HOME.
Many, many years have passed away since the time I am now about to speak
of, and yet I cannot revert, even for a moment, to the period without a sad
and depressing feeling at my heart. The wreck of fortune, the thwarting of
ambition, the failure in enterprise, great though they be, are endurable
evils. The never-dying hope that youth is blessed with will find its
resting-place still within the breast, and the baffled and beaten will
struggle on unconquered; but for the death of friends, for the loss of
those in whom our dearest affections were centred, there is no solace,--the
terrible “never” of the grave knows no remorse, and even memory, that in
our saddest hours can bring bright images and smiling faces before us,
calls up here only the departed shade of happiness, a passing look at that
Eden of our joys from which we are separated forever. And the desolation of
the heart is never perfect till it has felt the echoes of a last farewell
on earth reverberating within it.
Oh, with what tortures of self-reproach we think of all former intercourse
with him that is gone! How would we wish to live our lives once more,
correcting each passage of unkindness or neglect! How deeply do we blame
ourselves for occasions of benefit lost, and opportunities unprofited by;
and how unceasingly, through after-life, the memory of the departed recurs
to us! In all the ties which affection and kindred weave around us, one
vacant spot is there, unseen and unknown by others, which no blandishments
of love, no caresses of friendship can fill up; although the rank grass
and the tall weeds of the churchyard may close around the humble tomb,
the cemetery of the heart is holy and sacred, pure from all the troubled
thoughts and daily cares of the busy world. To that hallowed spot do we
retire as into our chamber, and when unrewarded efforts bring discomfiture
and misery to our minds, when friends are false, and cherished hopes are
blasted, we think on those who never ceased to love till they had ceased to
live; and in the lonely solitude of our affliction we call upon those who
hear not, and may never return.
Mine was a desolate hearth. I sat moodily down in the old oak parlor, my
heart bowed down with grief. The noiseless steps, the mourning garments of
the old servants; the unnatural silence of those walls within which from
my infancy the sounds of merriment and mirth had been familiar; the large
old-fashioned chair where he was wont to sit, now placed against the
wall,--all spoke of the sad past. Yet, when some footsteps would draw near,
and the door would open, I could not repress a thrill of hope that he was
coming; more than once I rushed to the window and looked out; I could have
sworn I heard his voice.
The old cob pony he used to ride was grazing peacefully before the door;
poor Carlo, his favorite spaniel, lay stretched upon the terrace, turning
ever and anon a look towards the window, and then, as if wearied of
watching for him who came not, he would utter a long, low, wailing cry, and
lie down again to sleep. The rich lawn, decked with field flowers of many
a hue, stretched away towards the river, upon whose calm surface the
white-sailed lugger scarce seemed to move; the sounds of a well-known Irish
air came, softened by distance, as some poor fisherman sat mending his net
upon the bank, and the laugh of children floated on the breeze. Yes, they
were happy.
Two months had elapsed since my return home; how passed by me I know not; a
lethargic stupor had settled upon me. Whole days long I sat at the window,
looking listlessly at the tranquil river, and watching the white foam as,
borne down from the rapids, it floated lazily along. The count had left me
soon, being called up to Dublin by some business, and I was utterly alone.
The different families about called frequently to ask after me, and would,
doubtless, have done all in their power to alleviate my sorrow, and lighten
the load of my affliction; but with a morbid fear, I avoided every one, and
rarely left the house except at night-fall, and then only to stroll by some
lonely and deserted path.
Life had lost its charm for me; my gratified ambition had ended in the
blackest disappointment, and all for which I had labored and longed was
only attained that I might feel it valueless.
Of my circumstances as to fortune I knew nothing, and cared not more;
poverty and riches could matter little now; all my day dreams were
dissipated now, and I only waited for Considine’s return to leave Ireland
forever. I had made up my mind, if by any unexpected turn of fate the war
should cease in the Peninsula, to exchange into an Indian regiment. The
daily association with objects which recalled but one image to my brain,
and that ever accompanied by remorse of conscience, gave me not a moment’s
peace. My every thought of happiness was mixed up with scenes which now
presented nothing but the evidences of blighted hope; to remain, then,
where I was, would be to sink into the heartless misanthropist, and I
resolved that with my sword I would carve out a soldier’s fortune and a
soldier’s grave.
