The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“You must let me finish uncle,” said she, disengaging her hand; and at the instant, sweeping the chord with a bold and vigorous finger, she broke into a splendid and chivalrous description of the Scottish valour in the service of France, every line swelling with their proud achievements, as foremost they marched to battle. To this succeeded the crash and turmoil of the fray, the ringing cheers of the plaided warriors mingling with the war-cries of the Gaul, till, in a burst of triumph and victory, the song concluded. Then, the old man sprang from his chair, and threw his arms around her in a transport, as he cried —

“It’s a mercifu’ thing, lassie, ye did na’ live fifty years ago: by my saul, there’s nae saying how many a brave fellow the like o’ that had laid low!”

“If that be one of the hymns you spoke of, Kate,” said the O’Donoghue, smiling, “I fancy Mark would have no objection to be a nun; but where is he? – he has left the room.”

“I hope there was nothing in my song he disliked?” asked she, timidly; but before there was time for an answer the door opened, and Mark appeared with Herbert in his arms.

“There!” said he, laying him gently on the sofa; “if cousin Kate will only sing that once more, I’ll answer for it, it will save you a fortnight in your recovery.”

Kate knelt down beside the sick boy, and kissed him tenderly; while he, poor fellow, scarce daring to believe in the reality of all before him, played with the long tangles of her silky hair, and gazed on her in silence.

“We maun be cautious, Mark,” whispered M’Nab, carefully; but Mark had no ears nor eyes save for her who now sat beside his brother, and in a low soft voice breathed her affectionate greetings to him.

In this way passed the first evening of her coming – a night whose fascination dwelt deep in every heart, and made each dreamer blest.

CHAPTER XVIII. A HASTY PLEDGE

While these things were happening within the ruined castle of the O’Donoghue, a guest, equally unexpected as theirs, had arrived at “the Lodge.” Frederick Travers, delayed in Bristol by contrary winds, had come over in the same packet with Kate; but without being able either to learn her name, or whither she was going. His unlooked for appearance at “the Lodge,” was a most welcome surprise both to Sir Marmaduke and Sybella; and as he did not desire to avow the real object of his coming, it was regarded by them as the most signal proof of affection. They well knew how much London life engrossed him – how completely its peculiar habits and haunts possessed attractions for him – and with what a depreciating estimate he looked down on every part of the globe, save that consecrated to the fashionable follies and amusements of his own set.

He was not, in reality, insensible to other and better influences; his affection for his father and sister was unbounded; he had a bold, manly spirit, unalloyed with any thing mean or sordid; a generous, candid nature, and straightforward earnestness of purpose, that often carried him farther by impulse, than he was followed by his convictions. Still a conventional cant, a tone of disparaging, half-contemptuous indifference to every thing which characterized his associates, had already infected him; and he felt ashamed to confess to those sentiments and opinions, to possess and to act upon which should have been his dearest pride.

“Well, Fred,” said Sybella, as they drew around the fire after dinner, in that happy home circle so suggestive of enjoyment, “let us hear what you thought of the scenery. Is not Glenflesk fine?”

“Matlock on a larger scale,” said he coolly. “Less timber and more rocks..”

“Matlock! dear friend. You might as well compare Keim-an-eigh with Holborn – you are only jesting.”

“Compare what? Repeat that droll name, I beg of you.”

“Keim-an-eigh. It is a mountain pass quite close to us here.”

“Admirably done! Why, Sybella dear, I shall not be surprised to see you take to the red petticoat and bare-feet soon. You have indoctrinated yourself wonderfully since your arrival.”

“I like the people with all my heart, Fred,” said she artlessly; “and if I could imitate many of their traits of forbearance and long-suffering patience by following their costume, I promise you I’d don the scarlet.”

“Ay, Fred,” said Sir Marmaduke, with a sententious gravity, “they don’t know these Irish at all at our side of the water. They mistake them totally. They only want teaching, a little example – a little encouragement – that’s all: and they are as docile and tractable as possible. I’ll show you to-morrow what improvements a few months have effected. I’ll bring you over a part of the estate, where there was not a hovel fit for a dog, and you shall see what comfortable dwellings they have. We hear nothing in England but the old songs about popery, and superstition, and all that. Why, my dear Fred, these people don’t care a straw for the priest – they’d be any thing I asked them.”

