The visit alluded to in the last chapter formed the first step to an
acquaintance which speedily ripened into intimacy. Seldom a day passed
without some interchange of civilities; and as they progressed in
knowledge of each other, they advanced in esteem, so that, ere long,
they learned to regard themselves as members of a single family. The
conventional usages of society are stronger barriers against friendship
than the world deems them. The life of cities supplies a coinage of
social intercourse which but very imperfectly represents the value of
true feeling; while in remoter and less cultivated regions, men are
satisfied to disencumber themselves of this false currency, and deal
frankly and openly with each other.
How little now did Sir Marmaduke remember of all Sir Archy's
peculiarities of manner and expression! how seldom did Sybella think
Kate's opinions wild and eccentric! and how difficult would it have been
to convince the fastidious Guardsman, that the society of St. James's
possessed any superiority in tone or elegance over the evenings at “the
Lodge.”
The real elements of mutual liking were present here: the discrepancy
of character and taste--the great differences of age, and habit of
thought--yet moulded into one common frame of esteem from the very
appreciation of qualities in others, in which each felt himself
deficient. If Kate admired the simple but high-minded English girl,
whose thoughts were rarely faulty, save when attributing to others
higher and purer motives than the world abounds in, Sybella looked
up with enthusiastic delight to the glittering talents of her Irish
friend--the warm and generous glow of her imagination--the brilliant
flashes of her wit--the ready eloquence of her tongue, and, perhaps, not
least of all, the intrepid fearlessness of her nature, inspired her with
sentiments of almost awe, which seemed to deepen, and not diminish her
affection for Kate O'Donoghue.
It might appear an ungenerous theme to dwell on; but how often are our
friendships suggested by self-love?--how frequently are we led to think
highly and speak praisingly of qualities the opposite to our own, from
the self-satisfaction our apparent impartiality yields us. Justice
must, indeed, be a great virtue, when its very shadow can ennoble human
nature. Not such, however, were the motives here. Kate's admiration for
the unerring rectitude of Sybella's character was as free from taint as
was Sybella's heartfelt enthusiasm for the Irish girl. As for Frederick
Travers, the same dissimilarity in character which made him at first
compare Kate with his sister disadvantageously, now induced him to be
struck and fascinated by her qualities. The standard by which he had
measured her, she had long since passed, in his estimation; and any idea
of a comparison between them would now have appeared ridiculous. It was
true many of her opinions savoured of a nationality too strong for his
admiration. She was intensely Irish--or at least what he deemed such.
The traditions which, as a child, she had listened to with eager
delight, had given a bias to her mind that grew more confirmed with
years. The immediate circumstances of her own family added to this
feeling, and her pride was tinctured with sorrow at the fallen condition
of her house. All her affection for her cousins could not blind her to
their great defects. In Mark she saw one whose spirit seemed crushed and
stunned, and not awakened by the pressure of misfortune. Herbert,
with all his kindliness of nature and open-heartedness, appeared more
disposed to enjoy the sunshine of life, than to prepare himself to
buffet with its storms.
How often she wished she had been a boy; how many a day-dream floated
before her of such a career as she might have struck out! Ireland
a nation--her “own sons her rulers”--had been the theme of many an
oft-heard tale, and there was a poetry in the sentiment of a people
recalled to a long-lost, long-sought-for nationality, that excited and
exalted her imagination.
Her convent education had stored her mind with narratives of native
suffering and Saxon tyranny, and she longed for the day of retribution
on the “proud invaders.” Great was her disappointment at finding her
cousins so dead to every feeling of this kind; and she preferred the
chivalrous ardour of the English soldier to the sluggish apathy of Mark,
or the happy indolence of Herbert O'Donoghue.
Had Frederick Travers been an Irishman, would he have borne his
country's wrongs so meekly? was a reflection that more than once
occurred to her mind, and never more powerfully than on parting with
him, the very evening we have mentioned. He had accompanied them, on
their return to Carrig-na-curra, which, as the night was fine and the
moon nearly at her full, they did on foot. Kate, who rarely accepted
an arm when walking, had, by some accident, taken his on this occasion,
Sir. Archy leaning on that of Herbert.
