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The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago
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“It is little worth while remembering them,” said the crone, whose own misfortunes shed bitterness over all the memory of others. “There was an old Scotchman that lived there long after the others were gone, and when the niece went back to the nunnery in France he staid there still alone by himself. The people used to see him settling the room, and putting books here, and papers there, and making all ready agin she came back – and that’s the way he spent his time to the day of his death. Don’t cry, my lady; he was a hard-hearted old man, and it isn’t eyes like yours should weep tears for him; if you want to pity any one, ‘pity the poor, that’s houseless and friendless.’”
“And the Lodge,” said the stranger – “is not that the name they gave the pretty house beside the lake?”
“‘Tisn’t a pretty house now, then,” said the hag, laughing. “It’s a ruin like the rest.”
“How is that? – does the Englishman never come to it?”
“Why should he come to it? Sure it’s in law ever since that black-hearted villain Hemsworth was killed – nobody knows who owns it, and they say it will never be found out; but,” said she, rising, and gathering her cloak around her as she prepared to move away – “there’s neither luck nor grace upon the spot. God Almighty made it beautiful and lovely to look upon, but man and man’s wickedness brought a curse down upon it.”
The man drew his purse forth, and, while endeavouring to take some pieces of money from it by the aid of his single remaining hand, she turned abruptly about, and, staring him stedfastly in the face, said —
“I’ll not take your money – ‘tisn’t money will serve me now – them that’s poor themselves will never see me in want.”
“Stop a moment,” said the stranger, “I have a claim on you.”
“That you haven’t,” said the woman, sternly – “I know you well, Mark O’Donoghue – ay, and your wife, Miss Kate there; but it isn’t by a purse full of gold you’ll ever make up for desarting the cause of ould Ireland.”
“Don’t be angry with her,” whispered a low mild voice behind. He turned, and saw a very old man dressed in black, and with all the semblance of a priest. “Don’t be angry with her, sir; poor Mary’s senses are often wandering; and,” added he with a sigh, “she has met sore trials, and may well be pardoned, if, in the bitterness of her grief, she looks at the world with little favour or forgiveness. She has mistaken you for another, and hence the source of her anger.”
THE END.
“And the Lodge,” said the stranger – “is not that the name they gave the pretty house beside the lake?”
“‘Tisn’t a pretty house now, then,” said the hag, laughing. “It’s a ruin like the rest.”
“How is that? – does the Englishman never come to it?”
“Why should he come to it? Sure it’s in law ever since that black-hearted villain Hemsworth was killed – nobody knows who owns it, and they say it will never be found out; but,” said she, rising, and gathering her cloak around her as she prepared to move away – “there’s neither luck nor grace upon the spot. God Almighty made it beautiful and lovely to look upon, but man and man’s wickedness brought a curse down upon it.”
The man drew his purse forth, and, while endeavouring to take some pieces of money from it by the aid of his single remaining hand, she turned abruptly about, and, staring him stedfastly in the face, said —
“I’ll not take your money – ‘tisn’t money will serve me now – them that’s poor themselves will never see me in want.”
“Stop a moment,” said the stranger, “I have a claim on you.”
“That you haven’t,” said the woman, sternly – “I know you well, Mark O’Donoghue – ay, and your wife, Miss Kate there; but it isn’t by a purse full of gold you’ll ever make up for desarting the cause of ould Ireland.”
“Don’t be angry with her,” whispered a low mild voice behind. He turned, and saw a very old man dressed in black, and with all the semblance of a priest. “Don’t be angry with her, sir; poor Mary’s senses are often wandering; and,” added he with a sigh, “she has met sore trials, and may well be pardoned, if, in the bitterness of her grief, she looks at the world with little favour or forgiveness. She has mistaken you for another, and hence the source of her anger.”
THE END.
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