Before Kerry O'Leary had reached the hall, the object around whose
coming all his schemes revolved, was already in her uncle's arms.
“My dear, dear Kate!” said the old man, as he embraced her again and
again, while she, overcome by a world of conflicting emotions, concealed
her face upon his shoulder.
“This is Mark, my dearest girl--cousin Mark.”
The girl looked up, and fixed her large full eyes upon the countenance
of the young man, as, in an attitude of bashful hesitation, he stood,
uncertain how far the friendship of former days warranted his advances.
She, too, seemed equally confused; and when she held out her hand, and
he took it half coldly, the meeting augured but poorly for warmth of
heart on either side.
“And Herbert--where is he?” cried she eagerly, hoping to cover the
chilling reception by the inquiry--“and my uncle Archy----”
“Is here to answer for himsel',” said M'Nab, quietly, as he came rapidly
forward and kissed her on either cheek; and, with an arm leaning on each
of the old men, she walked forward to the drawing-room.
“And are you alone, my dear child--have you come alone?” said the
O'Donoghue.
“Even so, papa;--my attached and faithful Hortense left me at Bristol.
Sea sickness became stronger than affection. She had a dream, besides,
that she was lost, devoured, or carried off by a merman--I forget what.
And the end was, she refused to go further, and did her best to persuade
me to the same opinion. She didn't remember that I had sent on my
effects, and that my heart was here already.”
“My own dearest child!” said O'Donoghue, as he pressed her hand
fervently between his own.
“But how have ye journeyed by yoursel'?” said Sir Archy, as he gazed on
the slight and delicate figure before him.
“Wonderfully well, uncle. During the voyage every one was most polite
and attentive to me. There was a handsome young Guardsman who would have
been more, had he not been gentleman enough to know that I was a lady.
And, once at Cork, I met, the very moment of landing, with a kind old
friend, Father Luke, who took care of me hither. He only parted with
me at the gate, not wishing to interfere, as he said, with our first
greetings. But I don't see Herbert--where is he?”
“Poor Herbert has been dangerously ill, my dear,” said the father, “I
scarcely think it safe for him to see you.”
“No, no,” interposed Sir Archy, feelingly. “If the sight of her can stir
the seared heart of an auld carle like mysel', it wad na be the surest
way to calm the frenzied blood of a youth.”
Perhaps Sir Archy was not far wrong. Kate O'Donoghue was, indeed, a girl
of no common attraction. Her figure, rather below than above the middle
size, was yet so perfectly moulded, that for very symmetry and grace it
seemed as if such should have been the standard of womanly beauty, while
her countenance had a character of loveliness, even more striking
than beautiful; her eyes were large, full, and of a liquid blue that
resembled black; her hair, a rich brown, through which a golden tinge
was seen to run, almost the colour of an autumn sun-set, giving a
brilliancy to her complexion which, in its transparent beauty, needed no
such aid; but her mouth was the feature whose expression, more than any
other, possessed a peculiar charm. In speaking, the rounded lips moved
with a graceful undulation, more expressive than mere sound, while,
as she listened, the slightest tremble of the lip harmonizing with the
brilliant glance of her eyes, gave a character of rapid intelligence to
her face, well befitting the vivid temper of her nature. She looked her
very self--a noble-hearted, high-spirited girl, without a thought save
for what was honourable and lofty; one who accepted no compromise with
a doubtful line of policy, but eagerly grasped at the right, and stood
firmly by the consequence. Although educated within the walls of a
convent, she had mixed, her extreme youth considered, much in the
world of the city she lived in, and was thus as accomplished in all the
“usage,” and conventional habits of society, as she was cultivated in
those gifts and graces which give it all its ornament. To a mere passing
observer there might seem somewhat of coquetry in her manner; but very
little observation would show, that such unerring gracefulness cannot be
the result of mere practice, and that, innate character had assumed that
garb which best suited it, and not one to be merely worn for a
season. Her accent, too, when she spoke English, had enough of foreign
intonation about it to lay the ground for a charge of affectation; but
he should have been a sturdy critic who could have persisted in the
accusation. The fear was rather, that one leaned to the very fault of
pronunciation as an excellence, so much of piquancy did it occasionally
lend to expressions, which, from other lips, had seemed tame and
common-place. To any one who has seen the graceful coquetry of French
manner engrafted on the more meaning eloquence of Irish beauty, my
effort at a portrait will appear a very meagre and barren outline; and
I feel how poorly I have endeavoured to convey any idea of one, whose
Spanish origin had left a legacy of gracefulness and elegance, to be
warmed into life by the fervid character of the Celt, and tempered again
by the consummate attraction of French manner.
