The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Mark’s brow grew dark with the flush that covered his face and forehead in an instant; he bent his head almost to the table to avoid observation, and, as if in the distraction of the moment, he took up the note and seemed to pore over its contents; then suddenly crushing it in his hand, he arose from the table and left the room.

“My sweet Kate,” said Sir Archy, as he led her within the deep recess of a window, “tak care ye dinna light up a flame of treason, where ye only hoped to warm a glow of patriotism; such eyes and lips as yours are but too ready teachers; be cautious, lassie. This country, however others may think, is on the eve of some mighty struggle; the people have abandoned many of their old grudges and seem disposed to unite.”

“And the gentry – where are they, who should stand at their head and share their fortune?” cried Kate eagerly; for the warning, so far from conveying the intended moral, only stimulated her ardour and excited her curiosity.

“The gentry,” replied Sir Archy, in a firm, decided tone, “are better satisfied to live under a government they dislike, than to be at the mercy of a rabble they despise, I ha’e lived langer than you in this dreary world, lassie, and trust me, the poetry of patriotism has little relation to the revengeful fury of rebellion. You wish freedom for those who cannot enjoy the portion of it they possess. It is time to outlive the evil memories of the past, we want here – time, to blunt the acuteness of former and long-past sufferings – time, to make traditions so far forgotten as to be inapplicable to the present – time, to read the homely lesson, that one half the energy a people can expend in revolt, will raise them in the rank of civilized and cultivated beings.”

“Time, to make Irishmen forget that the land of their birth was ever other than an English province,” added Kate, impetuously. “No, no, it was not thus your own brave countrymen understood their ‘devoirs.’”

“They rallied round the standard of a prince they loved, lassie,” said M’Nab, in a tone whose fervour contrasted with his former accent.

“And will you tell me that the principle of freedom is not more sacred than the person of the sovereign?” said Kate, tauntingly.

“There can be nae mistake about the one, but folks may have vara unsettled notions of the other,” said he, drily; “but we mauna quarrel, Kate dear; our time is e’en too short already. Sit ye down and sing me a sang.”

“It shall be a rebel one, then, I promise you,” replied she, with an air of defiance which it was impossible to pronounce more real or assumed. “But here comes a visitor to interrupt us, and so your loyalty is saved for this time.”

The observation was made in reference to a traveller, who, seated in a very antique looking dennet, was seen slowly labouring his wearied horse up the steep ascent to the castle.

“It’s Swaby, father,” cried Herbert, who immediately recognized the equipage of the Cork attorney, and felt a certain uneasiness come over him at the unexpected appearance.

“What brings him down to these parts?” said the O’Donoghue, affecting an air of surprise – “on his way to Killarney, perhaps. Well, well, they may let him in.”

The announcement did not, to all appearance, afford much pleasure to the others, for scarcely had the door bell ceased its jingle, when each quitted the drawing-room, leaving O’Donoghue alone to receive his man of law.

Although the O’Donoghue waited with some impatience for the entrance of his legal adviser, that worthy man did not make his appearance at once, his progress to the drawing-room being arrested by Sir Archy, who, with a significant gesture, motioned him to follow him to his chamber.

“I will no’ detain you many minutes, Mr. Swaby,” said he, as he made signs for him to be seated. “I hae a sma’ matter of business in which you can serve me. I need scarcely observe, I reckon on your secrecy.”

Mr. Swaby closed one eye, and placed the tip of his finger on his nose – a pantomime intended to represent the most perfect fidelity.

“I happen,” resumed Sir Archy, apparently satisfied with this pledge; “I happen at this moment to need a certain sum of money, and would wish to receive it on these securities. They are title deeds of a property, which, for reasons I have no leisure at this moment to explain, is at present held by a distant relative in trust for my heir. You may perceive that the value is considerable” – and he pointed to a formidable array of figures which covered one of the margins. “The sum I require is only a thousand pounds – five hundred at once – immediately – the remainder in a year hence. Can this be arranged?”

“Money was never so scarce,” said Swaby, as he wiped his spectacles and unfolded one of the cumbrous parchments. “Devil take me, if I know where it’s all gone to. It was only last week I was trying to raise five thousand for old Hoare on the Ballyrickan property, and I could not get any one to advance me sixpence. The country is unsettled you see. There’s a notion abroad that we’ll have a rising soon, and who knows what’s to become of landed property after.”

“This estate is in Perth,” said M’Nab, tapping the deeds with his finger.

“So I perceive,” replied Swaby; “and they have no objection to a ‘shindy’ there too, sometimes. The Pretender got some of your countrymen into a pretty scrape with his tricks. There are fools to be had for asking, every where.”

“We will no’ discuss this question just noo,” said Sir Archy, snappishly; “and, to return to the main point, please to inform me, is this loan impracticable?”