Considine came at last. I was sitting alone, at my usual post beside the
window, when the chaise rattled up to the door; for an instant I started to
my legs; a vague sense of something like hope shot through me, the whole
might be a dream, and _he_--The next moment I became cold and sick, a
faintish giddiness obscured my sight, and though I felt his grasp as he
took my hand, I saw him not. An indistinct impression still dwells upon my
mind of his chiding me for my weakness in thus giving way; of his calling
upon me to assert my position, and discharge the duties of him whose
successor I now was. I heard him in silence; and when he concluded, faintly
pledging myself to obey him, I hurried to my room, and throwing myself upon
my bed burst into an agony of tears. Hitherto my pent up sorrow had wasted
me day by day; but the rock was now smote, and in that gush of misery my
heart found relief.
When I appeared the following morning, the count was struck with my altered
looks; a settled sorrow could not conceal the changes which time and
manhood had made upon me; and as from a kind of fear of showing how deeply
I grieved, I endeavored to conceal it, by degrees I was enabled to converse
calmly and dispassionately upon my fortunes.
“Poor Godfrey,” said he, “appointed me his sole executor a few days before
it happened; he knew the time was drawing near, and strange enough,
Charley, though he heard of your return to England, he would not let us
write. The papers spoke of you as being at Carlton House almost daily; your
name appeared at every great festival; and while his heart warmed at your
brilliant success, he absolutely dreaded your coming home. ‘Poor
fellow,’ he would say, ‘what a change for him, to leave the splendor
and magnificence of his Prince’s board for our meagre fare and altered
fortunes! And then,’ he added, ‘as for me--God forgive me!--I can go now;
but how should I bear to part with him if he comes back to me.’ And now,”
said the count, when he had concluded a detailed history of my dear uncle’s
last illness,--“and now, Charley, what are your plans?”
Briefly, and in a few words, I stated to him my intentions. Without placing
much stress upon the strongest of my reasons--my distaste to what had once
been home--I avowed my wish to join my regiment at once.
He heard me with evident impatience, and as I finished, seized my arm
in his strong grasp. “No, no, boy, none of this; your tone of assumed
composure cannot impose on Bill Considine. You must not return to the
Peninsula--at least not yet awhile; the disgust of life may be strong at
twenty, but it’s not lasting; besides, Charley,” here his voice faltered
slightly, “_his_ wishes you’ll not treat lightly. Read this.”
As he spoke, he took a blotted and ill-written letter from his
breast-pocket, and handed it to me. It was in my poor uncle’s hand, and
dated the very morning of his death. It ran thus:--
Dear Bill,--Charley must never part with the old house,
come what will; I leave too many ties behind for a stranger’s heritage;
he must live among my old friends, and watch, protect
and comfort them. He has done enough for fame; let him now
do something for affection. We have none of us been over good
to these poor people; one of the name must try and save our
credit. God bless you both! It is, perhaps, the last time I shall
utter it.
G. O’M.
I read these few and, to me, affecting lines over and over, forgetful of
all save of him who penned them; when Considine, who supposed that my
silence was attributable to doubt and hesitation, called out:--
“Well, what now?”
“I remain,” said I, briefly.
He seized me in his arms with transport, as he said:--
“I knew it, boy, I knew it. They told me you were spoiled by flattery, and
your head turned by fortune; they said that home and country would weigh
lightly in the balance against fame and glory; but I said no, I knew you
better. I told them indignantly that I had nursed you on my knee; that I
watched you from infancy to boyhood, from boy to man; that he of whose
stock you came had one feeling paramount to all, his love of his own
fatherland, and that you would not disgrace him. Besides, Charley, there’s
not an humble hearth for many a long mile around us, where, amidst the
winter’s blast, tempered not excluded, by frail walls and poverty,--there’s
not one such but where poor Godfrey’s name rises each night in prayer, and
blessings are invoked on him by those who never felt them themselves.”
