Читать книгу The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago - Charles James Lever - Страница 8

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It was not without a feeling closely allied to disappointment, that Sir Marmaduke Travers found the advent to his Irish estates uncelebrated by any of those testimonies on the part of his tenantry, his agent, Captain Hemsworth, had often so graphically pictured before him. The post-horses were suffered to drag his carriage unmolested to its destination; there was no assemblage of people to welcome—not a bonfire to hail his arrival. True, he had come totally unexpectedly. The two servants sent forward to prepare the lodge for his reception, only reached there a single day before himself. But Sir Marmaduke had often taken his Yorkshire tenants as much by surprise, and, there, he always found a deputation, and a cortege of mounted yeomen. There were addresses, and triumphal arches, and newspaper paragraphs, and all the innumerable but well-known accompaniments of those patronizing acts of condescension, which consist in the visit of a rich man to his own home. Now, however, all was different. No cheering sounds broke the quiet stillness of the deep valley. No troops of people on horseback or on foot filled the glen. The sun set, calm and golden, behind the purple hills, unscared by the lurid glow of a single bonfire. Save from an appearance of increased bustle, and an air of movement and stir around the lodge itself, there was nothing to mark his coming. There, indeed, servants were seen to pass and re-pass; workmen were employed upon the flower-garden and the shrubbery walks; and all the indications of care and attention to the villa and its grounds easily perceptible. Beyond these precincts, however, all was still and solitary as before. For miles the road could be seen without a single traveller. The mountains seemed destitute of inhabitants. The peaceful solemnity of the deep glen, along which the cloud shadows moved slowly in procession, increased the sense of loneliness, and Sir Marmaduke already began to suspect, that this last trial of a residence would scarcely prove more fortunate than the previous ones.

Age and wealth are uncomplying task-masters—habit and power endure restraint with an ill grace. The old baronet was half angry with himself for what he felt a mistake, and he could not forgive the country which was the cause of it. He had come expressly to see and pronounce for himself—to witness with his own eyes, to hear with his own ears—and yet he knew not how it was, nothing revealed itself before him. The very labourers who worked in the garden seemed uncommunicative and shy. Their great respect and reverence he understood as a cautious reserve. He must send for Hemsworth—there was nothing else for it. Hemsworth was used to them, and could explain the mode of dealing with them. Their very idioms required translating, and he could not advance without an interpreter.

Not so his daughter. To her the scene had all the charm of romance. The lone dwelling beside the blue lake, the tall and peaked mountains lost in the white clouds, the waving forest with its many a tangled path, the bright islands that, gem-like, spangled the calm surface of the water, realized many a poetic dream of her childhood, and she felt that visionary happiness which serenity of mind, united to the warm imagination of early life, alone can bestow.

It was a fairy existence to live thus secluded in that lonely valley, where the flowers seemed to blossom for them alone; for them, the summer birds sang their roundelays, and the fair moon shed her pale light over hill and stream, with none to mark her splendour save themselves, Not these thoughts alone filled her mind. Already had she noticed the artless habits of the humble peasantry—their gratitude for the slightest services, their affectionate greetings, the touching beauty of their expressions, teeming with an imagery she never heard before. All appealed to her mind with a very different force from what they addressed themselves with to her father's. Already she felt attracted by the figurative eloquence, so popular a gift among the people. The warm fervour of fancy she had believed the attribute of highly-wrought temperaments only, she found here amid poverty and privation; flashes of bright wit broke from the gloom of daily suffering; and the fire which gives life its energy, burned brightly amid the ashes of many an extinguished hope. These were features she was not prepared to meet among a peasantry living in a wild unvisited district, and day by day they fascinated her more strongly.

