The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“What can it mean?” said Sir Marmaduke, in amazement. “Can it be some signal of the smugglers? I understand they still venture on this coast.”

“That mountain yonder is not seen from the bay,” said Sir Archy, thoughtfully. “It can scarcely be that.”

“I think we must ask Miss O’Donoghue for the explanation,” said Fred Travers. “She is the only one here not surprized at its appearance.”

“Miss O’Donoghue is one of those who, you assert, are to be taught, and, therefore, unable to teach others,” said she, in a low whisper, only audible to Frederick, who stood beside her, and he almost started at the strange meaning the words seemed to convey.

CHAPTER XXIV. A WALK BY MOONLIGHT

The visit alluded to in the last chapter formed the first step to an acquaintance which speedily ripened into intimacy. Seldom a day passed without some interchange of civilities; and as they progressed in knowledge of each other, they advanced in esteem, so that, ere long, they learned to regard themselves as members of a single family. The conventional usages of society are stronger barriers against friendship than the world deems them. The life of cities supplies a coinage of social intercourse which but very imperfectly represents the value of true feeling; while in remoter and less cultivated regions, men are satisfied to disencumber themselves of this false currency, and deal frankly and openly with each other.

How little now did Sir Marmaduke remember of all Sir Archy’s peculiarities of manner and expression! how seldom did Sybella think Kate’s opinions wild and eccentric! and how difficult would it have been to convince the fastidious Guardsman, that the society of St. James’s possessed any superiority in tone or elegance over the evenings at “the Lodge.”

The real elements of mutual liking were present here: the discrepancy of character and taste – the great differences of age, and habit of thought – yet moulded into one common frame of esteem from the very appreciation of qualities in others, in which each felt himself deficient. If Kate admired the simple but high-minded English girl, whose thoughts were rarely faulty, save when attributing to others higher and purer motives than the world abounds in, Sybella looked up with enthusiastic delight to the glittering talents of her Irish friend – the warm and generous glow of her imagination – the brilliant flashes of her wit – the ready eloquence of her tongue, and, perhaps, not least of all, the intrepid fearlessness of her nature, inspired her with sentiments of almost awe, which seemed to deepen, and not diminish her affection for Kate O’Donoghue.

It might appear an ungenerous theme to dwell on; but how often are our friendships suggested by self-love? – how frequently are we led to think highly and speak praisingly of qualities the opposite to our own, from the self-satisfaction our apparent impartiality yields us. Justice must, indeed, be a great virtue, when its very shadow can ennoble human nature. Not such, however, were the motives here. Kate’s admiration for the unerring rectitude of Sybella’s character was as free from taint as was Sybella’s heartfelt enthusiasm for the Irish girl. As for Frederick Travers, the same dissimilarity in character which made him at first compare Kate with his sister disadvantageously, now induced him to be struck and fascinated by her qualities. The standard by which he had measured her, she had long since passed, in his estimation; and any idea of a comparison between them would now have appeared ridiculous. It was true many of her opinions savoured of a nationality too strong for his admiration. She was intensely Irish – or at least what he deemed such. The traditions which, as a child, she had listened to with eager delight, had given a bias to her mind that grew more confirmed with years. The immediate circumstances of her own family added to this feeling, and her pride was tinctured with sorrow at the fallen condition of her house. All her affection for her cousins could not blind her to their great defects. In Mark she saw one whose spirit seemed crushed and stunned, and not awakened by the pressure of misfortune. Herbert, with all his kindliness of nature and open-heartedness, appeared more disposed to enjoy the sunshine of life, than to prepare himself to buffet with its storms.

How often she wished she had been a boy; how many a day-dream floated before her of such a career as she might have struck out! Ireland a nation – her “own sons her rulers” – had been the theme of many an oft-heard tale, and there was a poetry in the sentiment of a people recalled to a long-lost, long-sought-for nationality, that excited and exalted her imagination.

