The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Mary stared at the speaker with the eager look of one who wished to derive a meaning deeper than the mere words seemed to convey, and then, checking her curiosity at a gesture from Lanty, she set about arranging the supper, which only awaited his arrival.

Mark ate but little of the fare before him, though Mary’s cookery was not without its temptations; but of the wine – and it was strong Burgundy – he drank freely. Goblet after goblet he drained with that craving desire to allay a thirst, which is rather the symptom of a mind fevered by passion than by malady. Still, as he drank, no sign of intoxication appeared; on the contrary, his words evinced a tone of but deeper resolution, and a more settled purpose than at first, when he told how he had promised never to leave his father, although all his hopes pointed to the glorious career a foreign service would open before him.

“It was a good vow you made, and may the saints enable you to keep it,” said Mary.

“And for the matter of glory, maybe there’s some to be got nearer home, and without travelling to look for it,” interposed Lanty.

“What do you mean?” said Mark, eagerly.

“Fill your glass. Take the big one, for it’s a toast I’m going to give you – are you ready? Here now, then – drink —

A stout heart and mind,And an easterly wind,And the Devil behind The Saxon.”

Mark repeated the doggerel as well as he was able, and pledged the only sentiment he could divine, that of the latter part, with all his enthusiasm.

“You may tell him what you plaze, now,” whispered Mary in Lanty’s ear; for her ready wit perceived that his blood was warmed by the wine, and his heart open for any communication.

Lanty hesitated but a second, then drawing his chair close to Mark’s, he said —

“I’m going now to put my life in your hands, but I can’t help it. When Ireland is about to strike for liberty, it is not an O’Donoghue should be last in the ranks. Swear to me you’ll never mention again what I’ll tell you – swear it on the book.” Mary, at the same moment, placed in his hand a breviary, with a gilt cross on the binding, which Mark took reverently, and kissed twice. “That’s enough – your word would do me, but I must obey them that’s over me;” and so saying, Lanty at once proceeded to lay before the astonished mind of young O’Donoghue, the plan of France for an invasion of Ireland – not vaguely nor imperfectly, not in the mere language of rumour or chance allusion, but with such aids to circumstance and time, as gave him the appearance of one conversant with what he spoke on. The restoration of Irish independence – the resumption of forfeited estates – the return of the real nobility of the land to their long-lost-position of eminence and influence, were themes he descanted upon with consummate skill, bringing home each fact to the actual effect such changes would work in the youth’s own condition, who, no longer degraded to the rank of a mere peasant, would once again assert his own rightful station, and stand forth at the head of his vast property – the heir of an honoured name and house. Lanty knew well, and more too, implicitly believed in all the plausible pretension of French sympathy for Irish suffering, which formed the cant of the day. He had often heard the arguments in favour of the success of such an expedition – in fact, the reasons for which its failure was deemed impossible. These he repeated fluently, giving to his narrative the semblance of an incontestible statement, and then he told him that from Brest to Dublin was “fifty hours’ sail, with a fair wind” – that same “easterly breeze,” the toast alluded to, that the French could throw thirty, nay, fifty thousand troops into Ireland, yet never weaken their own army to any extent worth speaking of – that England was distracted by party spirit, impoverished by debt, and totally unable to repel invasion, and, in fact, that if Ireland would be but “true to herself,” her success was assured.

He told, too, how Irishmen were banded together in a sworn union to assert the independence of their country, and that such as held back. or were reluctant in the cause, would meet the fate of enemies. On the extent and completeness of the organization, he dwelt with a proud satisfaction, but when he spoke of large masses of men trained to move and act together, Mark suddenly interrupted him, saying —

“Yes, I have seen them. It’s not a week since some hundreds marched through this glen at midnight.”

“Ay, that was Holt’s party,” said Mary, composedly; “and fine men they are.”

“They were unarmed,” said Mark.

“If they were, it is because the general didn’t want their weapons.”

“There’s arms enough to be had when the time comes for using them,” broke in Mary.

“Wouldn’t you show him – ” and Lanty hesitated to conclude a speech, the imprudence of which he was already aware of.

“Ay will I,” said Mary. “I never mistrusted one of his name;” and with that, she rose from the fire-side, and took a candle in her hand, “Come here a minute, Master Mark.” Unlocking a small door in the back wall of the cabin, she entered a narrow passage which led to the stable, but off which, a narrow door, scarcely distinguishable from the wall, conducted into a spacious vault, excavated in the solid rock. Here were a vast number of packing-oases, and boxes, piled on each other, from floor to roof, together, with hogsheads and casks of every shape and size. Some of the boxes had been opened, and the lids laid loosely over them. Removing one of these, Mary pointed to the contents, as she said —

“There they are – French muskets and carabines. There’s pistols in that case; and all them, over there, is swords and cutlasses. ‘Tis pike-heads that’s in the other corner; and the casks has saddles and holsters and them kind of things.”

