The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“A child in years, love, she was; but a woman in grace, good sense, and accomplishments – in fact, so fortunate was my poor brother in his choice, he ever regarded the youthfulness of his wife as one of the reasons of that amiability of temper she possessed. Often have we talked of this together, and nothing could convince him to the contrary, as if, had the soil been unfruitful, the tares and the thistles had not been as abundant a crop as the good fruit really was. He acted on his conviction, however, Kate; for he determined, if ever he had a daughter, she should be of age at sixteen – the period of life her mother was married at. I endeavoured to dissuade him. I did my best to expose the dangers and difficulties of such a plan. Perhaps, dearest, I should have been less obstinate in argument, had I been prophetic enough to know what my niece would be; but it was all in vain. The idea had become a dominant one with him, and I was obliged to yield; and now, Kate, after the long lapse of years – for the conversation I allude to took place a great while ago – it is my lot to say, that my brother was right and I was wrong – that he foresaw, with a truer spirit, the events of the future than was permitted to me. You were of age two months since.”

The young girl listened with eager curiosity to every word that fell from her uncle’s lips, and seemed disappointed when he ceased to speak. To have gone thus far and no farther, did not satisfy her mind, and she waited with impatience for him to continue.

“I see my child,” said he gently, “you are not aware of the proceedings of coming of age; you have not heard, perhaps, that as your guardian, I hold in my hands the fortune your father bequeathed to you; it was his portion as a younger son, for, poor fellow, he had the family failing, and never could live within his income. Your ten thousand – he always called it yours – he never encroached upon – and that sum, at least, is secured to you.”

Although Kate knew that her uncle was her guardian, and had heard that some property would revert to her, what its amount was she had not the most remote idea of, nor that her power over it should commence so soon.

“I see uncle – I understand all you say,” said she, hurriedly; “I am of age, and the owner of ten thousand pounds.”

The tone of decision she employed, half terrified the O’Donoghue for the prudence of his communication, and he almost hesitated to answer her directly – “Yes, my child, it is a rent-charge – a – ”

“I care not for the name, sir; does it represent the value?”

“Unquestionably it does.”

“Take it, then, dearest uncle,” said she, flinging herself upon his neck, “take it and use it, so that it may bring some comfort to yourself, some ease of mind at least, and make your home a happier one. What need to think of the boys – Mark and Herbert are not of the mould that need fear failure, whatever path they follow; and, as for me, when you grow weary of me, the Sacré Cour will gladly take me back; indeed, they feel their work of conversion of me but very imperfectly executed,” added she, smiling, “and the dear nuns would be well pleased to finish their task.”

“Kate, my child, my own darling,” cried the old man, clasping her to his heart, “this may not, this cannot be.”

“It must, and it shall be, uncle,” said she, resolutely. “If my dear father’s will be not a nullity, I have power over my fortune.”

“But not to effect your ruin, Kate.”

“No, sir, nor shall I. Will my dear uncle love me less for the consciousness in my own heart, that I am doing right? Will he have a smile the less for me, that I can return it with an affection warmer from very happiness? I cannot believe this; nor can I think that you would render your brother’s daughter unworthy of her father. You would not refuse him.” Her lip trembled, and her eyes grew full, as she uttered the last few words in a voice, every word of which went to the old man’s heart.

“There is but one way, Kate.”

“What need of more, uncle; do we want a choice of roads, if we see a straight path before us?”

“Yes, dearest – but it will be said I should not have suffered you to do this – that in accepting a loan.”

“A loan!” uttered she, reproachfully.

“As that, or nothing, can I ever touch a farthing of it,” replied the O’Donoghue. “No, no! Distress and hardship have been a weary load this many a year; but all sense of honour is not yet obliterated in this poor heart.”

“Be it as you please, my dear, dear uncle,” said the affectionate girl; “only let it not cost you another painful thought, to rob me of so many happy ones. There now, we must never speak of this any more;” and, so saying, she kissed him twice, and rose from her chair. “We are going to the ‘Lodge’ to-morrow, to spend the day; Herbert is so well that he comes with us.”

