The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“Leave that gate open, my good fellow,” cried Frederick, in a voice of command, as the other pushed the frail portal wide, and let it fall back heavily to its place again – “Do you hear me? – leave it open.”

“We always leap it when mounted,” was the cool reply, as the speaker turned his head round, and then, without deigning either another word or look, continued his way up the steep ascent.

Travers felt the rude taunt sorely, and would have given much to be near him who uttered it; but, whether disdaining to follow a counsel thus insolently conveyed, or, it might be, not over-confident of his horse, he dismounted, and, flinging wide the gate, rode quickly up the causeway – not, however, in time to overtake the other; for, although the way was enclosed by walls on both sides, he had disappeared already, but in what manner, and how, it seemed impossible to say.

“My father has omitted poaching, it would seem, in his catalogue of Irish virtues,” muttered the young man, as he rode through the arched keep, and halted at the chief entrance to the house. The door lay open, displaying the cheerful blaze of a pine-wood fire, that burned briskly within the ample chimney, in the keen air of a frosty morning. “I see I shall have my ride for my pains,” was Fred’s reflection as he passed into the wide hall, and beheld the old weapons and hunting spoils arranged around the walls. “These people affect chieftainship, and go hungry to bed, to dream of fourteen quarterings. Be it so. I shall see the old rookery at all events;” and, so saying, he gave a vigorous pull at the old bell, which answered loudly in its own person, and, also, by a deep howl from the aged fox-hound, then lying at the fire in the drawing-room. These sounds soon died away, and a silence deep and unbroken as before succeeded. A second time, and a third, Travers repeated his summons, but without any difference of result, save that the dog no longer gave tongue; – it seemed as if he were becoming reconciled to the disturbance, as one that needed no farther attention from him.

“I must explore for myself,” thought Fred, and so, attaching his horse to the massive ring by which a chain used once to be suspended across the portal, he entered the house. Walking leisurely forward, he gained the long corridor; for a second or two he was uncertain how to proceed, when a gleam of light from the half-open door in the tower led him onward. As he drew near he heard the deep tones of a man’s voice recounting, as it seemed, some story of the chase; the last words, at least, were – “I fired but one shot – the herd is wild enough already.” Travers pushed wide the door, and entered; as he did so, he involuntarily halted; the evidences of habits and tastes he was not prepared for, suddenly rebuked his unannounced approach, and he would gladly have retreated, were it now practicable.

“Well, sir,” said the same voice he heard before, and from a young man, who leaned with one arm on the chimney-piece, and with the other hand held his gun, while he appeared as if he had been conversing with a pale and sickly youth, popped and pillowed in a deep arm-chair. They were the only occupants of the room.

“Well, sir, it would seem you have made a mistake; the inn is lower down the glen – you’ll see a sign over the door-way.”

The look which accompanied this insolent speech recalled at once to Frederick’s mind the same figure he had seen in the glen; and, stung by impertinence from such a quarter, he replied —

“Have no fear, young fellow; you may poach every acre for twenty miles round – I have not tracked you on that score.”

“Poach! – tracked me!” reiterated Mark O’Donoghue, for it is needless to say it was he; and then, as if the ludicrous were even stronger in his mind than mere passion, he burst into a rude laugh; while the sick boy’s pale face grew a deep crimson, as, with faltering accents, he said —

“You must be a stranger here, sir, I fancy.”

“I am so,” said Travers mildly and yielding at once to the respect ever due to suffering; “my name is Travers. I have come over here to enquire after a young gentleman who saved my sister’s life.”

“Then you’ve tracked him well,” interposed Mark, with an emphasis on the word. “Here he is.”

“Will you not sit down,” said Herbert, motioning with his wasted hand to a seat.

Frederick took his place beside the boy at once and said – “We owe you, sir, the deepest debt of gratitude it has ever been our fortune to incur; and if anything could enhance the obligation, it has been the heroism, the personal daring – ”

“Hold there,” said Mark, sternly. “It’s not our custom here to listen to compliments on our courage – we are O’Donoghues.”

“This young gentleman’s daring was no common one,” answered Travers, as if stung by the taunt.

