The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“But need our dissimilitudes sever – may they not be made rather ties to bind us more closely together,” said he, tenderly.

“Equality for the future, even if we obtained it, cannot eradicate the memory of the past. The penal laws – ”

“Come – come. There is no longer any thing there. See the University for instance – by-the-bye,” and here Travers caught eagerly at the opportunity of escape, “what of Herbert, is not this near the time for his examination?”

“The very day, the 28th of February,” said she, reading from a small memorandum book. “It is six weeks yesterday since we have seen him – poor boy!”

“How pale and sickly he looked too. I wish with all my heart, he had not set his mind so eagerly on College success.”

“It is only for women, to live without ambition of one sort or other;” replied Kate, sadly, “and a very poor kind of existence it is, I assure you.”

“What if we were to make a party, and meet him as he comes out? We might persuade him to join us at dinner, too.”

“Well thought of, Fred,” said Sir Marmaduke. “Herbert seems to have forgotten us latterly, and knowing his anxiety to succeed, I really scrupled at the thought of idling him.”

“It is very kind of you all,” said Kate, with one of her sweetest smiles, “to remember the poor student, and there is nothing I should like better than the plan you propose.”

“We must find out the hour they leave the Hall,” said Frederick.

“I heard him say it was at four o’clock,” said Sybella, timidly, venturing for the first time to interpose a word in the conversation.

“You have the best memory in the world, Sybella,” whispered Kate in her friend’s ear, and simple as the words were, they called the blush to her cheek in an instant.

The morning passed away in the thousand little avocations which affluence and ease have invented, to banish “ennui,” and render life always interesting. A few minutes before four o’clock, the splendid equipage of Sir Marmaduke Travers, in all the massive perfection of its London appointments, drew up at the outer gate of the University; the party preferring to enter the courts on foot.

As Frederick Travers, with his two lady companions, appeared within the walls, the murmur of their names ran through the crowd of gownsmen, already assembled in the court; for although by College time, it still wanted fifteen minutes of the hour, a considerable number of students were gathered together, anxious to hear the result of the day. The simple but massive style of the buildings; the sudden change from the tumult and noise of a crowded city, to the silence and quietude of these spacious quadrangles, the number of youths dressed in their University costume, and either gazing wistfully, at the door of the Examination Hall, or conversing eagerly together, were all matters of curious interest to the Travers’ party, who saw themselves in a world so different from that they daily moved in. Nor were the loungers the students only; mixed up with them, here and there, might be seen, some of the leading barristers of the day, and one or two of the most distinguished members of the House of Commons – men, who themselves had tasted the sweets of College success, and were fain, even by a passing moment, to refresh the memory of youthful triumphs, and bring back, by the sight of familiar objects, the recollection of days, to which all the glories of after-life, are but poor in comparison. Many of these were recognized by the students, and saluted by them, with marks of profound respect; and one, a small mean-looking man with jet black eyes, and olive complexion, was received with a cheer, which was with difficulty arrested by a waving motion with his hand, and a gesture towards the door of the “Hall,” from which with a hollow cavernous sound, a heavy bolt was now drawn, and the wide portal opened. A general movement in the crowd showed how intense expectation then was, but it was destined to a further trial, for it was only the head porter dressed in his crimson robe, and carrying his cap at arms length before him, who, followed by the Provost, issued forth; the students removed their caps, and stood in respectful silence as he passed. Again the door was closed, and all was still.

“There is something in all this, that stimulates curiosity strongly,” said Kate; “when I came in here, I could have waited patiently for an hour or two, but now, the sight of all these anxious faces, these prying looks, that seem eager to pierce the very door itself; those short sentences, broken by quick glances at the clock, have worked me up to an excitement high and fevered as their own.”

“It wants but a minute now,” said Fred.

“I think the hand has not moved, for the last ten,” said Sybella, smiling faintly.

“I hope he has gained the prize,” muttered Kate, below her breath; and at the moment, the bell tolled, and the wide doors, as if burst open by the sound, were flung wide, and the human tide poured forth, and mingled with that beneath; but what a different aspect did it present. The faces were mostly flushed and heated, the eyes flashing, the dress disordered, the cravats awry, the hair tangled – all the signs of mental excitement, long and arduously sustained, were there, and save a few whose careless look and unmoved expression showed that their part had no high ambition at stake, all were impressed with the same character of mingled eagerness and exhaustion.

Many among these were quickly singled out and surrounded by troops of eager and anxious friends, and the passing stranger might easily read in the tone and accent of the speaker his fortune, whether good or evil.