“Devilish high principled that, any way,” said Fred, drily.

“I didn’t exactly mean that; at least in the sense you take it. I was about to say, that such is their confidence, such their gratitude to the landlord, that – tha – ”

“That in short they’d become Turks, for an abatement in the rent. Well, Sybella dear, is this one of the traits you are so anxious to imitate?”

“Why will you misunderstand, Fred?” said Sybella imploringly. “Cannot you see that gratitude may lead an uninstructed people far beyond the limits of reason – my father is so good to them.”

“With all my heart – I have not the slightest objection in life; indeed I’m not sure, if all the estate be like what I passed through this afternoon, if my generosity wouldn’t go farther, and, instead of reducing the rent, make them an honest present of the fee simple.”

“Foolish boy!” said Sir Marmaduke, half angrily. “There are forty thousand acres of reclaimable land – ”

“Which might bear crops, Anno Domini 3095.”

“There are mines of inexhaustible wealth.”

“And would cost such to work them, sir, no doubt. Come, come, father – Hemsworth has passed a life among these people. He knows more than we do, or ever shall.

“I tell you, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, nettled by such a sarcasm on his powers of observation, “I know them perfectly – I can read them like a book. They are a guileless, simple-minded, confiding people – you may see every thought they have in their countenances. They only need the commonest offices of kindness to attach them; and, as for political or religious leanings, I have questioned them pretty closely, and, without a single exception, have heard nothing but sentiments of loyalty and attachment to the church.”

“Well, I only hope you don’t mean to prolong your stay here. I’m sure you have done enough for any ordinary call of conscience, and, if you have not, set about it in right earnest – convert the tens into hundreds – make them all as comfortable as possible – and then, in heaven’s name, get back again to England. There is no earthly reason why you should pass your time here; and as for Sybella – ”

“Don’t include me, Fred, in your reasons for departure. I never was so happy in my life.”

“There, boy – there’s an example for you; and if you need another, here am I, ready to confess the same thing. I don’t mean that there are not little dampers and difficulties. There’s that fool about the mill-wheel, and that fellow that persists in dragging the river with a net;” and so he muttered on for some minutes beneath his teeth, to the evident enjoyment of Fred, whose quivering lip and laughing eye told how he appreciated the conflicting evidence memory was eliciting.

Thus, for some time, the conversation continued, until Miss Travers retired for the night. Then, Sir Marmaduke drew his chair closer to his son’s, and, in an earnest manner, related the whole circumstance of Sybella’s escape from the mountain torrent – dwelling with grateful eloquence on the young O’Donoghue’s heroism in coming to her rescue. “The youth has narrowly escaped with his life. The doctor, who left this but a few hours ago, said ‘he never witnessed a more dangerous case than the symptoms at one time presented.’ He is well, however, now – the risk is past – and I want your aid, Fred, to devise some suitable mode of evincing our gratitude.’

“These O’Donoghues are your tenants – are they not?” asked the young man.

“Yes, they are tenants; but on that score we must not say much in their favour. Wylie tells me that they have been at feud with Hems-worth for years past – they neither pay rent, nor will they surrender possession. The whole thing is a difficult matter to understand; first of all, there is a mortgage – ”

“There, there, my dear father, don’t puzzle my brain and your own with a statement we’ll never get to the end of. The point I want to learn is, they are your tenants – ”

“Yes, at least for part of the land they occupy. There is a dispute about another portion; but I believe Hemsworth has got the Attorney-General’s opinion, that their case cannot stand.”

“Tush – never mind the Attorney-General. Give up the question at issue; send him, or his father, or whoever it is, the receipt for the rent due, and take care Hemsworth does not molest him in future.”

“But you don’t see, boy, what we are doing. We hope to obtain the whole of the Ballyvourney property – that is part of our plan; the tenants there are in a state of absolute misery and starvation.”

“Then, in God’s name, give them plenty to eat; it doesn’t signify much, I suppose, whose tenantry they are, when they’re hungry.”

The old gentleman was scarcely prepared for such an extended basis for his philanthropy, and, for a moment or two, seemed quite dumbfounded by his son’s proposition, while Fred continued – “If I understand the matter, it lies thus: you owe a debt of gratitude which you are desirous to acquit – you don’t care to pay highly.”

