s too late,” shouted Kerry. “Here’s three!” and as he spoke bang went the piece, and a shower of slugs and duck-shot came peppering over the head and counter of the old pony; for in his fright, Roach had fallen on his knees to pray. The wretched quadruped, thus rudely saluted, gave a plunge and a kick, and then wheeled about with an alacrity long forgotten, and scampered down the causeway with the old gig at his heels, rattling as if it were coming in pieces. Kerry broke into a roar of laughter, and screamed out —

“I’ll give you another yet, begorra! that’s only a true copy; but you’ll get the original now, you ould varmint!”

A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, was the only response; for in his fear he thought the contents of the piece were in his body.

“Musha, I hope he isn’t dead,” said Kerry, as he opened the wicket cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. “Mister Cassidy – Mister James, get up now – it’s only joking I was. – Holy Joseph! is he kilt?” and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. “By all that’s good, I’ve done for the sheriff,” said he, as he stood over the body. “Oh! wirra, wirra! who’d think a few grains of shot would kill him.”

“What’s the matter here? who fired that shot?” said a deep voice, as Mark O’Donoghue appeared at Kerry’s side, and snatching the lantern, held it down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor.

“I’m murdered! I’m murdered!” was the faint exclamation of old Roach. “Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O’Leary murdered me.”

“Where are you wounded? where’s the ball?” cried Mark, tearing open the coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety..

“I don’t know, I don’t know; it’s inside bleeding I feel.”

“Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you; you’re frightened, that’s all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we’ll help him in.”

But Kerry had fled; the idea of the gallows had just shot across his mind, and he never waited for any further disclosures about his victim; but deep in the recesses of a hay-loft he lay cowering in terror, and endeavouring to pray. Meanwhile Mark had taken the half lifeless body on his shoulder, and with the ease and indifference he would have bestowed upon an inanimate burden, coolly earned him into the parlour, and threw him upon a sofa.

CHAPTER XII. THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT

“What have you got there, Mark?” called out the O’Donoghue, as the young man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa.

“Old Roach, of Killarney,” answered Mark sullenly. “That confounded fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of slugs at him – that’s certain; but I don’t think there’s much mischief done.” As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor’s throat. “You’re nothing the worse, man,” added he, roughly; “you’ve given many a more dangerous dose yourself, I’ll be bound, and people have survived it too.”

“I’m better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something better; but may I never leave this spot if I don’t prosecute that scoundrel, O’Leary. It was all malice – I can swear to that.”

“Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy.”

“No, no – don’t tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. He filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it.”

“Come, come, Roach, don’t be angry; it’s all past and over now; the fellow did it for the best.”

“Did it for the best! Fired a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow-creature for the best!”

“To be sure he did,” broke in Mark, with an imperious look and tone. “There’s no harm done, and you need not make such a work about it.”

“Where’s the pony and the gig, then?” called out Roach, suddenly remembering the last sight he had of them.

“I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty kettles at his tail. They’ll stop him at last; and if they shouldn’t, I don’t suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn’t worth a five pound note – no, even giving the owner into the bargain,” muttered he, as he turned away.

The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon Roach; as if galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust his hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his invariable signal for close action. “What, sir, do you tell me that my conveniency, with the pony, harness and all – ”

“Have patience, Roach,” interposed the old man; “Mark was but jesting. Come over and join us here.” At the same instant the door was flung suddenly wide, and Sir Archy rushed in, with a speed very unlike his ordinary gait. “There’s a change for the better,” cried he, joyfully; “the boy has made a rally, and if we could overtake that d – d auld beestie, Roach, and bring him back again, we might save the lad.”

“The d – d auld beestie,” exclaimed Roach, as he sprung from the sofa and stood before him, “is very much honoured by your flattering mention of him.” Then turning towards the O’Donoghue, he added – “Take your turn out of me now, when you have me; for, by the Father of Physic, you’ll never see Denis Roach under this roof again.”

The O’Donoghue laughed till his face streamed with the emotion, and he rocked in his chair like one in a convulsion. “Look, Archy,” cried he – “see now! – hear me, Roach,” were the only words he could utter between the paroxysms, while M’Nab, the very picture of shame and confusion, stood overwhelmed with his blunder, and unable to say a word.

“Let us not stand fooling here,” said Mark, gruffly, as he took the Doctor’s arm; “come and see my brother, and try what can be done for him.”

With an under-growl of menace and rage, old Roach suffered himself to be led away by the young man, Sir Archy following slowly, as they mounted the stairs.

Although alone, the O’Donoghue continued to laugh over the scene he had just witnessed; nor did he know which to enjoy more – the stifled rage of the Doctor, or the mingled shame and distress of M’Nab. It was, indeed, a rare thing to obtain such an occasion for triumph over Sir Archy, whose studied observance of all the courtesies and proprieties of life, formed so strong a contrast with his own careless and indifferent habits.