“Where is Herbert? – where can he be? – I don’t see him,” said each of the Travers’ party, as, mingling with the crowd, they cast their anxious looks on every side; but amid the bustle of the scene, the hurrying forms, and the babble of tongues, they felt bewildered and confused.

“Let us try at his chambers,” said Frederick; “he will, in all likelihood, be there soon,” and at once they turned their steps towards the corner of the old square near the library, where Herbert lived his solitary life; for although nominally linked with a companion – a chum, in College parlance – he rarely made his appearance within the walls, and then only for a few days at a time.

When they reached the door, they found it open, and without further waiting, or any notice of their approach, they entered, but so noiselessly and quietly withal, that the deep accents of grief – the heavy sound of broken sobs – struck at once upon their ears. They stopped and gazed in silence at each other, reading, as it were, their own heartfelt fears in the face of each.

“Poor fellow,” said Kate, as her proud lip trembled with agitation. “This is a sad beginning.”

“Let us go back,” whispered Sybella, faintly, and her cheek was pale as death as she spoke.

“No, no,” cried Frederick, hurriedly; “we must cheer him up, what signifies the whole affair – a piece of mere boyish ambition, that he’ll only laugh at one of these days.”

“Not so,” said Kate. “The augury of success or failure in the outset of life is no such trifle as you deem it. If he be faint-hearted, the game is up with him for ever – if he be made of sterner stuff, as one of his name and house ought to be, he’ll revenge his present fall, by a great hereafter. Let me see him,” and at once disengaging her arm, she walked forward, and entered the chamber; while Frederick and his sister retired to the court to await her return.

When Kate O’Donoghue entered the room, Herbert was seated before a table, on which his head was leaning, with his hands pressed against his face. At his feet lay his cap, and the books he carried with him from the Hall. Unconscious of her presence, lost to every thing, save his overwhelming affliction, the sobs came with a convulsive shudder that shook his frame, and made the very table rattle, while at intervals there broke from him a faint moan of heart-rending sorrow.

“My dear brother,” said Kate, placing her arm around his neck. The boy started and looked up, and prepared as she was to see the traces of suffering there, she started at the ravages long days and nights of study and deep grief had left behind them: his eyes were sunk, and surrounded by dark circles, that made them seem quite buried beneath his brows; his forehead traversed by a net-work of blue veins, had that transparent thinness mental labour impresses, and his lips were thin and colourless; while on each cheek a burning spot of red looked like the mark of hectic. He made no answer; but the tears ran fast from his eyes, and his mouth quivered as he tried to say something.

She sat down beside him on the same chair, and bending her head, till the silken curls touched his very cheek, she spoke to him – not in words of encouragement or good cheer, for such her own instinct told her were inapplicable, but in the soft accents of affection, neither undervaluing the source of his grief, nor yet suffering him to be carried away by his own sense of his calamity. “Remember, my dear brother,” said she, “you are not less dear to our hearts for all this – remember that for the casualties of the world, and its chances, we can only do our utmost – that success is not for us to determine, but to strive for. Had you won to-day, some other must now have grieved like you, and who can tell if he could count as many fond and loving hearts to feel for and console him.”

“Oh, if you knew how I strived and longed – how I prayed for success,” said he, in a voice almost stifled by convulsive throbs.

“And it will come yet, Herbert. The tree is only the more fruitful when the knife has cut down to its very heart. Yours is not the nature to be deterred by one repulse, nor yours the name to be stamped with failure, because the contest is difficult. Ambitions are only noble when their path is steep. Who knows how indolent you might have become, had you found the prize too easily won. Come, come, Herbert, enough for the past; look forward now, and with good courage and hope. The next struggle will end differently; but, above all, wear a fair face before the world. I remember some French prisoners being brought into Courtray, who amused us so much by their gay and smiling air, and look of ease and satisfaction – their secret was, that defeat was never disgrace, save when it lowered the spirit, and made the heart droop. Theirs never failed, and I promise you we thought all the better of them.”

“But my uncle – who is to tell him – ”

“Let me tell him. I see you have begun a letter already – ”

“That was written last night,” said the boy, as the tears gushed forth afresh – “last night, when hope was almost certainty.”

“Then I’ll finish it,” said Kate, taking up the half-written letter.

