The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“I’ve a note here for Doctor Roach,” said a servant, in Sir Marmaduke’s livery, to Kerry, as he proceeded to close and lock the stable-door.

“I’m the person,” said the Doctor, taking the billet and breaking the seal. “Have you the carriage here now?” asked he, when he had finished reading.

“Yes, sir, it’s on the road. Sir Marmaduke desired me not to drive up, for fear of disturbing the sick gentleman.”

“I’m ready, then,” said the Doctor; “and never casting a look backward, nor vouchsafing another word, he passed out of the gate, and descended towards the high road.

“I’ll take good care of the baste till I see you, sir,” shouted Kerry after him; and then, as the distance widened, he added, “and may I never see your ould yallow wig agin, I pray this day. Divil take me, but I hope you’ve some of the slugs in ye, after all;” and with these pious wishes, expressed fervently, Kerry returned to the house, his heart considerably lightened by the Doctor’s departure.

Scarcely was he seated beside the kitchen fire – the asylum he regarded as his own – when, all fears for his misconduct and its consequences past, he began speculating in a very Irish fashion, on the reasons of the Doctor’s sudden departure.

“He’s off now to ‘the Lodge’ – devil fear him – faix if he gets in there, they’ll not get him out so asy – they’ll have a pain for every day of the week before he leaves them. Well, well, thanks be to God, he’s out of this.”

“Is he gone, Kerry?” said Mrs. Branagan. “Did he leave a ‘cure’ for Master Herbert before he went?”

“Sorra bit,” cried Kerry, as if a sudden thought struck him, “that’s what he didn’t!” and without hesitating another moment, he sprung from his chair, and mounted the stairs towards the parlour, where now the O’Donoghue, Mark, and Sir Archy were assembled at breakfast.

“He’s away, sir, he’s off again,” said Kerry, as though the nature of his tidings did not demand any more ceremonious preliminary.

“Who’s away? Who’s gone?” cried they all in breath.

“The Doctor, sir, Doctor Roach. There was a chap in a sky-blue livery came up with a bit of a letter for him to go down there, and when he read it, he just turned about, this way,” here Kerry performed a not over graceful pirouette, “and without saying by yer leave, he walks down the road and gets into the coach. ‘Won’t you see Master Herbert before you go, sir,’ says I; ‘sure you’re not leaving him that way?’ but bad luck to one word he’d say, but went away wid a grin on him.”

“What!” cried Mark, as his face crimsoned with passion. “Is this true? – are you sure of what you’re saying?”

“I’ll take the book an it,” said Kerry, solemnly.

“Well, Archy,” said the O’Donoghue, addressing his brother-in-law. “You are a good judge of these matters. Is this conduct on the part of our neighbour suitable or becoming? Was it exactly right and proper to send here for one, whose services we had taken the trouble to seek, and might much have needed besides? Should we not have been consulted, think you?”

“There’s not a poor farmer in the glen would not resent it!” cried Mark, passionately.

“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” said Sir Archy, cautiously, “we hae na heard a’ the tale yet. Roach may perhaps explain.”

“He had better not come here, to do so,” interrupted Mark, as he strode the room in passion; “he has a taste for hasty departures, and, by G – , I’ll help him to one; for out of that window he goes, as sure as my name is Mark.”

“‘Tis the way to serve him, divil a doubt,” chimed in Kerry, who was not sorry to think how agreeably he might thus be relieved from any legal difficulties.

“I am no seeking to excuse the man,” said Sir Archy, temperately. “It’s weel kenned we hae na muckle love for ane anither; but fair play is bonnie play.”

“I never heard a mean action yet, but there was a Scotch adage to warrant it,” muttered Mark, in a whisper inaudible by the rest.

“Its no’ improbable but that Sir Marmaduke Travers did ask if the Doctor could be spared, and it’s no’ impossible, either, that Roach took the answering the question in his ain hands.”