Mark stooped down and took up one of the muskets. It was a light and handy weapon, and bore on its stock the words – “Armée de la Sambre et Meuse” – for none of the weapons were new.

“These are all French,” said he, after a brief pause.

“Every one of them,” replied Mary, proudly; “and there’s more coming from the same place.”

“And why can we not fight our own battles, without aid from France?” said Mark, boldly. “If we really are worthy of independence, are we not able to win it?”

“Because there’s traitors among us,” said Mary – replying before Lanty could interpose – “because there’s traitors that would turn again us if we were not sure of victory; but when they see we have the strong hand, as well as the good cause, they’ll be sure to stand on the safe side.”

“I don’t care for that,” said Mark. “I want no such allies as these. I say, if we deserve our liberty, we ought to be strong enough to take it.”

“There’s many think the same way as yourself,” said Lanty, quietly. “I heard the very words you said from one of the delegates last week. But I don’t see any harm in getting help from a friend when the odds is against you.”

“But I do; and great harm too. What’s the price of the assistance? – tell me that.”

“Oh, make your mind easy on that score. The French hate the English, whether they love us or no.”

“And why wouldn’t they love us,” said Mary, half angry at such a supposition, “and we all Catholics? Don’t we both belong to the ould ancient church? and didn’t we swear to destroy the heretics wherever we’d find them? Ay, and we will, too!”

“I’m with you, whatever come of it,” said Mark, after a few seconds of thought. “I’m with you; and if the rest have as little to live for, trust me, they’ll not be pleasant adversaries.”

Overjoyed at this bold avowal, which consummated the success they desired, they led Mark back into the cabin, and pledged, in a bumper, the “raal O’Donoghue.”

CHAPTER XXI. THE RETURN OF THE ENVOY

Sir Marmaduke Travers and his daughter had passed a morning of great uneasiness at the delay in Frederic’s return. Noon came, and yet no appearance of him. They wandered along the road, hoping to meet him, and at last turned homeward with the intention of despatching a servant towards Carrig-na-curra, fearing lest he should have missed his way. This determination, however, they abandoned, on being told by a countryman, that he had seen the horse young Travers rode still standing at the gate of the “castle.”

A feeling of curiosity to hear his son’s account of the O’Donoghues, mingled with the old man’s excitement at his absence; and, as the day declined, and still no sign of his return, he walked every now and then to the door, and looked anxiously along the road by which he expected his approach. Sybella, too, was not without her fears, and though vague and undefined, she dreaded a possible collision between the hot-blood of Mark and her brother. The evening of her first arrival was ever present to her mind; and she often thought of what might have then occurred, had Frederic been present.

They had wearied themselves with every mode of accounting for his delay, guessed at every possible cause of detention, and were at length on the point of sending a messenger in search of him, when they heard the tramp of a horse coming, not along the high road, but, as it seemed, over the fields in front of them. A few minutes more of anxious expectancy, and Frederic, with his horse splashed and panting, alighted beside them.

“Well, you certainly have a very pretty eye for a country, father,” said he, gaily. “That same line you advised, has got three as rasping fences as I should like to meet with.”

“What do you mean, boy?” said Sir Marmaduke, as much puzzled at the speech as the reader himself may feel.

“Simply, sir, that though the cob is a capital horse, and has a great jump in him, that I’d rather have day-light for that kind of thing; and I really believe the ragged fellow you sent for me, chose the stiffest places. I saw the rascal grinning when I was coming up to the mill-stream.”

“Messenger! – ragged fellow! The boy is dreaming.”

“My dear Frederic, we sent no messenger. We were, indeed, very anxious at your delay, but we did not despatch any one to meet you.”

Frederic stared at both the speakers, and then repeated, in astonishment, the last words – “Sent no messenger!” but when they once more assured him of the fact, he gave the following account of his return: —

“It was very late when I left the castle. I delayed there the whole day; but scarcely had I reached the high-road, when a wild-looking fellow, with a great pole in his hand, came up to me, and cried out,

“‘Are you for the Lodge?’ ‘Yes,’ said he, answering himself, ‘you are her brother. I’m sent over to tell you, not to go back by the road, for the bridge is down; but you’re to come over the fields, and I’ll show you the way.’”