“On the contrary, I am quite willing,” interposed Sir Marmaduke; “but let the price be one, which shall realize a benefit equivalent to its amount. If I assure these people in the possession of their land, what security have I, that they will not continue, as of old, the same useless, wasteful, spendthrift set they ever were – presenting the worst possible example to the other tenants, and marring the whole force of the lesson I am endeavouring to inculcate?”

“That, I take it, is more their affair than yours, after all,” said Fred; “you are not to confer the boon, and allocate its advantages afterwards – but come, what kind of people are they?”

“Oh! a species of half-gentry, half-farmer set, I believe – proud as they are poor – deeming themselves, as O’Donoghues, at least our equals; but living, as I believe, in every kind of privation.”

“Very well; sit down there, and let me have a check on your banker for five hundred pounds, and leave the affair to me.”

“But you mistake, Fred, they are as haughty as Lucifer.”

“Just leave it to me, sir: I fancy I know something of the world by this time. It may require more money, but the result I will answer for.”

Sir Marmaduke’s confidence in his son’s tact and worldly skill was one of the articles of his faith, and he sat down at the table and wrote the order on the bank at once. “Here Fred,” said he; “I only beg of you to remember, that the way to express the grateful sense I entertain of this boy’s conduct is not by wounding the susceptibilities of his feelings; and if they be above the class of farmers, which I really cannot ascertain, your steps must demand all your caution.”

“I hope, sir,” said Fred with some vanity in the tone, “that I have never made you blush for my awkwardness, and I don’t intend to do so now. I promise for the success of my negociation; but I must not say a word more of how I mean to obtain it.”

Sir Marmaduke was very far from feeling satisfied with himself for having even so far encouraged a plan, that his own blind confidence in his son’s cleverness had for a moment entrapped him into; he would gladly have withdrawn his consent, but old experience taught him that Fred was never completely convinced he was right, until he met opposition to his opinion. So he parted with him for the night, hoping that sleep might suggest a wiser counsel and a clearer head; and that being left free to act, he might possibly feel a doubt as to the correctness of his own judgment.

As for Fred, no sooner was he alone than he began to regret the pledge his precipitancy had carried him into. What were the nature of the advances he was to make – how to open the negociation, in a quarter the habits and prejudices of which he was utterly ignorant of, he had not the most vague conception; and, as he sought his chamber, he had half persuaded himself to the conviction, that the safest, and the most honest course, after all, would be to avow in the morning that he had overstated his diplomatic abilities, and fairly abandon a task, to which he saw himself inadequate. These were his last sleeping thoughts; for his waking resolves, we must enter upon another chapter.

CHAPTER XIX. A DIPLOMATIST DEFEATED

If Frederick Travers went to sleep at night with very considerable doubts, as to the practicability of his plans regarding the O’Donoghues, his waking thoughts were very far from re-assuring him, and he heartily wished he had never engaged in the enterprize. Now, however, his honour was in a manner pledged; he had spoken so confidently of success, there was nothing for it but to go forward, and endeavour, as as well he might, to redeem his promise.

At the time we speak of, military men never for a moment divested themselves of the emblems of their career; the uniform and the sword, the plumed hat and the high boot, formed a costume not to be worn at certain periods and laid aside at others, but was their daily dress, varying merely in the degree of full or half dress, as the occasion warranted. There was no affectation of the happy freedom of “Mufti” – no pretended enjoyment of the incognito of a black coat and round hat; on the contrary, the king’s livery was borne with a pride which, erring on the opposite side, suggested a degree of assumption and conscious importance in the wearer, which more or less separated the soldier from the civilian in bearing, and gradually originated a feeling of soreness on the part of the more humbly clad citizen towards the more favoured order.

A certain haughty, overbearing tone of manner, was then popular in the army, and particularly in those regiments which boasted of an unalloyed nobility among the officers. If they assumed an air of superiority to the rest of the service, so much the more did they look down upon the mere civilian, whom they considered as belonging to a very subordinate class and order of mankind. To mark the sense of this difference of condition in a hundred little ways, and by a hundred petty observances, was part of a military education, and became a more unerring test of the soldier in society, than even the cockade and the cross-belt. To suppose that such a line of conduct should not have inspired those against whom it was directed with a feeling of counter hatred, would be to disbelieve in human nature. The civilian, indeed, reciprocated with dislike the soldier’s insolence, and, in their estrangement from each other, the breach grew gradually wider – the dominant tyranny of the one, and the base-born vulgarity of the other, being themes each loved to dilate upon without ceasing.