The young soldier listened with a high-beating heart, as she related an
incident, of which the spot they were traversing had been the scene.
It was a faithless massacre of a chieftain and his followers, seduced,
under pretences of friendship and a pledge of amity.
“They told him,” said she, “that his young wife, who had been carried
away by force, and imprisoned for two entire years, should on this
spot be restored to him; that he had but to come, with twelve of his
retainers, unarmed, save with their swords, and that here, where we now
stand, she should once more become his own. The hour was sunset, and he
waited, with anxious impatience, beneath that tall cliff yonder, where
you can see the deep cleft. Strange enough, they have added a legend to
the true story, as if their wrongs could derive any force from fiction!
and they tell you still, that the great rock was never split until that
night. Their name for it, in Irish, is 'the rent,' or 'the ruptured
pledge.' Do I weary you with these old tales?”
“No, no; go on, I entreat you. I cannot say how the scene; increases its
fascinations, from connection with your story.”
“He stood yonder, where the black shadow now crosses the road, and
having dismounted, he gave his horse to one of his attendants, and
walked, with an anxious heart, up and down, waiting for their approach.
“There was less sympathy among his followers for their chieftain's
sorrow than might be expected; for she was not a native born, but the
daughter of an English earl. He, perhaps, loved her the more--her very
friendlessness was another tie between them.”
“Says the legend so, or is this a mere suspicion on your part?”
whispered Travers softly.
“I scarcely know,” continued Kate, with an accent less assured than
before. “I believe I tell you the tale as I have heard it; but why may
she not have been his own in every sentiment and thought--why not have
imbibed the right, from him she learned to love?” The last words were
scarcely uttered, when, with a sudden exclamation, less of fear than
astonishment, Kate grasped Travers' arm, and exclaimed--“Did you see
that!”
“I thought some dark object moved by the road side.”
“I saw a man pass, as if from behind us, and gain the thicket yonder: he
was alone, however.”
“And I am armed,” said Travers, coolly.
“And if you were not,” replied she, proudly, “an O'Donoghue has nothing
to fear in the valley of Glenflesk. Let us join my uncle, however, for
I see he has left us some distance behind him;” and while they hastened
forward, she resumed her story with the same unconcern as before the
interruption.
Travers listened eagerly--less, it is true, in sympathy with the story,
than in delight at the impassioned eloquence of her who related it.
“Such,” said she, as they turned to bid him farewell at the old keep on
the road side, “such are the traditions of our land; they vary in time
and place, and persons; but they have only one moral through all--what a
terrible thing is slavery!”
Travers endeavoured to turn the application of her speech, by some
common-place compliment about her own powers of inflicting bondage; but
she stopped him suddenly, with “Nay, nay; these are not jesting
themes, although you may deem them unsuited for one as ignorant and
inexperienced as I am; nor will I speak of them again, if they serve but
as matter for laughter.”
Amid his protestations of innocence against this charge, which, in his
ardour, he pushed farther than calmer judgment might warrant, they shook
hands cordially, and parted.
“He's a fine-hearted fellow, too,” thought Kate, as she slowly moved
along in silence. “Saxon though he be, there's a chord in his bosom that
responds to the touch of truth and honour.”
“Noble girl,” said Frederick, half aloud, “it would be hard to rebuke
treason, when spoken from such lips;” then added, with a smile--“It's no
fair temptation to expose even a Guardsman to.”
And thus, each speculated on the character of the other, and fancied
how, by their own influence, it might be fashioned and moulded to a
better form; nor was their interest lessened in each other's
fortune from the fact, that it seemed to involve so much of mutual
interposition.
“You should not walk this road so late,” said Mark O'Donoghue, almost
rudely, as he opened the door to admit them. “The smugglers are on the
coast now, and frequently come up the glen at nightfall.”
“Why not have come to be our escort, then?” said Kate, smiling.
“What? With the gay soldier for your guard,” said he, bitterly.
“How knew you that, my worthy cousin?” said Kate, rapidly, and then,
with a significant shake of the head, added, in a whisper--“I see there
_are_ marauders about.”
Mark blushed till his face became scarlet, and turning abruptly away,
sought his own room in silence.