“Supposing the fellow was what he assumed to be – your messenger, I followed him; and, by George, it was no joking matter; for he leaped like a deer, and seemed to take uncommon pleasure in pitting himself against the cob. I should have given up the contest, I confess, but that the knave had me in his power. For, when it grew dark, I knew not which way to head, until, at length, he shouted out —

“‘There’s the Lodge now, where you see the light.’ And after that, what became of himself I cannot tell you.”

“It was Terry, poor Terry,” cried Sybella.

“Yes, it must have been Terry,” echoed her father. “And is this Terry retained to play Will-o’-the-Wisp?” asked Fred; “or is it a piece of amateurship?”

But both Sir Marmaduke and Sybella were too deeply engaged in canvassing the motive for this strange act, to pay due attention to his question.

As Frederic was but little interested in his guide, nor mindful of what became of him, they were not able to obtain any clue from him as to what road he took; nor what chance there was of overtaking him.

“So then this was a piece of ‘politesse,’ for which I am indebted to your friend Terry’s own devising,” said Fred, half angrily. “The fellow had better keep out of my way in future.”

“You will not harm him, Fred, you never could, when I tell you of his gallant conduct here.”

“My sweet sister, I am really wearied of this eternal theme – I have heard of nothing but heroism since my arrival. Once for all, I concede the matter, and am willing to believe of the Irish, as of the family of Bayard, that all the men are brave – and all the women virtuous. And now, let us to dinner.”

“You have told us nothing of your visit to the enchanted castle, Fred,” said his sister, when the servants had withdrawn, and they were once more alone; “and I am all impatience to hear of your adventures there.”

“I confess, too,” said Sir Marmaduke, “I am not devoid of curiosity on the subject – let us hear it all.”

“I have little to recount,” said Frederic, with some hesitation in his manner; “I neither saw the O’Donoghue, as they call him, nor his brother-in-law – the one was in bed, the other had gone to visit some sick person on the mountain. But I made acquaintance with your prieux-chevalier, Sybella: a fine-looking young fellow, even now wasted with sickness; he was there with an elder brother, an insolent kind of personage – half peasant, all bully.”

“He was not wanting in proper respect to you” said Sir Marmaduke. “I trust, Mark, he was aware of who you were?”

“Faith, sir, I fancy he cared very little on the subject; and had I been a much more important individual, he would have treated me in the same way – a way, to say the least of it, not over-burthened with courtesy.”

“Had you any words together, boy?” said Sir Marmaduke, with an evident anxiety in his look and voice.

“A mere interchange of greeting,” replied Fred, laughing, “in which each party showed his teeth, but did not bite withal. I unhappily mistook him for a game-keeper – and worse still, told him so, and he felt proportionably angry at the imputation – preferring, probably, to be thought a poacher. He is a rude coarse fellow,” said he with a changed voice, “with pride to be a gentleman – but not breeding nor manner to enact the character.”

“The visit was, after all, not an agreeable one,” said Miss Travers, “and I am only surprised how you came to prolong it. You spent the whole day there.”

Although there was not the slightest degree of suspicion insinuated by this remark, Fred stole a quick glance at his sister, to see if she really intended more than the mere words implied. Then, satisfied that she had not, he said in a careless way —

“Oh, the weather broke; it came on a heavy snow-storm; and as the younger brother pressed me to remain, and I had no fancy to face the hurricane, I sat down to a game of chess.”

“Chess! Indeed, Fred, that sounds very humanizing. And how did he play?”

“It was not with him I played,” answered he, hesitatingly.

“What – with the elder?”

“No, nor him either; my antagonist was a cousin – I think they called her cousin.”

“Called her,” said Sybella, slyly. “So then, Master Fred, there was a lady in the case. Well, we certainly have been a long while coming to her.”

“Yes, she has lately arrived – a day or two ago – from some convent in the Low Countries, where she has lived since she was a child.”

“A strange home for her,” interposed Sir Marmaduke. “If I do not misconceive them greatly, they must be very unsuitable associates for a young lady educated in a French convent.”

“So you would say, if you saw her,” said Fred, seizing with avidity at the opening, then offered, to coincide with an opinion he was half afraid to broach. “She is perfectly foreign in look, dress, and demeanour – with all the mannerism of Paris life, graceful and pleasing in her address; and they, at least one of them, a downright boor – the other, giving him credit for good looks and good nature, yet immeasurably her inferior in every respect.”

“Is she pretty, Frederic?” said Sybella, not lifting her eyes from her work as she spoke.

“I should say pretty,” replied he, with hesitation, as if qualifying his praise by a word which did not imply too much. “I prefer a quieter style of beauty, for my own part; less dazzle, less sparkling effect; something to see every day, and to like the better the more one sees it” – and he placed his arm around his sister’s waist, and gazed at her as if to give the interpretation to his speech.

