The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“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.

“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.