The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Wylie again whispered something, and again telegraphed to the applicant to move off; but the little man stood his ground and continued. “‘Twas a heifer you gave Tom Lenahan, and it’s a dhroll day, the M’Garrey’s warn’t as good as the Lenahans, to say we’d have nothing but bees, and them was to get a dacent baste!”

“Stand aside, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke; “Wylie has got my orders about you. Who is this?”

“Faix, me, sir – Andrew Maher. I’m come to give your honour the key – I couldn’t stop there any longer.”

“What! not stay in that comfortable house, with the neat shop I had built and stocked for you? What does this mean?”

“‘Tis just that, then, your honour – the house is a nate little place, and barrin’ the damp, and the little grate, that won’t burn turf at all, one might do well enough in it; but the shop is the divil entirely.”

“How so – what’s wrong about it?”

“Every thing’s wrong about it. First and foremost, your honour, the neighbours has no money; and though they might do mighty well for want of tobacco, and spirits, and bohea, and candles, and soap, and them trifles, as long as they never came near them, throth they couldn’t have them there fornint their noses, without wishing for a taste; and so one comes in for a pound of sugar, and another wants a ha’ porth of nails, or a piece of naygar-head, or an ounce of starch – and divil a word they have, but ‘put it in the book, Andy.’ By my conscience, it’s a quare book would hould it all.”

“But they’ll pay in time – they’ll pay when they sell the crops.”

“Bother! I ax yer honour’s pardon – I was manin’ they’d see me far enough first. Sure, when they go to market, they’ll have the rint, and the tithe, and the taxes; and when that’s done, and they get a sack of seed potatoes for next year, I’d like to know where’s the money that’s to come to me?”

“Is this true, Wylie? – are they as poor as this?” asked Sir Marmaduke.

Wylie’s answer was still a whispered one.

“Well,” said Andy, with a sigh, “there’s the key any way. I’d rather be tachin’ the gaffers again, than be keeping the same shop.”

These complaints were followed by others, differing in kind and complexion, but all, agreeing in the violence with which they were urged, and all, inveighing against “the improvements” Sir Marmaduke was so interested in carrying forward. To hear them, you would suppose that the grievances suggested by poverty and want, were more in unison with comfort and enjoyment, than all the appliances wealth can bestow: and that the privations to which habit has inured us, are sources of greater happiness, than we often feel in the use of unrestricted liberty.

Far from finding any contented, Sir Marmaduke only saw a few among the number, willing to endure his bounties, as the means of obtaining other concessions they desired more ardently. They would keep their cabins clean, if any thing was to be made by it: they’d weed their potatoes, if Sir Marmaduke would only offer a price for the weeds. In fact, they were ready to engage in any arduous pursuit of cleanliness, decency, and propriety, but it must be for a consideration. Otherwise, they saw no reason for encountering labour, which brought no requital; and the real benefits offered to them, came so often associated with newfangled and absurd innovations, that, both became involved in the same disgrace, and both sunk in the same ridicule together. These were the refuse of the tenantry; for we have seen that the independent feeling of the better class held them aloof from all the schemes of “improvement,” which the others, by participating in, contaminated.

Sir Marmaduke might, then, be pardoned, if he felt some sinking of the heart at his failure; and, although encouraged by his daughter to persevere in his plan to the end, more than once he was on the brink of abandoning the field in discomfiture, and confessing that the game was above his skill. Had he but taken one-half the pains to learn something of national character, that he bestowed on his absurd efforts to fashion it to his liking, his success might have been different. He would, at least, have known how to distinguish between the really deserving, and the unworthy recipients of his bounty – between the honest and independent peasant, earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, and the miserable dependant, only seeking a life of indolence, at any sacrifice of truth or character; and even this knowledge, small as it may seem, will go far in appreciating the difficulties which attend all attempts at Irish social improvement, and explain much of the success or failure observable in different parts of the country. But Sir Marmaduke fell into the invariable error of his countrymen – he first suffered himself to be led captive, by “blarney,” and when heartily sick of the deceitfulness and trickery of those who employed it, coolly sat down with the conviction, that there was no truth in the land.

CHAPTER XVI. THE FOREIGN LETTER

The arrival of a post-letter at the O’Donoghue house was an occurrence of sufficient rarity to create some excitement in the household; and many a surmise, as to what new misfortune hung over the family, was hazarded between Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O’Leary, as the latter poised and balanced the epistle in his hand, as though its weight and form might assist him in his divination.

After having conned over all the different legal processes which he deemed might be conveyed in such a shape, and conjured up in his imagination a whole army of sheriffs, sub-sheriffs, bailiffs, and drivers, of which the ominous letter should prove the forerunner, he heaved a heavy sigh at the gloomy future his forebodings had created, and slowly ascended towards his master’s bed-room.

“How is Herbert?” said the O’Donoghue, as he heard the footsteps beside his bed, for he had been dreaming of the boy a few minutes previous. “Who is that? Ah! Kerry. Well, how is he to-day?”

“Troth there’s no great change to spake of,” said Kerry, who, not having made any inquiry himself, and never expecting to have been questioned on the subject, preferred this safe line of reply, as he deemed it, to a confession of his ignorance.

“Did he sleep well, Kerry?”

“Oh! for the matter of the sleep we won’t boast of it. But here’s a letter for your honour, come by the post.”

“Leave it on the bed, and tell me about the boy.”

“Faix there’s nothing particular, then, to tell yer honour – sometimes he’d be one way, sometimes another – and more times the same way again. That’s the way he’d be all the night through.”