The ease and kindliness of spirit with which she sat between the two old
men, listening in turn to each, or answering with graceful alacrity the
questions they proffered--the playful delicacy with which she evaded the
allusions they made from time to time to the disappointment the ruined
house must have occasioned her--and the laughing gaiety with which
she spoke of the new life about to open before her, were actually
contagious. They already forgot the fears her anticipated coming had
inspired; and gazed on her with the warm affection that should wait on a
welcome. Oh! what a gift is beauty, and how powerful its influence, when
strengthened by the rich eloquence of a spotless nature, beaming from
beneath long-lashed lids, when two men like these, seared and hardened
by the world's ills--broken on the wheel of fortune--should feel a glow
of long-forgotten gladness in their chilled hearts as they looked upon
her? None could have guessed, however, what an effort that seeming
light-heartedness cost her. Poor girl! Scarcely was she alone, and had
closed the door of her room behind her, when she fell upon the bed in
a torrent of tears, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. All that
Father Luke had said as they came along--and the kind old man had
done his utmost to break the shock of the altered state of her uncle's
fortunes--was far from preparing her for the cold reality she witnessed.
It was not the ruined walls, the treeless mountain, the desolate and
dreary look of all around, that smote upon her heart; sad as these signs
were, her grief had a higher source: it was the sight of that old man
she called father, tottering feebly to the grave, surrounded by images
of poverty and misfortune. It was the aspect of Mark, the cousin,
she had pictured to her mind as an accomplished gentleman in look and
demeanour; the descendant of a house more than noble--the heir of a vast
property; and now she saw him, scarce in gesture and manner above the
peasant--in dress, as slovenly and uncared for. She was prepared for a
life of monotonous retirement and isolation. She was ready to face the
long winter of dreary solitude--but not in such company as this. That
she never calculated on. Her worst anticipations had never conjured up
more than an unchequered existence, with little to vary or relieve it;
and now, she foresaw a life to be passed amid the miserable straits and
shifts of poverty, with all its petty incidents and lowering accidents,
to lessen her esteem for those she wished to look up to and love. And
this was Carrig-na-curra, the proud castle she had so often boasted of
to her school companions, the baronial seat she had loved to exalt
above the antique chateaux of France and Flanders; and these the haughty
relatives, whose pride she mentioned as disdaining the alliance of the
Saxon, and spurning all admixture of blood with a race less noble than
their own. The very chamber she sat in, how did it contradict her own
animated descriptions of its once comforts and luxuries! Alas! it seemed
to be like duplicity and falsehood, that she had so spoken of these
things. More than once she asked herself--“Were they always thus?”
Poor child! she knew not that poverty can bring sickness, and sorrow
and premature old age. It can devastate the fields, and desolate the
affections, and make cold both heart and home together!
If want stopped short at privation, men need not to tremble at its
approach. It is in the debasing and degrading influence of poverty its
real terror lies. It is in the plastic facility with which the poor man
shifts to meet the coming evil, that the high principle of rectitude is
sacrificed, and the unflinching course of honour deviated from. When the
proud three decker, in all the majesty of her might, may sail along
her course unaltered, the humble craft, in the same sea, must tack,
and beat, and watch for every casualty of the gale to gain her port in
safety. These are the trials of the poor, but proud man. It is not the
want of liveried lacqueys, of plate, of equipage, and all the glittering
emblems of wealth, that smite his heart, and break his spirit. It is the
petty subterfuge he is reduced to, that galls him--it is the sense of
struggle between his circumstances and his conscience--between what he
does, and what he feels.