Now, this consciousness of superiority, so far from relieving Frederick Travers of any portion of the difficulty of his task, increased it tenfold. He knew and felt he was stooping to a most unwarrantable piece of condescension in seeking these people at all; and although he trusted firmly that his aristocratic friends were very unlikely to hear of proceedings in a quarter so remote and unvisited, yet how he should answer to his own heart for such a course, was another and a far more puzzling matter. He resolved, then, in the true spirit of his order, to give his conduct all the parade of a most condescending act, to let them see plainly, how immeasurably low he had voluntarily descended to meet them; and to this end he attired himself in his full field uniform, and with as scrupulous a care as though the occasion were a review before his Majesty. His costume of scarlet coat, with blue velvet facings, separating at the breast, so as to show a vest of white kerseymere, trimmed with a gold border – his breeches of the same colour and material, met at the knee by the high and polished boot, needed but the addition of his cocked hat, fringed with an edging of ostrich feathers, to set off a figure of singular elegance and symmetry. The young men of the day were just beginning to dispense with hair powder, and Fred wore his rich brown locks, long and floating, in the new mode – a fashion which well became him, and served to soften down the somewhat haughty carriage of his head. There was an air of freedom, an absence of restraint, in the military costume of the period, which certainly contributed to increase the advantages of a naturally good-looking man, in the same way as the present stiff, Prussian mode of dress, will, assuredly, conceal many defects in mould and form among less-favoured individuals. The loosely-falling flaps of the waistcoat – the deep hanging cuffs of the coat – the easy folds of the long skirt – gave a character of courtliness to uniform which, to our eye, it at present is very far from possessing. In fact, the graceful carriage and courteous demeanour of the drawing-room, suffered no impediment from the pillory of a modern stock, or the rigid inflexibility of a coat strained almost to bursting.

“Are you on duty, Fred?” said Sir Marmaduke, laughing, as his son entered the breakfast-room, thus carefully attired.

“Yes, sir; I am preparing for my mission; and it would ill become an ambassador to deliver his credentials in undress.”

“To what court are you then accredited?” said Sybella, laughing.

“His Majesty, The O’Donoghue,” interposed his father; “King of Glenflesk, Baron of Inchigeela, Lord Protector of – of half the blackguards in the county, I verily believe,” added he, in a more natural key.

“Are you really going to Carrig-na-curra, Fred?” asked Miss Travers, hurriedly; “are you going to visit our neighbours?”

“I’ll not venture to say that such is the place, much less pretend to pronounce it after you, my dear sister, but I am about to wait on these worthy people, and, if they will permit me, have a peep at the interior of their stockade or wigwam, whichever it be.”

“It must have been a very grand thing in its day: that old castle has some fine features about it yet,” replied she calmly.

“Like Windsor, I suppose,” said Fred as he replied to her, and then complacently glanced at the well-fitting boot which ornamented his leg. “They’ll not be over-ceremonious, I hope, about according me an audience.”

“Not in the forenoon, I believe,” said Sir Marmaduke drily; for he was recalling the description old Roach had given him of his own reception by Kerry O’Leary, and which circumstance, by-the-by, figured somewhat ostentatiously in his charge to the old baronet.

“Oh, then, they receive early,” resumed Fred; “the old French style – the ‘petit levée du roi’ – before ten o’clock. Another cup of tea, Sybella, and then I must look after a horse.

“I have given orders already on that score. I flatter myself you’ll rather approve of my stud; for, amongst the incongruities of Ireland, I have fallen upon an honest horse-dealer.”

“Indeed!” said the young man, with more interest than he had yet shown in the conversation; “I must cultivate that fellow, one might exhibit him with great success in London.”

“Unquestionably, Fred, he is a curiosity; for while he is a perfect simpleton about the value of an animal; an easy-tempered, good-natured, soft fellow – with respect to knowledge of a horse, his points, his performance, and his soundness, I never saw his equal.”