“You have made me quite curious to see her, Fred,” said Sybella. “The very fact of finding one like her in such a place has its interest.”

“What if you were to visit her, my dear?” said Sir Marmaduke; “the attention would only be a proper one; you have books and music, here, besides, which she might be glad to have in a region so remote as this.”

Frederic never spoke a word, but anxiously awaited his sister’s answer.

“I should like it greatly; what says Fred to the notion?”

“I see nothing against it,” replied he, with a well-affected indifference. “She is a most lady-like person; and, if it be your intention to pass a few weeks longer in this solitude, would be of infinite value for companionship.”

“A few weeks longer! – I shall remain till Christmas, boy,” said his father, with determination. “I have taken a fancy to Ireland; and my intention is to go up to Dublin for a few months in winter, and return here in the spring.”

This was at once approaching the very subject which Frederic had journeyed to determine; but, whether it was that the time seemed unfavourable, or that his own ideas in the matter had undergone some modification since his arrival, he contented himself with simply a doubtful shake of the head, as if distrusting Sir Marmaduke’s firmness, and did not endeavour to oppose his determination by a single argument of any kind. On the contrary, he listened with patience, and even seeming interest to his father’s detailed account of his project – how he had already given orders to secure a house in Stephen’s-green for the winter, intending to make acquaintances with the gentry of the capital, and present himself and his daughter at the viceregal court.

“Sybella may as well make her debut in society here as in London,” said Sir Marmaduke. “Indeed I am not sure but the provincial boards are the best for a first appearance. In any case, such is the line I have laid down for myself; and if it only secured me against a sea voyage to England in such a season, I shall be amply repaid for my resolve.”

Against the season of his return, too, Sir Marmaduke hoped to make such additions to the Lodge as should render it more comfortable as a residence; various plans for which were heaped upon the library table, and littered the chairs about the room.

Miss Travers had already given her hearty concurrence to all her father’s schemes, and seconded, most ably, every one of his views by such arguments as she was possessed of; so that Frederic, even if disposed to record his opposition, saw that the present was not an opportune moment; and prudently reserved for another time, what, if unsuccessful now, could never be recurred to with advantage.

The conversation on these topics lasted long. They discussed with interest every detail of their plans; for so it is – the pleasures of castle building are inexhaustible, and the very happiest realities of life are poor and vague, compared with the resources provided by our hopes and fancies. The slightest grounds of probability are enough to form a foundation – but there is no limit to the superstructure we raise above.

In the indulgence of this view, they continued to chat till a late hour, and parted for the night in high good humour with each other – a visit to the O’Donoghue being the plan for the succeeding day’s accomplishment.

CHAPTER XXII. A MORNING VISIT

On the afternoon of the following day, Sir Marmaduke, accompanied by his son and daughter, bent their steps towards the castle of the O’Donoghue. The day was a fine and bright one, with a blue sky above, and a hard frosty surface on the earth beneath, and made walking as pleasant as open air and exercise can render it. The carriage was ordered to meet them on their return; less, indeed, on account of the distance, than that the shortness of the day made the precaution reasonable.

Chatting agreeably, on they went. The time slipped rapidly away. Now, adverting to the bold and majestic scenery around them – now, speaking of the people, their habits, their prejudices, and their leanings, or anon discussing the O’Donoghue family, which, of all the puzzling themes the land presented, was certainly not the least embarrassing to them.

“We must think of some means of evincing our gratitude to this boy, Fred,” said Sir Marmaduke, in a whisper. “You appear to have found the matter more difficult than you anticipated.”

“Very true, sir. In the early part of my visit, it was rendered impossible, by the interruption of the elder brother; and, in the latter part, somehow, I believe, I – I actually begin to fear, I forgot it altogether. However, I have thought of one thing; and it should be done without a moment’s loss of time. You must write to Carden, the law agent, and stop any proceedings Hemsworth may have begun against these people. It would be most disgraceful to think that, while professing sentiments of good feeling and friendliness, we were using the arm of the law to harass and distress them.”

“I’ll do it at once, Fred – by this night’s post. In truth, I never understood the point at issue between us; nor can I clearly see Hemsworth’s reason for the summary course he has taken with them. There must be more in it than I know of.”

“The castle stands proudly, as seen from this point,” said Sybella, who felt somewhat wearied of a conversation maintained in a voice too low for her to hear; and the remark had the effect of recalling them to other thoughts, in discussing which, they arrived at the old keep of Carrig-na-curra.