The O’Donoghue pondered for a second or two, endeavouring to frame some distinct notion from these scanty materials, and then said —

“Send Master Mark to me.” At the same instant he drew aside the curtain, and broke the seal of the letter. The first few lines, however, seemed to satisfy his curiosity, although the epistle was written in a close hand, and extended over three sides of the paper; and he threw it carelessly on the bed, and lay down again once more. During all this time, however, Kerry managed to remain in the room, and, while affecting to arrange clothes and furniture, keenly scrutinized the features of his master. It was of no use, however. The old man’s looks were as apathetic as usual, and he seemed already to have forgotten the missive Kerry had endowed with so many terrors and misfortunes.

“Herbert has passed a favourable night,” said Mark, entering a few moments after. “The fever seems to have left him, and, except for debility, I suppose there is little to ail him. What! – a letter! Who is this from?”

“From Kate,” said the old man listlessly. “I got as far as ‘My dear uncle;’ the remainder must await a better light, and, mayhap, sharper eyesight too – for the girl has picked up this new mode of scribbling, which is almost unintelligible to me.”

As the O’Donoghue was speaking, the young man had approached the window, and was busily perusing the letter. As he read, his face changed colour more than once. Breaking off, he said —

“You don’t know, then, what news we have here? More embarrassment – ay, by Jove, and a heavier one than even it seems at first sight. The French armies, it appears, are successful all over the Low Countries, and city after city falling into their possession; and so, the convents are breaking up, and the Sacré Cour, where Kate: is, has set free its inmates, who are returning to their friends. She comes here.”

“What! – here?” said the O’Donoghue, with some evidence of doubt at intelligence so strange and unexpected. “Why, Mark, my boy, that’s impossible – the house is a ruin; we haven’t a room; we have no servants, and have nothing like accommodation for the girl.”

“Listen to this, then,” said Mark, as he read from the letter: – “You may then conceive, my dear old papa – for I must call you the old name again, now that we are to meet – how happy I am to visit Carrig-na-curra once more. I persuade myself I remember the old beech wood in the glen, and the steep path beside the waterfall, and the wooden railings to guard against the precipice. Am I not right? And there’s an ash tree over the pool, lower down. Cousin Mark climbed it to pluck the berries for me, and fell in, too. There’s memory for you!”

“She’ll be puzzled to find the wood now,” said the O’Donoghue, with a sad attempt at a smile. “Go on, Mark.”

“It’s all the same kind of thing: she speaks of Molly Cooney’s cabin, and the red boat-house, and fifty things that are gone many a day ago. Strange enough, she remembers what I myself have long since forgotten. ‘How I long for my own little blue bed-room, that looked out on Keim-an-eigh P – ”

“There, Mark – don’t read any more, my lad. Poor dear Kate! – what would she think of the place now?”

“The thing is impossible,” said Mark, sternly; “the girl has got a hundred fancies and tastes, unsuited to our rude life; her French habits would ill agree with our barbarism. You must write to your cousin – that old Mrs. Bedingfield – if that’s her name. She must take her for the present, at least; she offered it once before.”

“Yes,” said the old man, with an energy he had not used till now, “she did, and I refused. My poor brother detested that woman, and would never, had he lived, have entrusted his daughter to her care. If she likes it, the girl shall make this her home. My poor Harry’s child shall not ask twice for a shelter, while I have one to offer her.”

“Have you thought, sir, how long you may be able to extend the hospitality you speak of? Is this house now your own, that you can make a proffer of it to any one? – and if it were, is it here, within these damp, discoloured walls, with ruin without and within, that you’d desire a guest – and such a guest?”

“What do you mean, boy?”

“I mean what I say. The girl educated in the midst of luxury, pampered and flattered – we heard that from the Abbé – what a favourite she was there, and how naturally she assumed airs of command and superiority over the girls of her own age – truly, if penance were the object, the notion is not a bad one.”

“I say it again – this is her home. I grieve it should be so rude a one – but, I’ll never refuse to let her share it.”

“Nor would I,” muttered Mark, gloomily, “if it suited either her habits, or her tastes. Let her come, however; a week’s experience will do more to undeceive her than if we wrote letters for a twelvemonth.”

“You must write to her, Mark; you must tell her, that matters have not gone so well with us latterly – that she’ll see many changes here; but mind, you say how happy we are to receive her.”

“She can have her choice of blue bed-rooms, too – shall I say that?” said Mark, almost savagely. “The damp has given them the proper tinge for her fancy; and as to the view she speaks of, assuredly there is nothing to baulk it: the window has fallen out many a day ago, that looked on Keim-an-eigh.”

“How can you torture me this way, boy?” said the old man, with a look of imploring, to which his white hairs and aged features gave a most painful expression. But Mark turned away, and made no answer.

“My uncle,” said he, after a pause, “must answer this epistle. Letter-writing is no burthen to him. In fact, I believe, he rather likes it; so here goes to do him a favour. It is seldom the occasion presents itself.”

It was not often that Mark O’Donoghue paid a visit to Sir Archibald in his chamber; and the old man received him as he entered with all the show of courtesy he would have extended to a stranger – a piece of attention which was very far, indeed, from relieving Mark of any portion of his former embarrassment.

“I have brought you a letter, sir,” said he, almost ere he took his seat – “a letter which my father would thank you to reply to. It is from my cousin Kate, who is about to return to Ireland, and take up her abode here.”

“Ye dinna mean she’s coming here, to Carrig-na-curra?”

“It is even so! though I don’t wonder at your finding it hard of belief.”