“And Mark – what of him, dearest?”

“Mark will be none of us, sir. We are either too gay, or too frivolous, or too silly, or too something or other, for his solemn humour, and he only frowns and stares at us; but all that will pass away soon; I shall find out the key to his temper yet, and then, make him pay for all his arrears of sulkiness.”

“It is our changed condition, my love, that has made him thus,” said the father, anxious to excuse the young man’s morose habits.

“The poorer courage his, then,” replied the high-spirited girl, “I have no patience for a man who acts but the looking-glass to fortune – frowns when she frowns, and smiles when she smiles. No! Give me the temper that can enjoy the sunshine, and brave the storm – take all the good the world affords, and show a bold heart to resist the evil.”

“My own brother, my poor dear Mark, spoke there,” cried the old man, in an ecstacy, as, springing up, he flung his arms about her; “and that’s your philosophy, sweet Kate?”

“Even so; the stout heart to the stae brae, as Sir Archy would call it, and as he mutters every evening he has to climb the steep stair towards his bed-room. And now, good night, dear uncle – good night.”

With an affectionate greeting, the old man took his leave of her for the night, and sat down, in a frame of mingled happiness and shame, to think over what had passed.

The O’Donoghue was very far from feeling satisfied with himself for what he had done. Had Kate been at all difficult of persuasion – had she yielded to his arguments, or been convinced by any explanation of his views, he would soon have reconciled himself to the act, as one in which both parties concurred. Far from this – he saw that her only motive was affection; that she would listen to nothing save the promptings of her own warm heart; she would not let him even exculpate himself from the charge of his own conscience; and, although acquitted by her, he felt the guilt still upon him.

There was a time when he would not have stooped to such a course; but then he was rich – rich in the world’s wealth, and the honour such affluence suggests; for, alas! humbling as the avowal may seem, the noble traits so often admired in prosperity, are but the promptings of a spirit revelling in its own enjoyment – open-handed and generous, because these qualities are luxuries; free to give, because the giving involves gratitude; and gratitude is the incense of weakness to power – of poverty to wealth. How often are the warm affections, nurtured by happy circumstances, mistaken for the evidence of right principles! How frequently are the pleasurable impulses of the heart confounded with the well-directed judgments of the mind? This man was less changed than he knew of – the world of his circumstances was, indeed, different, but he was little altered; the same selfishness that once made him munificent, now made him mean; but, whether conferring or accepting favours, the spirit was one.

Besides, how ingenious is the mind in suggesting plausible reasons for its indulgences! – how naturally easy did it seem to borrow and repay! The very words satisfied his scruples on that score; but if he were indeed so contented with himself, why did he fear lest any one should ever learn the circumstance? Why cower with shame before himself, to think of his brother-in-law, or even Mark hearing of it? Were these the signs of conscious rectitude, or were they the evidence of a spirit seeking rest in casuistry and self-deception. In this conflict of alternate approval and condemnation, he passed the greater part of the night – sometimes, a struggling sense of honour, urging him to regret a course so fraught with humiliations of every kind; and again, a thrill of delight would run through his heart to think of all the pleasure he could confer upon his favourite boy – the indulgences he could once more shower upon him. He fancied the happiness of emancipation from pressing difficulties, and how instinctively Mark’s buoyant temper would take the tone of their altered fortunes; and he, once again, become the gay and reckless youth he loved to see him.

“He must have that brown horse Kerry speaks of,” muttered he to himself. “Sir Marmaduke shall not outbid us there, and we’ll see which of the two best becomes his saddle. I’ll back my own boy against his scarlet-coated fop, for a thousand. They’ve got some couples of dogs too, Kerry was telling me, up the mountains – We must enquire about them; with eight or ten couple, Mark could have good sport in the glen. Then there’s those bills of Callaghan’s – but he’ll not press hard when he sees we’ve money. Cassidy must get his £800, and so he shall; and that scoundrel, Swaby, will be sending in his bill of costs; but a couple of hundred pounds ought to stop his mouth. Archy, too – by Jove, I forget how much I owe him now; but he doesn’t, I’ll warrant him. Well, well – if it won’t stop the leak, it will, at least, give us time to work the pumps – ay, time, time!” He asked for no more; he only sought to reach the haven himself, and cared nothing what happened the craft, nor the crew, afterwards.