Whether recent events had sharpened Kerry O’Leary to a more acute sense of his duties as butler, or that Kate O’Donoghue had exerted some influence in bringing about so desirable an object, we know not; but at the very first summons of the hall-door bell, he made his appearance, his ordinary costume being augmented, if not improved, by a pair of very un-weldy top-boots of his master’s, which reached somewhere to the middle of the thigh, and were there met by a green velvet waistcoat, from the same wardrobe, equally too large and voluminous for its present owner.

Visitors at the O’Donoghue house were generally of a character which Kerry felt necessary to close the door against. They unhappily came, not with the ceremonial of a visiting card, but with some formidable missive of the law, in the shape of a distress warrant – a latitat – or that meeker and less-dreaded engine, a protested bill. It was, then, with a considerable relief to his anxieties, that his eye caught the flutter of a lady’s dress, as he peeped from the small casement beside the door, and his heart expanded in a little thanksgiving of its own, as he unbarred the portal to admit her.

Having informed his visitors that the family were at home, he preceded them to the drawing-room, with a step, the noise of which happily drowned the tittering it was impossible to subdue, at beholding him. To prevent the awkwardness which Sir Marmaduke foresaw might arise, from the blundering announcement Kerry would inevitably make of their names, he having repeated over and over as he went along, by way of refreshing his memory, “Sir Marmaduke, Sir Marmaduke Travers,” the old gentleman stepped forward as the door opened, and presented himself by name, introducing his daughter at the same time.

The O’Donoghue, seated in his chair, half rose, for it was one of his gouty days, and he could not stir without great difficulty, and with an air and voice which bespoke the gentleman, welcomed his guests.

Herbert’s eyes gleamed with delight as he gazed on the party; and Sir Archibald, bowing with an ancient grace that would have suited a courtier of a century previous, presented chairs to each, going through the ceremonial of a new obeisance to every one of the group. Kate O’Donoghue was not in the room, nor Mark – the latter, indeed, had not returned to the castle since the day previous.

The ordinary greetings over, and Sir Marmaduke having expressed, in well-chosen phrase, the gratitude he had so long laboured to acquit, the conversation became easy and agreeable. Sir Marmaduke, seating himself next O’Donoghue, had entered into a discussion of the state of the country and the people – Frederic, beside Herbert’s chair, was conversing with the boy by lively sallies and pleasant stories, that flowed the more rapidly as the listener was an eager one; while Sir Archibald, standing in an attitude of respectful attention, had engaged Miss Travers in a conversation about the glen and its scenery, to which his own correct taste and thorough appreciation of the picturesque, gave a charm and piquancy that already interested her deeply. So naturally easy and unaffected was the tone of their reception, that all astonishment at finding their host so superior to their anticipation, was merged in the pleasure that Travers felt in the interview. The good-tempered heartiness of the O’Donoghue himself – his frank speech, his ready humour, won each moment more and more on Sir Marmaduke. Frederic, too, never grew wearied of the fresh and joyous spirit which gleamed out at every look and word from Herbert, whose ardent temperament and high-hearted nature caught up the enthusiasm of a spirit like his own; and, as for Sybella, the charm of Sir Archy’s manner, whose perfection was its adaptation to the society of ladies, delighted her greatly, and she soon forgot any slight inclination to smile at the precision of language, where deep sound sense and high feeling were conveyed, with only the fault of pedantry. While thus agreeably engaged on all sides, the door opened, and Kate entered, but so noiselessly withal, that she was in the midst of the party, before they knew of her approach. Recognising Frederic Travers with a gracious smile, she received Sir Marmaduke’s salutation with a deep courtesy, and then, as if similarity of years required a less ceremonious introduction, took her seat beside Miss Travers, with an air of mingled kindness and cordiality she so well knew how to assume. As in an orchestra, amid the swell of many instruments, where deep-toned thunders mingle with sounds of softer influence, some one strain will rise, from time to time, suggestive of feelings apart from the rest, with higher and nobler sympathies around it, so did her voice, heard among the others, sound thus sweetly. Her words came winged with a fine expression, which look and gesture could alone give them – and in the changing colour of her cheek, her brilliant brow, her lips, even in silence eloquent, there was a character of loveliness as much above mere beauty, as life transcends the marble. The more perfect regularity of Sybella’s features – their classic outline – their chaste correctness in every line and lineament – seemed cold and inanimate when contrasted with the more expressive loveliness of Kate O’Donoghue. The fearless character of her mind, too, was blended with so much of womanly delicacy and refinement – the wish to please, so associated with a seeming forgetfulness of self, that every act and every gesture teemed with a charm of interest, for which there is no word, save “fascination;” even that slightly foreign accent, of which we have already spoken, served to individualize all she said, and left it graven on the heart long after the words were spoken.