It was not entirely to the difference between father and daughter that these varied impressions were owing. The people themselves assumed a tone quite distinctive to each. Sir Marmaduke they had always heard spoken of, as a stern-tempered man, whose severity towards his tenantry was, happily, tempered by the personal kindness of the agent. Captain Hemsworth constantly impressed them with the notion that all harsh measures originated with his principal—the favours came from himself only, the exactions of high rents, the rigorous prosecution of the law, he ever asserted were acts compulsory with him, but always repugnant to his own better feelings. Every little act of grace he accompanied by an assurance, that he “hoped Sir Marmaduke might not hear of it,” as the consequences to himself might prove ruinous. In fact, he contrived to mislead both parties in their estimate of each other, and their first acquaintanceship, it could not be supposed, should dispel the illusion. The peasantry, however, were the first to discover the error: long before Sir Marmaduke had made any progress in deciphering the mystic symbols of their natures, they had read his from end to end. They scanned him with powers of observation no other people in Europe can compete with; and while he was philosophizing about the combined influence of their superstitions, their ignorance, and their apathy to suffering, they were accurately speculating on all the possible benefits which might accrue from the residence amongst them, of so very kind-hearted, but such a mere simpleton of a man as himself.

They listened with sincere pleasure—for they love any appeal to themselves—to the precepts he so liberally bestowed regarding “industry” and “frugality;” nor did they ever make the reply, which was ready at every lip, that industry cannot be practised without an occupation, nor frugality be pushed beyond the very borders of starvation. No; they answered with a semblance of concurrence,—“True for you, sir; the devil a lie in it—your honour knows it well.” Or, when pushed home by any argument against their improvidence, or recklessness, the ever-present reply was—“Sure, sir, it's the will of God;” a piece of fatalism, that rescued them from many a difficulty, when no other aid was near.

“They are a simple set of people,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he sat at his breakfast; in the small parlour of the lodge, which looked out upon the glen, “Very ignorant, very barbarous, but easily led—I see through them clearly.”

“I like them greatly,” said his daughter; “their gratitude knows no bounds for the slightest services; they have a kind of native courtesy, so rare to find amongst a peasantry? how that poor fellow last night wished to climb the cliff, where the eagle's nest is, because I foolishly said I had never seen a young eagle.”

“They are totally misunderstood,” said Sir Marmaduke, sententiously, rather following out the train of his own reflections, than noticing the remark of his daughter, “all one hears of their absurd reverence for the priest, or the devoted adherence they practise towards the old families of the country, is mere nonsense, You heard how Dan laughed this morning, when I joked with him about purgatory and the saints; and what a droll description they gave of that queer household—the chieftain—what is his name?

“The O'Donoghue.”

“Yes; I never can remember it. No, no; they are not so bigoted; they are merely uninformed. We shall soon see many changes among them. I have written to Bradston about the plans for the cottages, and also the design for a school-house; and then, there's the chapel—that reminds me I have not returned the priest's visit; he was here the day before yesterday.”

“If you like, we'll ride there; I have heard that the glen is beautiful higher up.”

“I was just going to propose it; that mare seems quiet enough: Lawler says that she has been carrying a lady these last two years; will you try her?”

“I am longing to do so—I'm certain she is gentleness itself.”

“Strange fellow that horse-dealer is, too,” said the old gentleman in half soliloquy. “In no other country in the universe would such a mere simpleton have taken to the trade of a jockey; he actually did not know what price to ask for his horse; he left it all to ourselves. He'd soon finish his career in London, at that rate of going; but what have we got here—what in heaven's name is all this?” cried he aloud, as he suddenly rose from the table, and approached a small glass door that opened upon the lawn.

The object which so excited his astonishment was an assemblage of something more than a hundred poor people of every sex and age—from infancy to dotage—seated on the grass, in a wide semicircle, and awaiting the moment when he should issue forth. Every phase of human misery, which want and wretchedness can bestow, was there. The cheeks of some were pale and haggard with recent sickness; others had but a few tattered rags to cover them; many were cripples, unable to move without assistance. There was wan and sickly childhood, and tremulous old age; yet the tone of their voices showed no touch of sadness; they laughed and talked with all the seeming of light-heartedness; and many a droll and merry saying broke from that medley mass of suffering and sorrow. The sudden appearance of Sir Marmaduke at the door instantaneously checked all merriment, and a solemn silence ensued, as he walked forth and stood in front of them.