His next thought was how to effect all the legal arrangements in these complicated matters, without the knowledge of Mark or Sir Archy; and on this difficult point he spent till nigh morning deliberating. The only mode he could think of was, by writing to Swaby himself, and making him aware of the whole proceeding. That of course would be attended by its own penalties, as Swaby would take care that his own costs were among the first things to be liquidated; but yet it seemed the sole course open to him, and with the resolve to do this on the morrow, he turned on his pillow, and fell asleep.

The morning broke, with happiness to the uncle and the niece; but it was a happiness of a very different order. To him, the relief of mind, for the long harrassing cares of debt and difficulty, was a boon of inestimable price – life and liberty at once to the imprisoned spirit of his proud heart. To her, the higher and nobler sense of gratification, which flows from having acted well, sent a thrill of ecstasy through her bosom, such as only gentle and generous youth can ever feel. And thus, while the O’Donoghue mused over, the enjoyments and pleasures his new accession of wealth might place at his disposal, she revelled in the delight of having ministered to the happiness of one she had always regarded as a father, and even felt grateful to him for the emotions of her own heart.

The O’Donoghue’s first thought on awaking was to employ this large sum to liquidate some of his most pressing debts, and to make such arrangements as might enable them to live economically but comfortably, paying off those creditors whose exorbitant interest was consuming all the remnant of his income, and entering into contracts with others for the gradual repayment of the loans. The more he reflected on these good intentions, the less pleasure did they yield him. He had, for years past, taught himself to regard a creditor as an implacable enemy. The very idea of succumbing smacked of defeat. He had defied the law so long, it looked like cowardice to surrender now; besides the very complication of his affairs offered an excuse, which he was not slow to catch at. How could he pay Cassidy in full, and only give Hickson a part? Would not the mere rumour of his paying off his debts bring down a host of demands that had almost shimbered themselves out of existence. He had often heard that his grandfather “muddled away his fortune paying small debts.” It could not be supposed he would reject the traditions of his own house – nor did he.

He judged wisely, if not well, that new habits of expenditure would do more to silence the complaints of duns than the most accurately calculated system of liquidation. That entertainments and equipages, a stable full of horses, and a house crammed with guests, are a receipt in full for solvency, which, however some may distrust, none are bold enough to question openly.

If the plan had fewer excellencies, it, at least, suited him better; and he certainly opened the campaign with vigour. No sooner had he decided on his line of acting, than he despatched Kerry O’Leary to Cork with a letter for Swaby, his attorney, requiring his immediate presence at Carrig-na-curra, and adding, “that if he brought a couple of hundred pounds over with him at the same time, he might include them with the costs, and get a check for the whole together.”

As the old man sealed his epistle, he chuckled over the thoughts of Swaby’s astonishment, and fancied the many guesses the crafty attorney would frame to account for such unexpected prosperity. The little remaining sorrow he felt for his share in the transaction gave way to the vulgar pleasure of this surprize; for so is it, the conflict with poverty can debase the mind, and make the very straits and stratagems of want seem straits of cleverness and ability.