“Say to him – I would wish him to know all – say that I had beaten my opponents down to one, and that he, too, almost gave up the contest, when, somehow – I cannot now say exactly how or wherefore – I got into a dispute with the examiner about the meaning of a word in Terence; he seemed to enjoy the eagerness with which I defended my opinion for a time, and actually encouraged my persistence, until at length, my temper excited, and my brain on fire, I said something – I know not what – but it was evidently an offence, for he closed the book, and merely replied – ‘Enough, sir, I give your opponent the premium; his temper more than compensates for any deficiency in his scholarship; and I was beaten.” The last words evoked all his sorrow once more, and the youth burst into tears.

“That, then, I call unfair,” said Kate, passionately, “unless the gentleman were the arbiter of temperament, as well as talent. Come, Herbert, even this should reconcile you to your fortune: you have not failed unworthily.”

“But my uncle, Kate – my uncle will deem it far otherwise. To guard against this very error of my temper was almost the last pledge I made him, and here, in my first trial, see how I have kept my promise.”

“Leave the explanation to me, only promise one thing – and mind, Herbert, this is a pledge there must be no forgetting – do all in your power – spare nothing to win the next time. I care not whether you ever carry away another prize within these walls; but one you must have. Is this agreed? – give me your hand upon it. There, that’s like your own self, and now don’t waste another thought on what’s bygone. The Travers invited you to dine with them to-day.”

“Oh, no – no.”

“No – I have not any intention to press you, only come soon to see us – to see me.” She kissed his forehead tenderly as she spoke the last word, and glided rapidly from the room.

CHAPTER XXIX. FIRST IMPRESSIONS

Kate O’Donoghue was more deeply affected by Herbert’s failure than she had let appear to the youth, or even confessed to herself. It was not that the character of his ambition enlisted her sympathies, or engaged her interest. Far from it: she thought too meanly of such triumphs, and knew not how far they shed an influence on a future career. The habits of her education, all her early prejudices, disposed her to regard the life of a soldier as the only one becoming a gentleman. The passion for military glory, which the great victories of the Republic and the Consulate had spread throughout Europe, penetrated into every remote village of the continent, and even the prison-like walls of the convent did not keep out the spirit-stirring sounds of drum and trumpet, the tramp of marching hosts, and the proud clangor of war. It was a time when the soldier was every thing. There was but one path in life by which to win honour, rank, fame, and fortune. Even the humblest might strive, for the race was open to all; or, in the phrase of the period, every conscript left a spare corner in his knapsack for his future “baton de maréchal.”

All she had ever seen of foreign society, partook of this character. For, strangely enough, on the ruin of an aristocracy, a new and splendid chivalry was founded – a chivalry, whose fascinations covered many a wrong, and made many a bad cause glorious by the heroism it evoked! The peaceful path in life was, then, in her estimate, the inglorious one. Still, her proud nature could not brook defeat in any thing. It was not without its influence upon the hearts and minds of her house, that the eagle figured as their crest. The soaring bird, with outstretched wing, careering high above his compeers, told of a race who once, at least, thought no ambition above their daring; and she was worthy of the haughtiest of her ancestors.

Too proud to enter into any detail of Herbert’s failure, she dismissed the subject as briefly as she could, and made her appearance in the drawing-room without any perceptible change of manner; nor did she appear to take any notice of the announcement made by Sir Marmaduke to his son, that Hemsworth, who had just arrived from Scotland, would join the family circle at dinner. Kate had never seen him, but his name was long associated in her mind with anecdotes of oppression and cruelty to her uncle – of petty insults and annoyances which the letters from Carrig-na-curra used constantly to tell of, and of which her relatives abroad had often descanted in her hearing. The picture she had drawn of him in her own mind was not a flattering one – composed of features and ingredients which represented all that was base, low-minded, and treacherous – a vulgar sycophant, and a merciless tyrant. What was her astonishment, almost her chagrin, to discover, that Hemsworth entered the room a gentleman-like person, of about five-and-forty, tall, and well-formed, with regular features, rather melancholy in their expression than otherwise, and with a voice singularly low, soft, and pleasing, his manner a mixture of well-bred ease, and that excessive deference so often seen in those who have passed a long portion of life about persons of rank superior to their own, but without the slightest trace, that she could discover, of any thing subservient. With all her disposition to be critical, she could find little fault with either his manner or his conversation, nor could she detect any appearance of affectation. On the contrary, he seemed affable, like one who felt himself among friends, and need set no limits to his natural frankness. On the several topics he talked, he spoke with good sense and fairness; and even when the often agitated question of the state of Ireland was alluded to, he surprised Kate by the absence of any violent or exaggerated tone, speaking of the people in terms of kindliness and even affection – lauding the native virtues of their character, and dwelling with pleasure on the traits which advantageously distinguish them from the peasantry of other lands.