“I don’t think so,” broke in Mark; “the whole thing bears a different aspect. It smacks of English courtesy to an Irish kern.”

“By Jove, Mark is right,” said the O’Donoghue, whose prejudices, strengthened by poverty, too readily chimed in with any suspicion of intended insult.

“They were not long learning the game,” said Mark, bitterly; “they are, if I remember aright, scarce two months in the country, and, see, they treat us as ‘mere Irish’ already.

“Ye’r ower hasty, Mark. I hae na muckle respect for Roach, nor wad I vouch for his good breeding; but a gentleman, as this Sir Marmaduke’s note bespeaks him – .”

“What note? I never heard of it.”

“Oh! it was a polite kind of message, Mark, to say he would be obliged if I permitted him to pay his respects here. I forget to tell you of it.”

“Does the enemy desire a peep at the fortress, that he may calculate how long we can hold out?” said the youth, sternly.

“Begorra, with the boys from Ballyvourney and Inchigeela, we’ll howld the place agin the English army,” said Kerry, mistaking the figurative meaning of the speech; and he rubbed his hands with delight at the bare prospect of such a consummation.

Sir Archy turned an angry look towards him, and motioned with his hand for him to leave the room. Kerry closed the door after him, and for some minutes the silence was unbroken.

“What does it matter after all?” said the O’Donoghue, with a sigh. “It is a mere folly to care for these things, now. When the garment is worn and threadbare, one need scarce fret that the lace is a little tarnished.”

“True, sir, quite true; but you are not bound to forget or forgive him, who would strip it rudely off, even a day or an hour before its time.”

“There is na muckle good in drawing inferences from imaginary evils. Shadows are a’ bad enough; but they needna hae children and grandchildren; and so I’ll even take a cup o’ tea to the callant;” and thus, wise in practice and precept, Sir Archibald left the room, while O’Donoghue and Mark, already wearied of the theme, ceased to discuss it further.

CHAPTER XV. SOME OF THE PLEASURES OF PROPERTY

In the small, but most comfortable apartment of the Lodge, which in virtue of its book-shelves and smartly bound volumes was termed “the Study,” sat Sir Marmaduke Travers. Before him was a table covered with writing materials, books, pamphlets, prints, and drawings; his great arm-chair was the very ideal of lounging luxury, and in the soft carpet his slippered feet were almost hidden. Through the window at his right hand, an alley in the beech-wood opened a view of mountain scenery, it would have been difficult to equal in any country of Europe. In a word, it was a very charming little chamber, and might have excited the covetousness of those whose minds must minister to their maintenance, and who rarely pursue their toilsome task, save debarred from every sound and sight that might foster imagination. How almost invariably is this the case! Who has not seen, a hundred times over, some perfect little room, every detail of whose economy seemed devised to sweeten the labour of the mind, teeming with its many appliances for enjoyment, yet encouraging thought more certainly than ministering to luxury – with its cabinet pictures, its carvings, its antique armour, suggestive in turn of some passage in history, or some page in fiction; – who has not seen these devoted to the half hour lounge over a newspaper, or the tiresome examination of house expenditure with the steward, while he, whose mental flights were soaring midway ‘twixt earth and heaven, looked out from some gloomy and cobwebbed pane upon a forest of chimneys, surrounded by all the evils of poverty, and tortured by the daily conflict with necessity.