“My brother will scarce feel flattered by your telling him so,” was Mark’s haughty answer; and for some seconds Frederick knew not how to resume the conversation; at last, turning to Herbert, he said —

“May I hope that, without offending you, we may be permitted in some shape to express the sentiment I speak of; it is a debt which cannot be requited; let us at least have some evidence that we acknowledge it.”

“It is the more like some of our own,” broke in Mark with a fierce laugh; “we have parchments enough, but we never pay. Your father’s agent could tell you that.”

Frederick gave no seeming attention to this speech, but went on – “When I say there is nothing in our power we would deem enough, I but express the feelings of my father and myself.”

“There, there,” cried Mark, preventing Herbert who was about to reply, “you’ve said far more than was needed for a wet jacket and a few weeks’ low diet. Let us have a word about the poaching you spoke of.”

His fixed and steady stare – the rigid brow, by which these words were accompanied, at once proclaimed the intention of one who sought reparation for an insult, and so instantly did they convey the sentiment, that Travers, in a second, forgot all about his mission, and, starting to his feet, replied in a whisper, audible but to Mark —

“True, it was a very hazardous guess; but when, in England, we meet with a fustian jacket and a broken beaver, in company with a gun and a game-bag, we have little risk in pronouncing the owner a game-keeper or a poacher.”

Mark struck his gun against the ground with such violence as shivered the stock from the barrel, while he grasped the corner of the chimney-piece convulsively with the other hand. It seemed as if passion had actually paralysed him: as he stood thus, the door opened, and Kate O’Donoghue entered. She was dressed in the becoming half-toilette of the morning, and wore on her head one of those caps of blue velvet, embroidered in silver, which are so popular among the peasantry of Rhenish Germany. The light airiness of her step as she came forward, unconscious of a stranger’s presence, displayed her figure in its most graceful character. Suddenly her eyes fell upon Frederick Travers, she stopped and courtesied low to him, while he, thunderstruck with amazement at recognizing his fellow traveller so unexpectedly, could scarcely return her salute with becoming courtesy.

“Mr. Travers,” said Herbert, after waiting in vain for Mark to speak; “Mr. Travers has been kind enough to come and enquire after me. Miss O’Donoghue, sir;” and the boy, with much bashfulness, essayed in some sort the ceremony of introduction.

“My cousin, Mr. Mark O’Donoghue,” said Kate, with a graceful movement of her hand towards Mark, whose attitude led her to suppose he was not known to Travers.

“I have had the honour of presenting myself already,” said Frederick, bowing; but Mark responded not to the inclination, but stood still with bent brow and clenched lip, seemingly unconscious of all around him, while Kate seated herself, and motioned to Travers to resume his place. She felt how necessary it was she should atone, by her manner, for the strange rudeness of her cousin’s; and her mind being now relieved of the fear which first struck her, that Frederick’s visit might be intended for herself, she launched freely and pleasantly into conversation, recurring to the incidents of the late journey, and the fellow-travellers they had met with.

If Kate was not sorry to learn that “the Lodge” was tenanted by persons of such condition and class, as might make them agreeable neighbours, Travers, on the other hand, was overjoyed at discovering one of such attractions within an easy visiting distance, while Herbert sat by, wondering how persons, so little known to each other, could have so many things to say, and so many topics which seemed mutually interesting. For so it is; they who are ignorant of the world and its habits, can scarcely credit the great extent of those generalities which form food for daily intercourse – nor with what apparent interest people can play the game of life, with but counterfeit coinage. He listened at first with astonishment, and afterwards with delight, to the pleasant flippancy of each, as in turn they discussed scenes, and pleasures, and people, of whom he never so much as heard. The “gentillesse” of French manner – would that we had a name for the thing in English – imparted to Kate’s conversation a graceful ease our more reserved habits rarely permit; and while in her costume and her carriage there was a certain coquetry discernible, not a particle of affectation pervaded either her opinions or expressions. Travers, long accustomed to the best society of London, had yet seen scarcely anything of the fascination of foreign agreeability, and yielded himself so insensibly to its charm, that an hour slipped away unconsciously, and he totally forgot the great object of his visit, and lost all recollection of the luckless animal he had attached to the door ring – luckless, indeed, for already a heavy snow-drift was falling, and the day had assumed all the appearance of severe winter.

“You cannot go now, sir,” said Herbert, as Frederick rose to take his leave; – “there’s a heavy snow-storm without;” for the boy was so interested in all he heard, he could not endure the thought of his departure.