“What do you want, my good people?” said he at length, as none seemed disposed to open the proceedings.

Had their tongues been unlocked by the spell of a magician, the effect could not have been more instantaneous—a perfect volley of speech followed, in which Sir Marmaduke in vain endeavoured to follow the words of any single speaker. Their rapid utterance, their vehement gesticulation, and a certain guttural mode of pronunciation, quite new to him, made them totally unintelligible, and he stood confused, perplexed, and confounded for several minutes, staring around on every side.

“Do, in heaven's name, be quiet,” cried he at last; “let one or two only talk at a time, and I shall learn what you mean.”

A renewal of the clamour ensued; but this time it was a general effort to enforce silence—a process which eventuated in a far greater uproar than before.

“Who, or what are you?” cried Sir Marmaduke, at last losing all temper, at the continuance of a tumult there seemed no prospect of coming to an end.

“We're your honour's tenants, every one of us,” shouted the crowd with one voice.

“My tenants!” reiterated he in horror and astonishment. “What! is it possible that you are tenants on my property? Where do you live, my poor old man?” said he, addressing a venerable old fellow, with a head as white as snow, and a beard like a patriarch's.

“He does not talk any English, your honour's worship—he has only Irish; he lives in the glen beyond,” said a comely woman at his side.

“And you, where do you come from yourself?”

“I'm a poor widow, your honour, with six childer; and sorra bit I have, but the little garden, and the grass of a goat; and sure, fifteen shillings every half year is more nor I can pay, wid all the scrapin' in life.”

Sir Marmaduke turned away his head, and as he did so, his eye fell upon a poor creature, whose bloated cheeks and swollen figure denoted dropsy. The man interpreting the look into a compassionate inquiry, broke forth in a feeble voice—“I brought the nine shillings with me, yer honour; and though the captain refused to take it, I'm sure you won't turn me out of the little place, for being a trifle late. It's the watery dropsy—glory be to God!—I'm under; but they say I'm getting better.”

While the poor creature spoke, a low muttering of pity burst from those around him, and many a compassionate look, and many a cheering word was expressed by those scarce less miserable than himself.

There was now a certain kind of order restored to the assembly; and as Sir Marmaduke moved along the line, each in turn addressed his supplication or complaint. One was threatened with a distress on his pig, because he owed two half-years' rent, and could only pay a portion of the debt; there was a failure in the potatoe crop, and a great famine the consequence. Another was only recovering from the “shaking ague,” and begged for time, since if he thrashed his oats, now, they would bring nothing in the market. A third entreated liberty to cut his turf on a distant bog, as he was up to his knees in water, in the place allotted to him.

Some came with odd shillings due on the last rent-day, and anxious to get leave to send their children to the school without payment.

Every one had some favour to look for—some mere trifle to the granter; the whole world to him who asked—and, for these, many had come miles away from homes far in the mountains; a glimmering hope of succour, the only encouragement to the weary journey.

As Sir Marmaduke listened with a feigned composure to narratives, at which his very heart bled, he chanced to observe a strange-looking figure, in an old scarlet uniform, and a paper cap, with a cock's feather stuck slantwise in the side of it. The wearer, a tall, bony youth, with yellow hair, carried a long wattle over his shoulder, as if it were a gun, and when the old baronet's eye fell upon him, he immediately stood bolt upright, and held the sapling to his breast, like a soldier presenting arms.

“Shoulder hoo!” he cried, and as the words were heard, a hearty burst of laughter ran through the crowd; every grief and sorrow was at once forgotten; the eyes wet with tears of sadness, were now moistened with those of mirth; and they laughed like those whose hearts had never known suffering.

“Who is this fellow?” said Sir Marmaduke, half doubting how far he might relish the jest like the others.

“Terry the Woods, your honour,” replied a score of voices together.