“I didn’t say it was, all out,” said Swaby. “In about a week or two – ”

“I must know before three days,” interrupted M’Nab.

“His honour’s waiting for Mr. Swaby,” said Kerry, who now ap-peared in the room, without either of the others having noticed his entrance.

Sir Archy rose with an angry brow, but spoke not a syllable, while he motioned Kerry to leave the room.

“You must join my brother-in-law, sir,” said he at last; “and if our conversation is not already become the gossip of the house, I entreat of you to keep it a secret.”

“That, of course,” said Swaby; “but I’m thinking I’ve hit on a way to meet your wishes, so we’ll talk of the matter again this evening;” and thus saying, he withdrew, leaving Sir Archy in a frame of mind very far, indeed, from tranquil or composed.

Swaby’s surprise at his interview with Sir Archy, whom he never had the slightest suspicion of possessing any property whatever, was even surpassed by his astonishment on hearing the favourable turn of O’Donoghue’s affairs; and, while he bestowed the requisite attention to follow the old man’s statement, his shrewd mind was also engaged in speculating what probable results might accrue from this unexpected piece of fortune, and how they could best be turned to his own benefit. O’Donoghue was too deeply interested in his own schemes, to question Swaby respecting his business with M’Nab, of which Kerry O’Leary had already given him a hint. The attorney was, therefore, free to deliberate in his own mind how far he might most advantageously turn the prosperity of the one, to the aid of the other, for the sole benefit of himself. It is not necessary, nor would it conduce to the object of this story, to ask the reader’s attention to this interview. It will be enough to say, that Swaby heard with pleasure O’Donoghue’s disclosure, recognizing, with practised acuteness, how far he could turn such unlooked-for prosperity to his own purposes, and subsidize one brother-in-law, at the expense of both.

While thus each within the limit of this narrow household was following out the thread of his destiny, eagerly bent on their several objects, Kate O’Donoghue sat alone, at the window of her chamber, buried in deep thought. The prospect of her approaching visit to the capital presented itself in so many aspects, that, while offering pleasures and enjoyments none relished more highly than herself, she yet saw difficulties which might render the step unadvisable, If not perilous. Of all considerations, money was the one which least had occupied any share in her calculations; yet now she bethought herself, that expense must necessarily be incurred, which her uncle’s finances could but ill afford. No sooner had this thought occurred to her, than she was amazed it had not struck her before, and she felt actually startled, lest, in her eagerness for the promised pleasure, she had only listened to the suggestion of selfishness. In a moment more she determined to decline the invitation. She was not one to take half measures when she believed a point of principle to be engaged; and the only difficulty now lay, how and in what manner to refuse an offer proffered with so much kindness. The note itself must open the way, thought she, and at the instant she remembered how Mark had taken it from the breakfast-table.

She heard his heavy step as he paced backwards and forwards in his chamber overhead, and without losing another moment, hastily ascended the stairs to his door; her hand was already outstretched to knock, when suddenly she hesitated; a strange confusion came over her faculties – how would Mark regard her request? – would he attribute it to over-eagerness on the subject of the invitation. Such were the questions which occurred to her; and as quick came the answer – “And let him think so. I shall certainly not seek to undeceive him. He alone, of all here, has vouchsafed me neither any show of his affection nor his confidence.” The flush mounted to her cheek, and her eyes darkened with the momentary excitement; and at the same instant the door was suddenly thrown open, and Mark stood before her.

Such was his astonishment, however, that for some seconds he could not speak; when at last he uttered in a low, deep voice —

“I thought I heard a hand upon the lock, and I am so suspicious of that fellow, Kerry, who frequently plays the eaves-dropper here – ”

“Not when you are alone, Mark?” said Kate, smiling.

“Ay – even then. I have a foolish habit of thinking aloud, of which I strive in vain to break myself; and he seems to know it, too.”

“There is another absent trick you have acquired also,” said she, laughing. “Do you remember having carried off the note that came while we were at breakfast?”

“Did I?” said he, reddening. “Did I take it off the table? Yes, yes; I remember something of it now. You must forgive me, cousin, if these careless habits take the shape of rudeness.” He seemed overwhelmed with confusion, as he added, “I know not why I put it into my pocket; here it is.”

And so saying, he drew from the breast of his coat a crushed and crumpled paper, and gave it into Kate’s hand. She wished to say something in reply – something which would seem kind and good natured; but, somehow, she faltered and hesitated. She twice got as far as, “I know, Mark – I am certain, Mark;” then unable to say what, perhaps, her very indecision rendered more difficult, she merely uttered a brief “thank you,” and withdrew.

“Poor fellow!” said she, as she re-entered her own chamber, “his is the hardest lot of all.”