“Oh! it’s nothing,” said Travers, lightly. “There’s an old adage – ‘Snow should not scare a soldier.’”

“There’s another proverb in the French service,” said Kate, laughing, as she pointed to the blazing hearth – “‘Le soldat ne tourne pas son dos au feu.’”

“I accept the augury,” cried Frederick, laughing heartily at the witty misapplication of the phrase, and resumed his seat once more.

“Cousin Kate plays chess,” said Herbert, in his anxiety to suggest a plausible pretext for delaying Frederick’s departure.

“And I am passionately fond of the game; would you favour me so far?”

“With pleasure,” said she smiling; “I only ask one condition, ‘point se grace’ – no giving back – the O’Donoghues never take or give quarter – isn’t that so, Mark? Oh! he’s gone,” and now for the first time it was remarked that he had left the apartment.

In a few moments after, they had drawn the little marquetrie table close to the fire, and were deeply interested in the game.

At first, each party played with a seeming attention, which certainly imposed on Herbert, who sat eagerly watching the progress of the game. Frederick Travers was, however, far more occupied in observing his antagonist than in the disposition of his rooks and pawns. While she, soon perceiving his inattention, half suspected that he did not deem her an enemy worth exerting his skill upon, and thus, partly in pique, she bestowed more watchfulness than at first.

“So, Mademoiselle,” cried Travers at length, recurring to his game, “I perceive you have only permitted me to advance thus far, to cut off my retreat for ever. How am I to save myself now?”

“It’s hard to say, Sir Captain. It’s the old tactique of Celts and Saxons on both sides; you would advance into the heart of the enemy’s country, and as, unhappily, the men in ivory are truer than the natives were here, and won’t take bribes to fight against their fellows, you must e’en stand or fall by your own deservings.”

“Come, then, the bold policy for ever. Check.”

“And you lose your castle.”

“And you your bishop!”

“We must avenge the church, sir. Take care of your queen.”

“‘Parbleu,’ Mademoiselle, you are a fierce foe. What say you, if we draw the battle?”

“No, no, cousin Kate; continue, and you win it.”

“Be it so. And now for my turn,” said Travers, who was really a first-rate player, and at length began to feel interested in the result.

The move he made exhibited so much of skill, that Kate foresaw that the fortune of the day was about to change. She leaned her brow upon her hand, and deliberated long on the move; and at length, lifting her head, she said —

“I should like much to beat you – but in fair fight, remember – no courtesy nor favour.”

“I can spare neither,” said Travers, smiling.

“Then, defeat is no dishonour. There’s my move.”

“And mine,” cried Fred, as rapidly.

“What prevents my taking you? I see nothing.”

“Nor I either,” said he, half chagrined, for his move was an oversight.

“You are too proud to ask quarter – of course, you are – or I should say, take it back.”

“No, Kate, no,” whispered Herbert, whose excitement was at the highest.

“I must abide my fortune,” said Frederick, bowing; “and the more calmly, as I have won the game.”

“Won the game! How? – where?”

“Check!”

“How tauntingly he says it now,” said Kate, while her eyes sparkled brilliantly. “There is too much of the conqueror in all that.”

Frederick’s glance met hers at the instant, and her cheek coloured deeply.

Who knows the source of such emotions, or of how much pleasure and pain they are made up! “And yet, I have not won,” said he, in a low voice.

“Then, be it a drawn battle,” said Kate. “You can afford to be generous, and I can’t bear being beaten – that’s the truth of it.”

“If I could but win!” muttered Travers, as he rose from the table; and whether she overheard the words, and that they conveyed more than a mere allusion to the game, she turned hastily away, and approached the window.

“Is that snow-ball your horse, Captain Travers?” said she, with a wicked smile.

“My father’s favourite cob, by Jove!” exclaimed Frederick; and, as if suddenly aroused to the memory of his lengthy visit, made his ‘adieus’ with more confusion than was exactly suitable to a fashionable Guardsman – and departed.

“I like him,” said Herbert, as he looked out of the window after him. “Don’t you, cousin Kate?”

But cousin Kate did not reply.

