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 eye-
lashes 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.