Here sat Sir Marmaduke, a great volume like a ledger open before him, in which, from time to time, he employed himself in making short memoranda. Directly in front of him stood, in an attitude of respectful attention, a man of about five-and-forty years of age, who, although dressed in an humble garb, had yet a look of something above the common; his features were homely, but intelligent, and though a quick sharp glance shot from his grey eye when he spoke, yet in his soft, smooth voice the words came forth with a measured calm, that served to indicate a patient and gentle disposition. His frame betokened strength, while his face was pale and colourless, and without the other indications of active health in his gait and walk, would have implied a delicacy of constitution. This was Sam Wylie the sub-agent – one whose history may be told in a few words: – His father had been a butler in the O’Donoghue house, where he died, leaving his son, a mere child, as a legacy to his master. The boy, however, did not turn out well; delinquencies of various kinds – theft among the number – were discovered against him; and after many, but ineffectual efforts, to reclaim him, he was turned off, and advised, as he wished to escape worse, to leave the county. He took the counsel, and did so; nor for many a year after was he seen or heard of. A report ran that he passed fourteen years in transportation; but however that might be, when he next appeared in Kerry, it was in the train of a civil engineer, come to make surveys of the county. His cleverness and skill in this occupation recommended him to the notice of Hemsworth, who soon after appointed him as bailiff, and, subsequently, sub-agent on the estate; and in this capacity he had now served about fifteen years, to the perfect satisfaction, and with the full confidence of his chief. Of his “antecedents,” Sir Marmaduke knew nothing; he was only aware of the implicit trust Hemsworth had in him, and his own brief experience perfectly concurred in the justice of the opinion. He certainly found him intelligent, and thoroughly well-informed on all connected with the property. When questioned, his answers were prompt, direct, and to the purpose; and to one of Sir Marmaduke’s business habits, this quality possessed merit of the highest order. If he had a fault with him, it was one he could readily pardon – a leniency towards the people – a desire to palliate their errors and extenuate their failings – and always to promise well for the future, even when the present looked least auspicious. His hearty concurrence with all the old baronet’s plans for improvement were also highly in his favour; and already Wylie was looked on as “a very acute fellow, and with really wonderful shrewdness for his station;” as if any of that acuteness or that shrewdness, so estimated, could have its growth in a more prolific soil, than in the heart and mind of one bred and reared among the people; who knew their habits, their tone of thinking, their manners, and their motives – not through any false medium of speculation and theory, but practically, innately, instinctively – who had not studied the peasantry like an algebraic formula, or a problem iu Euclid, but read them, as they sat beside their turf fires, in the smoke of their mud hovels, cowering from the cold of winter, and gathering around the scanty meal of potatoes – the only tribute they had not rendered to the landlord.

“Roger Sweeny,” said Sir Marmaduke – “Roger Sweeny complains of his distance from the bog; he cannot draw his turf so easily, as when he lived on that swamp below the lake; but I think the change ought to recompense him for the inconvenience.”

“He’s a Ballyvourney man, your honour,” said Sam, placidly, “and if you couldn’t bring the turf up to his door, and cut it for him, and stack it, and carry a creel of it inside, to make the fire, he’d not be content.”

“Oh, that’s it – is it?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting an explanation he was far from thoroughly understanding. “Then here’s Jack Heffernan – what does this fellow mean by saying that a Berkshire pig is no good?”

“He only means, your honour, that he’s too good for the place, and wants better food than the rest of the family.”

“The man’s a fool, and must learn better. Lord Mudford told me that he never saw such an excellent breed, and his swine-herd is one of the most experienced fellows in England. Widow Mul – Mul – what?” said he, endeavouring to spell an unusually long name in the book before him – “Mulla – ”

“Mullahedert, your honour,” slipped in Wylie, “a very dacent crayture.”

“Then why won’t she keep those bee-hives; can’t she see what an excellent thing honey is in a house – if one of her children was sick, for instance?”

“True for you, sir,” said Sam, without the slightest change of feature. “It is wonderful how your honour can have the mind to think of these things – upon my word, it’s surprising.”

“Samuel M’Elroy refuses to drain the field – does he?”

“No, sir; but he says the praties isn’t worth digging out of dry ground, nor never does grow to any size. He’s a Ballyvourney man, too, sir.”

“Oh, is he?” said Sir Marmaduke, accepting this as a receipt in full for any degree of eccentricity.

“Shamus M’Gillicuddy – heavens what a name! This Shamus appears a very desperate fellow; he beat a man the other evening, coming back from the market.”

“It was only a neighbour, sir; they live fornint each other.”