CHAPTER XX. TEMPTATION IN A WEAK HOUR

When Mark O’Donoghue left the room, his passion had become almost ungovernable – the entrance of his cousin Kate had but dammed up the current of his anger – and, during the few moments he still remained afterwards, his temper was fiercely tried by witnessing the courtesy of her manner to the stranger, and the apparent intimacy which subsisted between them. “I ought to have known it,” was the expression he muttered over and over to himself – “I ought to have known it! That fellow’s gay jacket and plumed hat are dearer to her woman’s heart, than the rude devotion of such as I am. Curses be on them, they carry persecution through every thing – house, home, country, rank, wealth, station – ay, the very affection of our kindred they grudge us! Was slavery ever like this?” And with these bitter words, the offspring of bitterer thoughts, he strode down the causeway, and reached the high road. The snow was falling fast – a chilling north wind drove the thin flakes along – but he heeded it not. The fire of anger that burned within his bosom defied all sense of winter’s cold; and with a throbbing brow, and fevered hand, he went, turning from time to time to look up at the old castle, whence he expected each moment to see Travers take his departure. Now he hurried eagerly onward, as if to reach some destined spot – now he would stop, and retrace his steps, irresolutely, as though half determined to return home.

“Degraded, insulted, outraged on the very hearth of my father’s house!” cried he, aloud, as he wrung his hands in agony, and gave his passion vent. Again he pressed forward, and at last arrived at that part of the glen, where the road seems escarped between the two mountains, which rise several hundred feet, like walls, on either side. Here he paused, and after examining the spot for some seconds, he muttered to himself, “He has no choice here, but stand or turn!” and so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat two pistols, examined the priming of each, and then replaced them. The prospect of speedy revenge seemed to have calmed his vindictive spirit, for now he continued to walk backwards and forwards, at a slow pace, like a sentinel on his post, pausing occasionally to listen if a horse’s hoofs could be heard upon the road, and then resuming his walk once more. A rustling sound in the brushwood above his head once startled him, but the granite cliffs that overhung the road prevented his seeing from what it proceeded, and his heart was now bent on a very different object than the pursuit of the deer. At that moment, the proudest of the herd might have grazed in safety, within pistol-shot of him, and he had not deigned to notice it. Thus passed an hour – a second – and a third succeeded – and, already, the dull shadows of approaching night were falling – yet, no one came. Tortured with strange conjectures, Mark saw the day waning, and yet no sight nor sound of him he looked for. Let not poets speak of the ardent longing of a lover’s heart, as in throbbing eagerness he waits for her, whose smile is life and hope, and heaven. Compared with the mad impatience of him who thirsts for vengeance, his passion is but sluggish apathy. It is the bad, that ever calls forth the sternest energies of human nature. It is in crime, that men transcend the common attributes of mankind. Here was one, now, who would have given his right hand beneath the axe, for but one brief moment of vengeance, and have deemed years of suffering cheaply bought, for the mere presence of his enemy before him.

“He must have guessed my meaning when I left the room;” was the taunting expression he now uttered, as his unsated anger took the shape of an insolent depreciation of his adversary. “An Irishman would not need a broader hint!”

It grew darker – the mountains frowned heavily beneath the canopy of clouds, and night was rapidly approaching, when, from the gloom of his almost extinguished hope, Mark was suddenly aroused. He heard the tramp of a horse’s feet; the dull reverberation on the deep snow filled the air, and sometimes they seemed to come from the opposite part of the glen, when the pace slackened, and, at last, the sounds became almost inaudible.

“There is yet enough of daylight, if we move into the broad road,” was Mark’s soliloquy, as he stooped his ear to listen – and at the instant, he beheld a man leading his horse by the bridle, while he himself seemed seeking along the road-side, where the snowdrift had not yet fallen, as if for some lost object. A glance, even by the imperfect light, and at some thirty paces off showed Mark it was not him he sought, and were it not that the attitude attracted his curiosity, he had not wasted a second look on him; but the horseman by this time had halted, and was scraping with his whip-handle amid the pebbles of the mountain rivulet.

“I’ll never see it again – it’s no use!” was the exclamation of the seeker, as he gathered up his reins, and prepared to mount.

“Is that Lanty Lawler?” cried Mark, as he recognised the voice; “I say, did you meet with a young officer riding down the glen, in the direction of Carrig-na-curra?”