“I’ll not desert them.”
“I know you’ll not, boy, I know you’ll not. Now for the means.”
Here he entered into a long and complicated exposure of my dear uncle’s
many difficulties, by which it appeared that, in order to leave the estate
free of debt to me, he had for years past undergone severe privations.
These, however,--such is the misfortune of an unguided effort,--had but
ill succeeded, and there was scarcely a farm on the property without its
mortgage. Upon the house and demesne a bond for three thousand pounds still
remained; and to pay off this, Considine advised my selling a portion of
the property.
“It’s old Blake lent the money; and only a week before your uncle died,
he served a notice for repayment. I never told Godfrey; it was no use. It
could only embitter his last few hours; and, besides, we had six months to
think of it. The half of that time has now elapsed, however; we must see to
this.”
“And did Blake really make this demand, knowing my poor uncle’s
difficulties?”
“Why, I half think he did not; for Godfrey was too fine a fellow ever to
acknowledge anything of the sort. He had twelve sheep killed for the poor
in Scariff, at a time when not a servant of the house tasted meat for
months; ay, and our own table, too, none of the most abundant, I assure
you.”
What a picture was this, and how forcibly did it remind me of what I had
witnessed in times past. Thus meditating, we returned to the house; and
Considine, whose activity never slumbered, sat down to con over the
rent-roll with old Maguire the steward.
When I joined the count in the evening, I found him surrounded by maps,
rent-rolls, surveys, and leases. He had been poring over these various
documents, to ascertain from which portion of the property we could best
recruit our failing finances. To judge from the embarrassed look and manner
with which he met me, the matter was one of no small difficulty. The
encumbrances upon the estate had been incurred with an unsparing hand; and
except where some irreclaimable tract of bog or mountain rendered a loan
impracticable, each portion of the property had its share of debt.
“You can’t sell Killantry, for Basset has above six thousand pounds on it
already. To be sure, there’s the Priest’s Meadows,--fine land and in good
heart; but Malony was an old tenant of the family, and I cannot recommend
your turning him over to a stranger. The widow M’Bride’s farm is perhaps
the best, after all, and it would certainly bring the sum we want; still,
poor Mary was your nurse, Charley, and it would break her heart to do it.”
Thus, wherever we turned, some obstacle presented itself, if not from
moneyed causes, at least from those ties and associations which, in an
attached and faithful tenantry, are sure to grow up between them and the
owner of the soil.
Feeling how all-important these things were--endeavoring as I was to fulfil
the will and work out the intentions of my uncle--I saw at once that to
sell any portion of the property must separate me, to a certain extent,
from those who long looked up to our house, and who, in the feudalism of
the west, could ill withdraw their allegiance from their own chief to swear
fealty to a stranger. The richer tenants were those whose industry and
habits rendered them objects of worth and attachment; to the poorer ones,
to whose improvidence and whose follies (if you will) their poverty was
owing, I was bound by those ties which the ancient habit of my house had
contracted for centuries. The bond of benefit conferred can be stronger
than the debt of gratitude itself. What was I then to do? My income would
certainly permit of my paying the interest upon my several mortgages, and
still retaining wherewithal to live; the payment of Blake’s bond was my
only difficulty, and small as it was, it was still a difficulty.
“I have it, Charley!” said Considine; “I’ve found out the way of doing it.
Blake will have no objection, I’m sure, to take the widow’s farm in payment
of his debt, giving you a power of redemption within five years. In that
time, what with economy, some management, perhaps,” added he, smiling
slightly,--“perhaps a wife with money may relieve all your embarrassments
at once. Well, well, I know you are not thinking of that just now; but
come, what say you to my plan?”
“I know not well what to say. It seems to be the best; but still I have my
misgivings.”