Her convent education had stored her mind with narratives of native suffering and Saxon tyranny, and she longed for the day of retribution on the “proud invaders.” Great was her disappointment at finding her cousins so dead to every feeling of this kind; and she preferred the chivalrous ardour of the English soldier to the sluggish apathy of Mark, or the happy indolence of Herbert O’Donoghue.

Had Frederick Travers been an Irishman, would he have borne his country’s wrongs so meekly? was a reflection that more than once occurred to her mind, and never more powerfully than on parting with him, the very evening we have mentioned. He had accompanied them, on their return to Carrig-na-curra, which, as the night was fine and the moon nearly at her full, they did on foot. Kate, who rarely accepted an arm when walking, had, by some accident, taken his on this occasion, Sir. Archy leaning on that of Herbert.

The young soldier listened with a high-beating heart, as she related an incident, of which the spot they were traversing had been the scene. It was a faithless massacre of a chieftain and his followers, seduced, under pretences of friendship and a pledge of amity.

“They told him,” said she, “that his young wife, who had been carried away by force, and imprisoned for two entire years, should on this spot be restored to him; that he had but to come, with twelve of his retainers, unarmed, save with their swords, and that here, where we now stand, she should once more become his own. The hour was sunset, and he waited, with anxious impatience, beneath that tall cliff yonder, where you can see the deep cleft. Strange enough, they have added a legend to the true story, as if their wrongs could derive any force from fiction! and they tell you still, that the great rock was never split until that night. Their name for it, in Irish, is ‘the rent,’ or ‘the ruptured pledge.’ Do I weary you with these old tales?”

“No, no; go on, I entreat you. I cannot say how the scene; increases its fascinations, from connection with your story.”

“He stood yonder, where the black shadow now crosses the road, and having dismounted, he gave his horse to one of his attendants, and walked, with an anxious heart, up and down, waiting for their approach.

“There was less sympathy among his followers for their chieftain’s sorrow than might be expected; for she was not a native born, but the daughter of an English earl. He, perhaps, loved her the more – her very friendlessness was another tie between them.”

“Says the legend so, or is this a mere suspicion on your part?” whispered Travers softly.

“I scarcely know,” continued Kate, with an accent less assured than before. “I believe I tell you the tale as I have heard it; but why may she not have been his own in every sentiment and thought – why not have imbibed the right, from him she learned to love?” The last words were scarcely uttered, when, with a sudden exclamation, less of fear than astonishment, Kate grasped Travers’ arm, and exclaimed – “Did you see that!”

“I thought some dark object moved by the road side.”

“I saw a man pass, as if from behind us, and gain the thicket yonder: he was alone, however.”

“And I am armed,” said Travers, coolly.

“And if you were not,” replied she, proudly, “an O’Donoghue has nothing to fear in the valley of Glenflesk. Let us join my uncle, however, for I see he has left us some distance behind him;” and while they hastened forward, she resumed her story with the same unconcern as before the interruption.

Travers listened eagerly – less, it is true, in sympathy with the story, than in delight at the impassioned eloquence of her who related it. “Such,” said she, as they turned to bid him farewell at the old keep on the road side, “such are the traditions of our land; they vary in time and place, and persons; but they have only one moral through all – what a terrible thing is slavery!”

Travers endeavoured to turn the application of her speech, by some common-place compliment about her own powers of inflicting bondage; but she stopped him suddenly, with “Nay, nay; these are not jesting themes, although you may deem them unsuited for one as ignorant and inexperienced as I am; nor will I speak of them again, if they serve but as matter for laughter.”

Amid his protestations of innocence against this charge, which, in his ardour, he pushed farther than calmer judgment might warrant, they shook hands cordially, and parted.

“He’s a fine-hearted fellow, too,” thought Kate, as she slowly moved along in silence. “Saxon though he be, there’s a chord in his bosom that responds to the touch of truth and honour.”

“Noble girl,” said Frederick, half aloud, “it would be hard to rebuke treason, when spoken from such lips;” then added, with a smile – “It’s no fair temptation to expose even a Guardsman to.”