“No, indeed, Mr. Mark – I never saw living thing since I left Bantry.”

The young man paused for a few seconds – and then, as if anxious to turn all thought from his question, said, “What have you lost thereabouts?”

“Oh, more than I am worth in the world!” was the answer, in a deep, heart-drawn sigh – “but, blessed heaven! what’s the pistols for? Oh, Master Mark, dear – sure – sure – ”

“Sure what?” cried the youth, with a hoarse laugh – “Sure, I’m not turned highway robber! Is that what you want to say? Make your mind easy, Lanty – I have not reached that point yet; though, if indifference to life might tempt a man, I’d not say it is so far off.”

“‘Tis a duel, then,” cried Lanty quickly; “but, I hope you wouldn’t fight without seconds. Oh, that’s downright murder – what did he do to you? – was it one of the fellows you met in Cork?”

“You are all wrong,” said Mark, sullenly. “It is enough, however, that neither of us seem to have found what he was seeking. You have your secret; I have mine.

“Oh, faix, mine is soon told – ‘twas my pocket-book, with as good as seventy pounds in goold, I lost here, a three weeks ago, and never set eyes on it since; and there was papers in it – ay, faix, papers of great value – and I darn’t face Father Luke without them. I may leave the country, when he hears what happened.”

“Where are you going now?” said Mark, gloomily.

“I’m going as far as Mary’s, for the night. Maybe you’d step down there, and take a bit of supper? When the moon rises, the night will take up fine.”

The young man turned without speaking, and bent his steps in the direction Lanty was travelling.

The horse-dealer was too well versed in human nature to press for a confidence, which he foresaw would be, at last, willingly extended to him; he therefore walked along at Mark’s side, without uttering a word, and seeming to be absorbed in his own deep musings. His calculation was a correct one. They had not gone many paces forward, when young O’Donoghue unburthened his whole heart to him – told him, with all the eloquent energy of a wounded spirit, of the insult he had received in his own home, before his younger brother’s face. He omitted nothing in his description of the overbearing impertinence of Frederic Travers’s manner – with what cool assurance he had entered the house, and with what flippant carelessness he treated his cousin Kate.

“I left home, with an oath, not to return thither unavenged,” said be, “nor will I, though this time luck seems against me. Had he but come, I should have given him his choice of pistols, and his own distance. My hand is true from five paces to thirty; but he has not escaped me yet.”

Lanty never interrupted the narrative, except to ask from time to time some question, the answer to which was certain to develope the deeper indignation of the youth. A low muttering commentary, intended to mean a heartfelt sympathy with his wrongs, was all he suffered to escape his lips; and, thus encouraged in his passionate vehemence, Mark’s wrath became like a phrenzy.

“Come in now,” said Lanty, as he halted at the door of Mary’s cabin, “but don’t say a word about this business. I have a thought in my head that may do you good service, but keep a fair face before people – do you mind me?”

There was a tone of secrecy and mystery in these words Mark could not penetrate; but, however dark their meaning, they seemed to promise some hope of that revenge his heart yearned after, and with this trust he entered the house.

Mary received them with her wonted hospitality – Lanty was an expected guest – and showed how gratified she felt to have young O’Donoghue beneath her roof.

“I was afeard you were forgetting me entirely, Mr. Mark,” said she – “you passed the door twice, and never as much as said, God save you, Mary.”

“I did not forget you, for all that, Mary,” said he, feelingly. “I have too few friends in the world to spare any of them; but I’ve had many things on my mind lately.”

“Well, and to be sure you had, and why wouldn’t you? ‘Tis no shame of you to be sad and down-hearted – an O’Donoghue of the ould stock – the best blood in Kerry, wandering about by himself, instead of being followed by a troop of servants, with a goold coat-of-arms worked on their coats, like your grandfather’s men – the heavens be his bed. Thirty-eight mounted men, armed, ay and well armed, were in the saddle after him, the day the English general came down here to see the troops that was quartered at Bantry.”

“No wonder we should go afoot now,” said Mark, bitterly.

“Well, well – it’s the will of God,” ejaculated Mary, piously, “and who knows what’s in store for you yet?”

“That’s the very thing I do be telling him,” said Lanty, who only waited for the right moment to chime in with the conversation. “There’s fine times coming.”