“Terry the Woods!” repeated he, “and is Terry a tenant of mine?”

“Faix, I am proud to say I am not,” said Terry, grounding his weapon, and advancing a step towards him, “divil a farthin' of rent I ever paid, nor ever will. I do have my health mighty well—glory be to God!—and sleep sound, and have good clothes, and do nothing for it; and they say I am a fool, but which of us is the greatest fool after all.”

Another outbreak of laughter was only quelled by Sir Marmaduke asking the reason of Terry's appearance there, that morning—if he had nothing to look for.

“I just came to pay my respects,” said Terry composedly, “to wish you a welcome to the country. I thought that as you might be lading the same kind of life as myself, we wouldn't be bad companions, you see, neither of us having much on our hands; and then,” continued he, as he took off his paper bonnet and made a deep reverence, “I wanted to see the young lady there, for they tould me she was a born beauty.”

Miss Travers blushed. She was young enough to blush at a compliment from such a source, as her father said laughingly—

“Well, Terry, and have they been deceiving you?”

“No,” said he, gravely, as with steady gaze he fixed his large blue eyes on the fair features before him. “No—she is a purty crayture—a taste sorrowful or so—but I like her all the better. I was the same myself when I was younger.”

Terry's remark was true enough. The young girl had been a listener for some time to the stories of the people, and her face betrayed the sad emotions of her heart. Never before had such scenes of human suffering been revealed before her—the tortuous windings of the poor man's destiny, where want and sickness he in wait for those whose happiest hours are the struggles against poverty and its evils.

“I can show you the beautifullest places in the whole country,” said Terry, approaching Miss Travers, and addressing her in a low voice, “I'll tell you where the white heath is growing, with big bells on it, like cups, to hould the dew. Were you ever up over Keim-an-eigh?”

“Never,” said she, smiling at the eagerness of her questioner.

“I'll bring you, then, by a short-cut, and you can ride the whole way, and maybe we'll shoot an eagle—have you a gun in the house?”

“Yes, there are three or four,” said she humouring him.

“And if I shoot him, I'll give you the wing-feathers—that's what they always gave their sweethearts long ago, but them times is gone by.”

The girl blushed deeply, as she remembered the present of young O'Donoghue, on the evening they came up the glen. She called to mind the air of diffidence and constraint in which he made the proffer, and for some minutes paid no attention to Terry, who still, continued to talk as rapidly as before.

“There, they are filing off,” said Terry—“orderly time,” as he once more shouldered his sapling and stood erect. This observation was made with reference to the crowd of poor people, whose names and place of residence Sir Marmaduke having meanwhile written down, they were now returning to their homes with happy and comforted hearts. “There they go,” cried Terry, “and an awkward squad they are.”

“Were you ever a soldier, Terry?” said Miss Travers.

The poor youth grew deadly pale—the very blood forsook his lips, as he muttered, “I was.” Sir Marmaduke came up at the instant, and Terry checked himself at once and said—

“Whenever you want me, leave word at Mary M'Kelly's, in the glen below, and I'll hear of it.”

“But don't you think you had better remain here with us? you could help in the garden and the walks.”

“No; I never do be working at all—I hate work.”

“Yes, but easy work, Terry,” said Miss Travers, “among the flowers and shrubs here.”

“No—I'd be quite low and sorrowful if I was to be staying in one place, and maybe—maybe”—here he whispered so low, as only to be heard by her—“maybe they'd find me out.”

“No; there's no fear of that,” said she, “we'll take care no one shall trouble you—stay here, Terry.”

“Well, I believe I will,” said he, after a pause, “I may go away when I like.”

“To be sure, and now let us see how you are to be lodged,” said Sir Marmaduke, who already, interested by that inexplicable feeling which grows out of our pity for idiotcy, entered into his daughter's schemes for poor Terry's welfare.

A small cottage near the boat-house on the verge of the lake, inhabited by a labourer and his children, offered the wished-for asylum, and there Terry was at once installed, and recognised as a member of the household.