“Archy will never get over it – that’s certain, and begad he shan’t do so for want of a reminder. The d – d auld beestie!” and with the words came back his laughter, which had not ceased as Mark re-entered the room. “Well, lad,” he cried, “have they made it up – what has Sir Archy done with him?”

“Herbert’s better,” said the youth, in a low deep voice, and with a look that sternly rebuked the heartless forgetfulness of his father.

“Ah! better, is he? Well, that is good news, Mark; and Roach thinks he may recover?”

“He has a chance now; a few hours will decide it. Roach will sit up with him till four o’clock, and then, I shall take the remainder of the night, for my uncle seems quite worn out with watching.”

“No, Mark, my boy, you must not lose your night’s rest; you’ve had a long and tiresome ride to-day.”

“I’m not tired, and I’ll do it,” replied he, in the determined tone of his self-willed habit – one, which his father had never sought to control, from infancy upwards. There was a long pause after this, which Mark broke, at length, by saying – “So, it is pretty clear now that our game is up – the mortgage is foreclosed. Hemsworth has noticed the Ballyvourney tenants not to pay us the rents, and the ejectment goes on.”

“What of Callaghan?” asked the O’Donoghue, in a sinking voice.

“Refused – flatly refused to renew the bills. If we give him five hundred down,” said the youth, with a bitter laugh, “he says, he’d strain a point.”

“You told him how we were circumstanced, Mark? Did you mention about Kate’s money?”

“No,” said Mark, sternly, as his brows met in a savage frown. “No, sir, I never said a word of it. She shall not be made a beggar of, for our faults. I told you before, and I tell you now, I’ll not suffer it.”

“But hear me, Mark. It is only a question of time. I’ll repay – ”

“Repay!” was the scornful echo of the young man, as he turned a withering glance at his father.

“Then there’s nothing but ruin before us,” said the O’Donoghue, in a solemn tone – “nothing!”

The old man’s head fell forward on his bosom, and, as his hands dropped listlessly down at either side, he sat the very impersonation of overwhelming affliction, while Mark, with heavy step and slow, walked up and down the roomy chamber.

“Hemsworth’s clerk hinted something about this old banker’s intention of building here,” resumed he, after a long interval of silence.

“Building where? – over at ‘the Lodge?’”

“No, here – at Carrig-na-curra – throwing down this old place, I suppose, and erecting a modern villa instead.”

“What!” exclaimed the O’Donoghue, with a look of fiery indignation. “Are they going to grub us out, root and branch? Is it not enough to banish the old lords of the soil, but they must remove their very landmarks also?”

“It is for that he’s come here, I’ve no doubt,” resumed Mark; “he only waited to have the whole estate in his possession, which this term will give him.”

“I wish he had waited a little longer – a year, or at most, two, would have been enough,” said the old man, in a voice of great dejection, then added, with a sickly smile – “You have little affection for the old walls, Mark.”

The youth made no reply, and he went on – “Nor is it to be wondered at. You never knew them in their happy days! but I did, Mark – ay, that I did. I mind the time well, when your grandfather was the head of this great county – when the proudest and the best in the land stood uncovered when he addressed them, and deemed the highest honour they could receive, an invitation to this house. In the very room where we are sitting, I’ve seen thirty guests assembled, whose names comprised the rank and station of the province; and yet, all – every man of them, regarded him as their chief, and he was so, too – the descendant of one who was a king.”

The animated features of the young man, as he listened, encouraged the O’Donoghue, and he went on. “Thirty-seven thousand acres descended to my grandfather, and even that was but a moiety of our former possessions.”

“Enough of this,” interrupted Mark rudely. “It is but an unprofitable theme. The game is up, father,” added he, in a deep stern voice, “and I, for one, have little fancy to wait for the winner to claim the stakes. Could I but see you safely out of the scrape, I’d be many a mile away, ere a week was over.”

“You would not leave me, boy!” cried the old man, as he grasped the youth’s hands in his, and gazed on him with streaming eyes. “You would not desert your poor old father. Oh, no – no, Mark; this would not be like you. A little patience, my child, and death will save you that cruelty.”

The young man’s chest heaved and fell like a swelling wave; but he never spoke, nor changed a muscle of his rigid features.

“I have borne all misfortunes well till now,” continued the father. “I cared little on my own account, Mark; my only sorrow was for you; but so long as we were together, boy – so long as hand in hand we stood against the storm, I felt that my courage never failed me. Stay by me, then, Mark – tell me that whatever comes, you’ll never leave me. Let it not be said, that when age and affliction fell upon the O’Donoghue, his son – the boy of his heart – deserted him. You shall command in every thing,” said he, with an impassioned tone, as he fixed his eyes upon the youth’s countenance. “I ask for nothing but to be near you. The house – the property – all shall be yours.”