And thus, each speculated on the character of the other, and fancied how, by their own influence, it might be fashioned and moulded to a better form; nor was their interest lessened in each other’s fortune from the fact, that it seemed to involve so much of mutual interposition.

“You should not walk this road so late,” said Mark O’Donoghue, almost rudely, as he opened the door to admit them. “The smugglers are on the coast now, and frequently come up the glen at nightfall.”

“Why not have come to be our escort, then?” said Kate, smiling.

“What? With the gay soldier for your guard,” said he, bitterly.

“How knew you that, my worthy cousin?” said Kate, rapidly, and then, with a significant shake of the head, added, in a whisper – “I see there are marauders about.”

Mark blushed till his face became scarlet, and turning abruptly away, sought his own room in silence.

CHAPTER XXV. A DAY OF DIFFICULT NEGOCIATIONS

The time was now approaching when the Travers’s were to remove to the capital, and, at Sybella’s urgent entreaty, Sir Marmaduke was induced to request that Kate O’Donoghue might accompany them in their visit, and thus enjoy the pleasures of a winter in Dublin, then, second to no city of Europe, in all that constituted social excellence.

The note of invitation couched in terms the most flattering and cordial, arrived when the O’Donoghues were seated at breakfast, and, as was usual on all occasions of correspondence, was opened by Kate herself; scarcely had she thrown her eyes over its contents, when, with a heightened colour, and a slight tremor in her voice, she passed the letter across the table to her uncle, and said – “This is for your consideration, sir.”

“Then, you must read it for me, Kate,” replied he; “for my ears have outlived my eyes.”

“Shall I do it,” interposed Sir Archy, who, having remarked some hesitation in Kate’s manner, came thus good-naturedly to the rescue.

“With all my heart, Archy,” said the O’Donoghue; “or rather, if you would do me a favour, just tell me what it is about – polite correspondence affects me pretty much as the ceremonies of bowing and salutation, when I have a fit of the gout. I become devilish impatient, and would give the world it was all over, and that I were back in my easy chair again.”

“The politeness in the present case, lies less in the style than in the substance,” said Sir Archy. “This is a vara civil, though, I must say, to me a vara unwelcome proposal, to take our darling Kate away from us, for a season, and show her some of the life and gaieties of the capital.”

“Well, that is handsomely done, at least,” said the O’Donoghue, whose first thought sprung from gratified pride, at the palpable evidence of social consideration; then suddenly changing his tone, he said in a low voice; “but what says Kate herself?”

Mark turned his eyes full upon her, as his father said these words, and as a deadly pallor came over his face, he sat steadfastly awaiting her reply, like one expecting the decree of a judge.

“Kate feels too happy here, sir, to risk anything by a change,” replied she, avoiding, even for a second, to look towards where Mark was sitting.

“But you must not lose such an opportunity, dearest Kate;” whispered Herbert eagerly into her ear. “These are the scenes, and the places you are used to, and best fitted to enjoy and to adorn, and besides – ”

A stern frown from Mark, who, if he had not overheard the speech, seemed to have guessed its import, suddenly arrested the youth, who now looked overwhelmed with confusion.

“We are a divided cabinet; that I see plainly enough, Kate;” said O’Donoghue; “though, if our hearts were to speak out, I’d warrant they would be of one mind. Still, this would be a selfish verdict, my dear girl, and a poor requital for all the happiness you have brought back to these old walls;” and the words were spoken with a degree of feeling that made all indisposed to break the silence that followed.

“I should like to see the capital, I own,” said Kate, “if my absence were to be a short one.”

“And I wad hae nae objection the capital should see yersel,” said Sir Archy; “albeit, I may lose a sweetheart by my generosity.”

“Have no fears of my fidelity,” said Kate, laughing, as she extended her hand towards him, while, with antique gallantry, he pressed it to his lips. “The youth of this land are not, so far as my little experience goes, likely to supplant so true an admirer; they who have so little devotion to their country, may well be suspected of having less for its daughters.”