She had often wished to persuade herself that Mark’s morose, sullen humour was the discontent of one who felt the ignominy of an inglorious life – that habits of recklessness had covered, but not obliterated the traces of that bold and generous spirit for which his family had been long distinguished; and now, for the first time, she believed she had fallen on the evidences of such a temper. She pondered long on this theme, and fancied how, under circumstances favourable to their development, Mark’s good qualities and courageous temper, had won for him both fame and honour. “And here,” exclaimed she, half aloud, “here, he may live and die a peasant!” With a deep sigh, she threw herself into a chair, and as if to turn her thoughts into some channel less suggestive of gloom, she opened the letter Mark had given her. Scarcely, however, had she cast her eyes over it, when she uttered a faint cry, too faint, indeed, to express any mere sense of fear, but in an accent in which terror and amazement were equally blended.

The epistle was a brief one – not more than a few lines – and she had read it at a glance, before ever there was time to consider how far her doing so was a breach of confidence; indeed, the intense interest of the contents left little room for any self-examinings. It ran thus: —

“Dear Brother – No precipitation – no haste – nothing can be done without France. T. has now good hopes from that quarter, and if not 30,000, 20,000, or at least 15,000 will be given, and arms for double the number. Youghal is talked of as a suitable spot; and H. has sent charts, &c. over.

Above all, be patient; trust no rumours, and rely on us for the earliest and the safest intelligence. L. will hand you this. You must contrive to learn the cipher, as any correspondence discovered would ruin all.

“Your’s ever, and in the cause,

“H. R.”

Here, then, was the youth she had been commiserating for his career of lowly and unambitious hopes – here, the mere peasant! the accomplice of some deep and desperate plot, in which the arms of France, should be employed against the government of England. Was this the secret of his pre-occupation and his gloom? Was it to concentrate his faculties on such a scheme, that he lived this lonely and secluded life? “Oh, Mark, Mark, how have I misjudged you!” she exclaimed, and as she uttered the words, came the thought, quick as a lightning flash, to her mind – what terrible hazards such a temperament as his must incur in an enterprise like this – without experience of men or any knowledge of the world whatever – without habitual prudence, or caution of any kind. The very fact of his mistaking the letter – a palpable evidence of his unfitness for trust. Reckless by nature – more desperate still from the fallen fortunes of his house. What would become of him? Others would wait the time and calculate their chances. He would listen to nothing but the call of danger. She knew him well, from boyhood upwards, and had seen him often more fascinated by peril, than others were by pleasure.

As she reasoned thus, her thoughts insensibly turned to all the dangers of such an enterprise as she believed him engaged in. The fascinating visions of a speculative patriotism, soon gave way before the terrors she now conjured up. She knew he was the only tie that bound his father to existence, and that any misfortune to Mark, would be the old man’s death-blow. Nor were these the most poignant of the reflections, for she now remembered how often she had alluded tauntingly to those who lived a life of mean or inglorious ambition; how frequently she had scoffed at the miserable part of such as, endowed with high names and ancient lineage, evinced no desire to emerge from an ignoble position, and assume a station of eminence and power; could she, then, have contributed to this youth’s rash step, had her idle words and random speeches driven him to embrace a cause, where his passions, and not his judgment were interested? What misery was in this fear?

Each moment increased the agony of this reflection, while her doubts as to how she ought to act, thickened around her. Sir Archy, alone, was capable of advising her, his calm and unbiassed reason, would be now invaluable, but dare she – even to him, make use of a confidence thus accidentally obtained? Would Mark – could he ever forgive her? and how many others might such a disclosure compromise! In this dilemma, she knew no course open to her, but one – to address herself at once to Mark, to explain how his secret had become known, to learn from him as much as lay in her power of the dangers and difficulties of the meditated revolt, and if unable to dissuade him from participation, at least to mingle with his resolves all she could of prudence, or good counsel. The determination was scarcely formed, when she was once more at the door of his chamber; she knocked twice, without any reply following, then gently opened the door. The room was vacant, he was gone. I will write to him, said she hurriedly, and with this new resolve, hastened to her chamber, and began a letter.

The task she proposed to herself, was not so easy of accomplishment; a dozen times, she endeavoured while explaining the accident that divulged his secret, to impress him with the hazard of an undertaking, so palpably depicted, and to the safe keeping of which, his own carelessness, might prove fatal; but each effort dissatisfied her. In one place, she seemed not to have sufficiently apologized for her unauthorized cognizance of his note; in another, the stress she laid upon this very point, struck her as too selfish, and too personal in a case, where another’s interests were the real consideration at issue; and even when presenting before him the vicissitudes of fortune to which his venturous career would expose him, she felt how every word contradicted the tenor of her own assertions for many a day and week previous. In utter despair how to act, she ended by enclosing the letter with merely these few words: —

“I have read the enclosed, but your secret is safe with me.

“K. O’D.”