“What house – what property – do you speak of?” said Mark, rudely. “Are we not beggars?”

The old man’s head dropped heavily; he relinquished the grasp of his son’s hand, and his outstretched arm fell powerless to his side. “I was forgetting,” murmured he, in a broken voice – “it is as you say – you are right, Mark – you must go.”

Few and simple as the words were, the utterance sunk deep into the young man’s heart; they seemed the last effort of courage wrung from despair, and breathed a pathos he was unable to resist.

“I’ll not leave you,” said he, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper: “there’s my hand upon it,” and he wrung in his strong grasp the unresisting fingers of the old man. “That’s a promise, father, and now let us speak no more about it.”

“I’ll get to my bed, Mark,” said the O’Donoghue, as he pressed his hands upon his throbbing temples. It was many a day since anything like emotion had moved him, and the conflict of passion had worn and exhausted him. “Good-night, my boy – my own boy;” and he fell upon the youth’s shoulder, half choked with sobs.

As the O’Donoghue slowly ascended the stairs, towards his bedroom, Mark threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands. His sorrow was a deep one. The resolve he had just abandoned, had been for many a day the cherished dream of his heart – his comfort under every affliction – his support against every difficulty. To seek his fortune in some foreign service – to win an honourable name, even though in a strange land, was the whole ambition of his life; and so engrossed was he in his own calculations, that he never deigned a thought of what his father might feel about it. The poverty that eats its way to the heart of families seldom fails to loosen the ties of domestic affection. The daily struggle, the hourly conflict with necessity, too often destroy the delicate and trustful sense of protection that youth should feel towards age. The energies that should have expanded into homely affection and mutual regard, are spent in warding off a common enemy; and with weary minds and seared hearts the gentler charities of life have few sympathies. Thus was it here. Mark mistook his selfishness for a feeling of independence; he thought indifference to others meant confidence in himself – and he was not the first who made the mistake.

Tired with thinking, and harassed with difficulties, through which he could see no means of escape, he threw open the window, to suffer the cool night air to blow upon his throbbing temples, and sat down beside the casement, to enjoy its refreshing influence. The candles had burned down in the apartment, and the fire, now reduced to a mere mass of red embers, scarce threw a gleam beyond the broad hearth-stone. The old tower itself flung a dark shadow upon the rock, and across the road beneath it, and, except in the chamber of the sick boy, in a distant part of the building, not a light was to be seen.

The night was calm and star-lit: a stillness almost painful reigned around. It seemed as if exhausted nature, tired with the work of storm and hurricane, had sunk into a deep and wearied sleep. Thousands of bright stars speckled the dark sky; yet the light they shed upon the earth, but dimly distinguished mountain and valley, save where the’ calm surface of the lake gave back their lustre, in a heaven, placid and motionless as their own. Now and then, a bright meteor would shoot across the blue vault, and disappear in the darkness; while in tranquil splendour, the planets shone on, as though to say, the higher destiny is to display an eternal brightness, than the brilliancy of momentary splendour, however glittering its wide career.

The young man gazed upon the sky. The lessons which, from human lips, he had rejected with scorn and impatience, now sunk deeply into his nature, from those silent monitors. The stars looked down, like eyes, into his very soul, and he felt as if he could unburthen his whole heart of its weary load, and make a confidence with heaven.

“They point ever downwards,” said he to himself, as he watched the bright streak of the falling stars, and moralized on their likeness to man’s destiny. But as he spoke, a red line shot up into the sky, and broke into ten thousand glittering spangles, shedding over glen and mountain, a faint but beauteous gleam, scarce more lasting than the meteor’s flash. It was a rocket sent up from the border of the Bay, and was quickly answered by another from the remote end of the Glen. The youth started, and leaning out from the window, looked down the valley; but nothing was to be seen or heard – all was silent as before, and already the flash of the signals, for such they must have been he could not doubt, had faded away, and the sky shone in its own spangled beauty.

“They are smugglers!” muttered Mark, as he sank back in his chair; for in that wild district such signals were employed without much fear, by those who either could trust the revenue as accomplices, or dare them by superior numbers. More than once it had occurred to him to join this lawless band, and many a pressing invitation had he received from the leaders to do so; but still, the youth’s ambition, save in his darkest hours, took a higher and a nobler range: the danger of the career was its only fascination to him. Now, however, all these thoughts were changed: he had given a solemn pledge to his father never to leave him; and it was with a feeling of half apathy he sat, pondering over what cutter it might be that had anchored, or whose party were then preparing to land their cargo.