She listened at first with suspicion and distrust, then, by degrees, with interested attention, and, at last, with actual delight, to the narrative he gave of the social condition of Ireland; in which he laboured to show that a mistaken estimate of the people by England – a misconception of the national character, a contempt of it, perhaps – had perpetuated usages, which, by their injustice, had excited the hatred and animosity of the country, and led to that condition of insulting depreciation on one side, and proud defiance on the other, which the two people exhibited towards each other.

So well and ably did he sustain his part – so powerfully support each position by reference to some fact with which his ample memory supplied him – that Sir Marmaduke was eventually obliged to confess himself vanquished, though unconvinced – who ever was, when worsted? – and Frederick, chagrined at the favour Kate bestowed on the speaker, merely remarked as he concluded —

“Very conclusive and satisfactory, I have no doubt, it is; but, in my mind, all you have said goes to prove, that we English are a very inferior nation, and very unworthily placed in rule and governance over a people so much our superiors.”

Kate’s eyes flashed with an unwonted fire, and for an instant she felt almost unable to control the temptation to answer this taunt; but a quiet smile of half acquiescence on Hemsworth’s face so adequately expressed what she wished but dared not say, that she merely returned the smile, and was silent.

Had Hemsworth’s whole object been on that evening to disabuse Kate O’Donoghue of her dislike to him – to obliterate all memory of the wrongs with which she had heard him charged towards her family – he could not have chosen a more successful path. There was the very degree of firmness and decision she admired in the manner he gave his opinions, and yet all the courtesy of one who would not be supposed capable of advancing them as incontrovertible or irrefutable. They were merely his sentiments – his mode of seeing and estimating particular events, of which another might judge differently. For all he advanced he was ready to show his reasons – they might be shallow, they might be inconclusive – but they were his, and, fortunately for his chance of winning her favour, they were her opinions also.

“So you think we shall have no outbreak, Hemsworth,” said Sir Marmaduke, as they sat at tea.

“I scarcely go so far,” said he, gravely. “There are too many reasons for an opposite fear, to say so much, even if the Secretary of State did not assure us that the danger is over. The youth of Ireland will always be dangerous, when left without a career, or a road to their ambition; and from them, any peril that may now be apprehended will certainly come. Many young men of the best families of the country, whose estates are deeply incumbered – heavy mortgages and large dowries weighing them down – are ready to join in any bold attempt which promises a new order of things. They see themselves forgotten in the distribution of all patronage – excluded from every office – sometimes for reasons of religion – sometimes for family, even for a mere name’s sake. They are ready to play a bold game, where losing is only quicker ruin, and to gain would be a glorious victory.”

“But what could a few rash and desperate young men like these effect against a power so great and so consolidated as England?”

“Little, perhaps, as regards the overthrow of a Government; but a world of injury to the prospect of future quiet. The rebellion of a week – ay, a day – in Ireland, will sow the seeds of fifty years of misery, and retard the settlement of peaceful relations at least another century. Had the Minister made the same concessions here he was glad to accord to Scotland – had he, without insulting a nationality, converted it into a banner under which loyalty was only rendered more conspicuous – you might have, perchance, seen a different order of things in Ireland.”

“For the life of me, I cannot see the evils and wrongs these people labour under. I have a very large Irish acquaintance in London, and pleasanter, happier fellows cannot exist than they are.”

“All the young men of family in Ireland are not in the Guards,” said Hemsworth, with a smile, which, with all its blandishment, very thinly covered over the sarcasm of his remark.

Frederick’s face flushed angrily, and he turned away without speaking.

“Should we not ask pardon of the ladies for this subject of our conversation?” said Hemsworth. “I am sure neither Miss Travers nor Miss O’Donoghue deem the topic interesting or amusing.”

“On the contrary, sir, I believe I may reply for both of us,” said Kate, “whatever concerns the fortunes of a country we have so near at heart, has all our sympathy; and, as an Irish girl, I feel grateful for your explanation of motives which, while I appreciate, I should still be unable so satisfactorily to account for.”

“How happy I am to meet my countrywoman’s approval,” said Hemsworth, bowing courteously, and with a marked emphasis directing his speech to Kate.

The manner in which he spoke the words was so palpably intended for herself, that she felt all the charm of a flattery to which the disparity of their years imparted force.

Soon after tea, Sir Marmaduke retired with Hemsworth to his study. Frederick took his leave at the same time, and Sybella and Kate were left alone together.