“Of course you have, my boy; nor could I love you if you’d part with an old
and faithful follower without them. But, after all, she is only a hostage
to the enemy; we’ll win her back, Charley.”
“If you think so--”
“I do. I know it.”
“Well, then, be it so; only one thing I bargain,--she must herself consent
to this change of masters. It will seem to her a harsh measure that the
child she had nursed and fondled in her arms should live to disunite her
from those her oldest attachments upon earth. We must take care, sir, that
Blake cannot dispossess her; this would be too hard.”
“No, no; that we’ll guard against. And now, Charley, with prudence and
caution, we’ll clear off every encumbrance, and O’Malley Castle shall yet
be what it was in days of yore. Ay, boy, with the descendant of the old
house for its master, and not that general--how do you call him?--that came
down here to contest the county, who with his offer of thirty thousand
pounds thought to uproot the oldest family of the west. Did I ever show you
the letter we wrote him?”
“No, sir,” replied I, trembling with agitation as I spoke; “you merely
alluded to it in one of yours.”
“Look here, lad!” said he, drawing it from the recesses of a black leather
pocket-book. “I took a copy of it; read that.”
The document was dated, “O’Malley Castle, December 9th.” It ran thus:--
Sir,--I have this moment learned from my agent, that you, or
some one empowered by you for the purpose, made an offer of several
thousand pounds to buy up the different mortgages upon my property,
with a subsequent intention of becoming its possessor. Now, sir, I
beg to tell you, that if your ungentlemanlike and underhand plot
had succeeded, you dared not darken with your shadow the door-sill
of the house you purchased. Neither your gold nor your flattery--and
I hear you are rich in both--could wipe out from the minds
and hearts of my poor tenantry the kindness of centuries. Be advised,
then, sir; withdraw your offer; let a Galway gentleman settle
his own difficulties his own way; his troubles and cares are quite
sufficient, without your adding to them. There can be but one
mode in which your interference with him could be deemed acceptable:
need I tell you, sir, who are a soldier, how that is? As I
know your official duties are important, and as my nephew--who
feels with me perfectly in this business--is abroad, I can only say
that failing health and a broken frame shall not prevent my undertaking
a journey to England, should my doing so meet your wishes
on this occasion. I am, sir,
Your obedient servant, GODFREY O’MALLEY.
“This letter,” continued Considine, “I enclosed in an envelope, with the
following few lines of my own:”--
“Count Considine presents his compliments to Lieutenant-General
Dashwood; and feeling that as the friend of Mr. Godfrey O’Malley,
the mild course pursued by that gentleman may possibly be attributed
to his suggestion, he begs to assure General Dashwood that the reverse
was the case, and that he strenuously counselled the propriety
of laying a horsewhip upon the general’s shoulders, as a preliminary
step in the transaction.
“Count Considine’s address is No. 16 Kildare Street.”
“Great God!” said I, “is this possible?”
“Well may you say so, my boy: for--would you believe it?--after all that,
he writes a long blundering apology, protesting I know not what about
motives of former friendship, and terminating with a civil hint that we
have done with him forever. And of my paragraph he takes no notice; and
thus ends the whole affair.”
“And with it my last hope also!” muttered I to myself.
That Sir George Dashwood’s intentions had been misconstrued and mistaken I
knew perfectly well; that nothing but the accumulated evils of poverty and
sickness could have induced my poor uncle to write such a letter I was
well aware; but now the mischief was accomplished, the evil was done, and
nothing remained but to bear with patience and submission, and to endeavor
to forget what thus became irremediable.
“Sir George Dashwood made no allusion to me, sir, in his reply?” inquired
I, catching at anything like a hope.
“Your name never occurs in his letter. But you look pale, boy; all these
discussions come too early upon you; besides, you stay too much at home,
and take no exercise.”
So saying, Considine bustled off towards the stables to look after some
young horses that had just been taken up; and I walked out alone to ponder
over what I had heard, and meditate on my plans for the future.