It is true, Kate knew not these things, but yet she had before her the
results of them too palpably to be mistaken. Sir Archibald was the
only one on whom reverse of fortune had not brought carelessness and
coarseness of manner. He seemed, both in dress and demeanour, little
changed from what she remembered him years before; nor had time,
apparently, fallen on him with heavier impress in other respects. What
was Herbert like? was the question ever rising to her mind, but with
little hope that the answer would prove satisfactory.
While Kate O'Donoghue was thus pondering over the characters of those
with whom she was now to live, they, on the other hand, were exerting
themselves to the utmost to restore some semblance of its ancient
comfort to the long-neglected dwelling. A blazing fire of bog deal was
lighted in the old hall, whose mellow glare glanced along the dark oak
wainscot, and threw a rich glow along the corridor itself, to the very
door of the tower. In the great chamber, where they sat, many articles
of furniture, long disused and half forgotten, were now collected,
giving, even by their number, a look of increased comfort to the
roomy apartment. Nor were such articles of ornament as they possessed
forgotten. The few pictures which had escaped the wreck of damp and time
were placed upon the walls, and a small miniature of Kate, as a child--a
poor performance enough--was hung up over the chimney, as it were
to honour her, whose presence these humble preparations were made
to celebrate. Sir Archy, too, as eager in these arrangements as Mark
himself, had brought several books and illustrated volumes from his
chamber to scatter upon the tables; while, as if for a shrine for the
deity of the place, a little table of most elaborate marquetrie, and
a richly-carved chair beside the fire, designated the place Kate was to
occupy as her own, and to mark which, he had culled the very gems of his
collection.
It is scarcely possible to conceive, how completely even a few trifling
objects like these can change the “morale” of a chamber--how that,
which before seemed cumbrous, sad, and dispiriting, becomes at once
lightsome and pleasant-looking. But so it is: the things which speak of
human thought and feeling appeal to a very different sense from those
which merely minister to material comfort; and we accept the presence of
a single book, a print, or drawing, as an evidence that mental aliment
has not been forgotten.
If the changes here spoken of gave a very different air and seeming
to the old tower, Kate's own presence there completed the magic of the
transformation. Dressed in black silk, and wearing a profusion of lace
of the same colour--for her costume had been adapted to a very different
sphere--she took her place in the family circle, diffusing around her
a look of refinement and elegance, and making of that sombre chamber
a spacious “salon.” Her guitar, her embroidery, her old-fashioned
writing-desk, inlaid with silver, caught the eye as it wandered about
the room, and told of womanly graces and accomplishments, so foreign to
the rude emblems of the chase and the field, henceforth to be banished
to the old entrance hall.
The O'Donoghue himself felt the influence of the young girl's presence,
and evidenced, in his altered dress and demeanour, the respect he
desired to show; while Mark took from his scanty wardrobe the only
garment he possessed above the rank of a shooting jacket, and entered
the room with a half-bashful, half-sullen air, as though angry and
ashamed with himself for even so much compliance with the world's
usages.
Although Kate was quick-sighted enough to see that these changes were
caused on her account, her native tact prevented her from showing
that knowledge, and made her receive their attentions with that happy
blending of courtesy and familiarity, so fascinating from a young and
pretty woman. The dinner--and it was a “chef-d'oeuvre” on the part
of Mrs. Branagan--passed off most pleasantly. The fear her coming had
excited now gave way to the delight her presence conferred. They felt
as if they had done her an injustice in their judgment, and hastened to
make every “amende” for their unfair opinion. Never, for years long, had
the O'Donoghue been so happy. The cold and cheerless chamber was once
more warmed into a home. The fire beside which he had so often brooded
in sadness, was now the pleasant hearth, surrounded by cheery faces.
Memories of the past, soothing through all their sorrow, flowed in upon
his mind, as he sat and gazed at her in tranquil ecstacy. Sir Archibald,
too, felt a return to his former self, in the tone of good breeding
her presence diffused, and evinced, by the attentive politeness of his
manner, how happy he was to recur once more to the observances which he
remembered with so much affection, associated, as they were, with the
brightest period of his life.