“I have a long letter to write this evening, my dear Sybella,” said Kate, after they had talked some time. “Poor Herbert has failed in his examination, and I have promised to break the news to my uncle. Not so difficult a task as the poor boy deems, but one to which he is himself unequal.”

“Does he then feel it so deeply?” said Sybella, timidly.

“Too much, as regards the object of the ambition; but no more than he ought as a defeat. It is so bad to be beaten, Sybella,” said she, with a sharp distinctness on each word. “I shall hate the sight of that University until he carries off the next prize; and then – then I care not whether his taste incline him for another effort;” and so saying, she embraced her friend, and they parted for the night.

The epistle which Kate had promised to conclude was in itself a lengthy one – written at different intervals during the week before the examination, and containing a minute account of his progress, his hopes and his fears, up to that very moment. There was little in it which could interest any but him to whom it was addressed, and to whom every allusion was familiar, and the reference to each book and subject thoroughly known – what difficulties he had found here, what obscurity there – how well he had mastered this, how much he feared he might have mistaken the other – until on the evening of the first day’s examination, when the following few lines, written with a trembling hand, appeared: —

“They say I shall gain it. H – called my translation of Horace a brilliant one, and asked the Vice-Provost to listen to my repeating it. I heard. I gave it in blank verse. Oh, my dearest uncle, am I deceiving myself, and deceiving you? Shall I be able to write thus to-morrow night?”

Then came one tremulous line, dated, “Twelve o’clock:” —

“Better and better – I might almost even now say, victory; but my heart is too much excited to endure a chance.”

“And it remains for me, my dear uncle,” wrote Kate after these words, “to fulfil the ungrateful task of bearing bad tidings; and I, who have never had the good fortune to bring you happiness, must now speak to you of misfortune. —

My dear cousin has failed.”

She followed these few lines by the brief narrative Herbert had given her – neither seeking to extenuate his errors, nor excuse his rashness – well knowing in her heart that Sir Archy would regard the lesson thus conveyed, an ample recompense for the honour of a victory so hardly lost.

“It is to you he looks for comfort – to you, sir, whom his efforts were all made to please, and for whose praise his weary nights and toilsome days were offered. You, who know more of the human heart than I do, can tell how far so severe a discouragement may work for good or evil on his future life; for myself, I feel the even current of prosperity is but a sluggish stream, that calls for no efforts to stem its tide; and were his grief over, I’d rather rejoice that he has found a conflict, because he may now discover he has courage to meet it.

“Even I, to follow a theme as dispiriting, even I, grow weary of pleasure, and tired of gaiety. The busy world of enjoyment leaves not a moment free for happiness, and already I am longing to be back in the still valley of Glenflesk. It is not that Dublin is not very brilliant, or that society has less of agreeability than I expected – both have exceeded my anticipations; nor is it, that I have not been what we should call in France ‘successful’ in my ‘debut’ – far from that, I am the fashion, or, rather, half the fashion – Sybella dividing public favour with me; – but, somehow, nobody contradicts me here – no one has courage to tell me I’m wrong – no one will venture to say, what you have often said, and even oftener looked, that ‘I talked of what I knew nothing;’ and, in fact, my dear uncle, every one is so very much in love with me, that I am beginning to detest them, and would give the world to be once more at home, before I extend the hatred to myself, which I must inevitably end by doing, if nobody anticipates me in the sentiment.

“You told me I should prove faithless to you. Well, I have refused heaven knows how many ‘brilliant offers,’ for such even the proposers called them. Generals of fourscore, guardsmen of twenty, dignitaries in the church, sergeants learned in the law, country gentlemen in hordes, two baronets, and one luckless viscount, have asked for the valueless hand that writes these lines; and yet – and yet, my dear chevalier, I shall still write myself at the bottom of this page, Kate O’Donoghue. I have no doubt you are very vain of my constancy, and will be so when you read this; and it is right you should be, for, I promise you, in my ‘robe, couleur de cerise,’ looped with white roses, and my ‘chapeau de paysanne,’ I am a very pretty person indeed – at least, it seems a point the twelve judges agree upon, and the Master of the Rolls tells me, ‘that with such long eyelashes I might lift my eyes very high indeed.’

“And now, my dear, kind uncle, divide your sorrow between your niece who is dying of vanity, and your nephew who is sick of grief – continue your affection to both – and believe me, in all sincerity of heart, your own fond and faithful,

“Kate O’Donoghue.”

“I have met Hems worth, and, strange to say, found him both pleasant and agreeable.”

Such were the concluding lines of an epistle, in which few, who did not possess Sir Arches acuteness, could successfully trace any thing of the real character of the writer.