It was a day of pleasure almost to all. Sir Archy, dressed in a suit which had not seen daylight for many a previous year, gave his arm to Kate, and, accompanied by Herbert, set out to pass the day at “The Lodge.” Mark alone had no participation in the general joy; he stood, with folded arms, at the window of the old tower, and gazed on the group that moved along the road. Although he never thought of accompanying them, there was a sense of desertion in his position of which he could not divest himself. With the idea of the pleasure their visit would afford them came the reflection that he was debarred from his share of such enjoyment, and the galling feeling of inferiority sent the blood, with a throbbing current, through his temples, and covered his face with a deep flush. He retorted his own isolation against those he had so strenuously avoided, and accused them of the very fault of which he was himself guilty. “My uncle is more distant to me than ever,” muttered he, “and even Herbert, too; Herbert that used to look up to and rely on me, even he shuns me.” He did not utter his cousin’s name, but a single tear, that rolled heavily down his cheek, and seemed to make it tremble as it passed, showed that another and a deeper spring of sorrow was opened in his heart. With a sudden gesture of impatience he roused himself from his musing, and hastily descending the stair, he crossed the old court-yard, and, without any fixed resolve as to his course, walked down the road; nor was it until after proceeding some distance, that he perceived he was rapidly gaining on the little party on their way to the Lodge; then he quitted the high road, and soon lost himself in one of the mountain glens.

As for the others, it was indeed a day of unaccustomed pleasure, and such as rarely presented itself in that solitary valley. All that kindness and hospitality could suggest was done by the family at the Lodge, to make their visit agreeable; and while Sir Marmaduke vied with his son and daughter in courteous attentions to his guests, they, on their part, displayed the happy consciousness of these civilities by efforts to please not less successful.

Sir Archy – albeit the faculty had long lain in disuse – was possessed of conversational powers of a high order, and could blend his observation of passing events with the wisdom derived from reflection, and the experience of long intercourse with the world; while, as if to relieve the sombre colouring of his thoughts, Kate’s lively sallies and sparkling repartees lit up the picture, and gave it both brilliancy and action. The conversation ranged freely over the topics which form the staple of polite intercourse in the world of the cultivated and the fashionable; and, although Sir Archy had long been removed from such companionship, it was easy to perceive how naturally he could revert to a class of subjects, with which he had once been familiar.

It was thus alternating remarks of the past, with allusions to the present – mingling grave and gay, with that happy blending which springs from the social intercourse of different ages – they sat, after dinner, watching, through the unshuttered window, the bright moonlight that streamed across the glen and glittered on the lake, the conversation, from some reference to the scenery, turned to the condition of Ireland, and the then state of her people. Sir Marmaduke, notwithstanding his late experiences, fully maintaining the accuracy of his own knowledge in matters, which have not ceased to puzzle even wiser heads, gained confidence from the cautious reserve of Sir Archy, who rarely ventured an opinion, and never hazarded a direct assertion.

“They would have me believe, in England,” said Sir Marmaduke, “that Ireland was on the very brink of a rebellion; that the organization of revolt was perfect, and only waiting French co-operation to burst forth; but how absurd such statements are to us who lire amongst them.”

Sir Archy smiled significantly, and shook his head.

“You, surely, have no fears on this head, sir? It is not possible to conceive a state of more profound peace, than we observe around us. Men do not take up arms against a rightful authority, without the working of strong passions and headlong impulses. What is there to indicate them here?”

“You’ll allow, Sir Marmaduke, they are no overlikely to mak’ ye a confidant, if they intend a rising,” was the dry observation of M’Nab.

“True; but could they conceal their intentions from me – that is the question? Think you that I should not have discovered them long since, and made them known to the government?”

“I trust you’d have done no such thing, sir,” interposed Fred. “I heard Maitland say, there never was a chance of keeping this country down, if we had not a brush with them every thirty or forty years; and, if I don’t mistake, the time for a lesson has just come round.”

“Is it so certain on which side is to be the teacher?” said Kate, with a voice whose articulate distinctness actually electrified the party; and, as it drew their eyes towards her, heightened the flush that mantled on her cheek.

“It never occurred to me to doubt the matter,” said Fred, with an air of ill-dissembled mortification.

“No more than you anticipated it, perhaps,” retorted she, quickly; “and yet events are happening every day which take the world by surprise. See there! – look. That mountain-peak was dark but a moment back; and now, see the blazing fire that has burst forth upon it!”

The whole party started to their feet, and drew near the window, from which, at a distance of about two miles, the red glare of a fire was seen. It burned brightly for some minutes, and then decaying, became extinguished, leaving the dark mountain black and gloomy as before.