“I’ll give him a commission to get me two chargers,” said Fred, delighted at the prospect of deriving so much benefit from his Irish journey. “What makes you look so serious, Sybella?”

“Was I so, Fred? I scarcely know – perhaps I was regretting,” added she archly, “that there were no ladies at Carrig-na-curra to admire so very smart a cavalier.”

Frederick coloured slightly and endeavoured to laugh, but the consciousness that his “bravery” of costume was somewhat out of place, worried him and he made no reply.

“You’ll not be long, Fred,” said his father, “I shall want you to take a walk with me to the lake.”

“No, Fred – don’t stay long away; it is not above two miles from tills at farthest.”

“Had I not better send a guide with you?”

“No, no; if the place be larger than a mud hovel, I cannot mistake it. So here comes our steed. Well, I own, he is the best thing I’ve yet seen in these parts;” and the youth opened the window, and stepped out to approach the animal. He was, indeed, a very creditable specimen of Lanty’s taste in horse-flesh – the model of a compact and powerfully-built cob horse.

“A hundred guineas, eh?” said Fred, in a tone of question.

“Sixty – not a pound more,” said the old man in conscious pride. “The fellow said but fifty; I added ten on my own account.”

Frederick mounted the cob, and rode him across the grass, with that quiet hand and steady seat which bespeaks the judgment of one called upon to be critical. “A little, a very little over-done in the mouthing, but his action perfect,” said he, as he returned to the window, and held the animal in an attitude to exhibit his fine symmetry to advantage. “The prince has a passion for a horse of this class; I hope you have not become attached to him?”

“His Royal Highness shall have him at once, Fred, if he will honour you by accepting him.” And as he spoke, he laid a stress on the you, to evince the pleasure he anticipated in the present being made by Frederick, and not himself.

“Now, then, with God and St. George!” cried Fred, laughingly, as he waved an adieu with his plumed hat, and cantered easily towards the high road.

It was a clear and frosty day in December, with a blue sky above, and all below bright and glittering in a thin atmosphere. The lake, clear as crystal, reflected every cliff and crag upon the mountain – while each island on its surface was defined with a crisp sharpness of outline, scarce less beautiful than in the waving foliage of summer. The many-coloured heaths, too, shone in hues more bright and varied, than usual in our humid climate; and the voices which broke the silence, heard from long distances away, came mellowed and softened in their tones, and harmonized well with the solitary grandeur of the scene. Nor was Frederick Travers insensible to its influence; the height of those bold mountains – their wild and fanciful outlines – the sweeping glens that wound along their bases – the wayward stream that flowed through the deep valleys, and, as if in sportiveness, serpentined their course, were features of scenery he had not witnessed before; while the perfect solitude awed and appalled him.

He had not ridden long, when the tall towers of the old castle of Carrig-na-curra caught his eye, standing proudly on the bold mass of rock above the road. The unseemly adjunct of farm-house and stables were lost to view at such a distance, or blended with the general mass of building, so that the whole gave the impression of extent and pretension to a degree he was by no means prepared for. These features, however, gradually diminished as he drew nearer; the highly-pitched roof, pierced with narrow windows, patched and broken – the crumbling battlements of the towers themselves – the ruinous dilapidation of the outer buildings, disenchanted the spectator of his first more favourable opinion; until at length, as he surveyed the incongruous and misshapen pile, with its dreary mountain back-ground, he wondered how, at any point of view, he should have deemed it other than the gloomy abode it seemed at that moment.

The only figure Frederick Travers had seen, as he rode along, was that of a man carrying a gun in his hand, in a dress somewhat like a gamekeeper’s, who, at some short distance from the road, moved actively across the fields, springing lightly from hillock to hillock with the step of a practised mountain walker, and seemingly regardless of the weight of a burden which he carried on one shoulder: so rapidly did he move, that Frederick found it difficult to keep pace with him, as the road was deeply cut up, and far from safe for horse travel. Curious to make out what he carried, Travers spurred eagerly forward; and, at last, but not without an effort, came within hail of him at the iron-barred gate which formed the outer entrance to the castle from the high road. The burden was now easily seen, and at once suggested to Frederick’s mind the reason of the bearer’s haste. It was a young buck, just killed; the blood still trickled from the wound in its skull.