As for Mark, although less an actor than the others in the scene, the
effect upon him was not less striking. All his assumed apathy gave way
as he listened to her descriptions of foreign society, and the habits
of those she had lived amongst. The ringing melody of her voice,
the brilliant sparkle of her dark eyes, the graceful elegance of
gesture--the French woman's prerogative--threw over him their charm, a
fascination never experienced before; and although a dark dread would
now and then steal across his mind, How was a creature, beautiful and
gifted like this, to lead the life of dreariness and gloom their days
were passed in?--the tender feeling of affection she shewed his father,
the fondness with which she dwelt on every little incident of her
childhood--every little detail of the mountain scenery--showed a spirit
which well might harmonise with a home, even humble as theirs, and
pleasures as uncostly and as simple. “Oh! if she grow not weary of us!”
was the heart-uttered sentence each moment as he listened; and, in the
very anxiety of the doubt, the ecstacy of enjoyment was heightened. To
purchase this boon, there was nothing he would not dare. To think that
as he trod the glens, or followed the wild deer along some cragged and
broken mountain gorge, a home like this ever awaited him, was a picture
of happiness too bright and dazzling to look upon.
“Now, then, 'ma belle.'” said Sir Archibald, as he rose from his seat,
and, with an air of gallantry that might have done credit to Versailles
of old, threw the ribbon of her guitar over her neck--“now for your
promise--that little romance ye spoke of.”
“Willingly, dear uncle,” replied she, striking the chords as a kind of
prelude. “Shall I sing you one of our convent hymns?--or will you have
the romance?”
“It is no' fair to tempt-one in a choice,” said M'Nab, slyly; “but sin'
ye say so, I must hear baith before I decide.”
“Your own favourite, the first,” said she, smiling, and began the little
chanson of the “Garde Ecossaise,” the song of the exiled nobles in the
service of France, so dear to every Scotchman's heart.
While the melody described the gathering of the clans in the mountains,
to take leave of their departing kinsmen, the measured tramp of the
music, and the wild ringing of the pibroch, the old chieftain's face lit
up, and his eye glared with the fierce fire of native pride; but
when the moment of leave-taking arrived, and the heart-rending cry of
“Farewell!” broke from his deserted, the eye became glazed and filmy,
and with a hand tremulous from emotion, he stopped the singer.
“Na, na, Kate; I canna bear that, the noo. Ye ha'e smote the rock too
suddenly, lassie;” and the tears rolled heavily down his seared cheeks.
“You must let me finish uncle,” said she, disengaging her hand; and at
the instant, sweeping the chord with a bold and vigorous finger, she
broke into a splendid and chivalrous description of the Scottish
valour in the service of France, every line swelling with their proud
achievements, as foremost they marched to battle. To this succeeded
the crash and turmoil of the fray, the ringing cheers of the plaided
warriors mingling with the war-cries of the Gaul, till, in a burst of
triumph and victory, the song concluded. Then, the old man sprang from
his chair, and threw his arms around her in a transport, as he cried--
“It's a mercifu' thing, lassie, ye did na' live fifty years ago: by my
saul, there's nae saying how many a brave fellow the like o' that had
laid low!”
“If that be one of the hymns you spoke of, Kate,” said the O'Donoghue,
smiling, “I fancy Mark would have no objection to be a nun; but where is
he?--he has left the room.”
“I hope there was nothing in my song he disliked?” asked she, timidly;
but before there was time for an answer the door opened, and Mark
appeared with Herbert in his arms.
“There!” said he, laying him gently on the sofa; “if cousin Kate
will only sing that once more, I'll answer for it, it will save you a
fortnight in your recovery.”
Kate knelt down beside the sick boy, and kissed him tenderly; while he,
poor fellow, scarce daring to believe in the reality of all before him,
played with the long tangles of her silky hair, and gazed on her in
silence.
“We maun be cautious, Mark,” whispered M'Nab, carefully; but Mark had no
ears nor eyes save for her who now sat beside his brother, and in a low
soft voice breathed her affectionate greetings to him.
In this way passed the first evening of her coming--a night whose
fascination dwelt deep in every heart, and made each dreamer blest.