The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago. Lever Charles James

going over to Ballyvourney, and after that, I’m going on to Cork, and it’s mighty likely I’ll go as far as Dublin, for the Bishop may be there, and if he is, I must follow him; and here’s a letter,’ says he, ‘that you must give the O’Donoghue with your own hands’ – them was the words – ‘with your own hands, Lanty; and now swear you’ll not leave it to any one else, but do as I tell you;’ and, faix, I took my oath of it, and see, now, it’s lost; may I never, but I don’t know how I’ll ever face him again; and sure God knows what was in it.” “And there was three seals on it,” said Mary, musingly, as if such extraordinary measures of secrecy could bode nothing good.

      “Each of them as big as a half-crown – and it was thick inside too; musha ‘twas the evil day I ever set eyes on it!” and with this allusion to the lost money, which, by an adroitness of superstition, he coupled with the bad luck the letter had brought him, Lanty took his farewell of Mary, and, with a heavy heart, set out on his journey.

      CHAPTER XI. MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES

      The occurrence so briefly mentioned by Flahault, of the night attack on the “Lodge.” was not so easily treated by the residents; and so many different versions of the affair were in circulation, that Miss Travers, the only one whose information could have thrown any light upon it, was confused by the many marvels she heard, and totally unable to recall to mind what had really taken place. Sir Marmaduke himself examined. the servants, and compared their testimony; but fear and exaggeration conspired to make the evidence valueless. Some asserting that there were at least a hundred assailants surrounding the house at one time – others, that they wore a kind of uniform, and had their faces blackened – some again had seen parties prowling about the premises during the day, and could positively swear to one man, “a tall fellow in a ragged blue coat, and without shoes or stockings” – no uncommon phenomena in those parts. But the butler negatived all these assertions, and stoutly maintained that there had been neither attack nor assailants – that the whole affair was a device of Terry’s, to display his zeal and bravery; and, in short, that he had set fire to the rick in the haggard, and “got up” the affray for his own benefit.

      In proportion as any fact occurred to throw discredit on the testimony of each, he who proffered it became a thousand times more firm and resolute in his assertion – circumstances dubious a moment before, were then suddenly remembered and sworn to, with numerous little aids to corroboration newly recalled to mind. To one point, however, all the evidence more or less converged, and that was, to accuse Terry of being the cause, or at least an accomplice in the transaction. Poor fellow – his own devotedness had made enemies for him every where – the alacrity with which he mounted the burning stack was an offence not soon to be forgotten by those who neither risked life nor limb; nor were the taunts he lavished on their sluggish backwardness to be forgiven now. Unhappily, too, Terry was not a favourite among the servants: he had never learnt how much deference is due from the ragged man to the pampered menial of a rich household; he had not been trained to that subserviency of demeanour which should mark the intercourse of a poor, houseless, friendless creature like himself, with the tagged and lace-covered servants of a wealthy master. Terry, by some strange blunder of his nature, imagined that, in his freedom and independence, he was the better man of the two; he knew that to do nothing, was the prerogative of the great; and as he fulfilled that condition to a considerable extent, he fancied he should enjoy its privileges also. For this reason he had ever regarded the whole class of servants as greatly his inferiors; and although he was ready and willing to peril his life at any moment for Sir Marmaduke or his daughter, the merest common-place services he would refuse to the others, without a moment’s hesitation. Neither intimidation could awe, nor bribery bend him – his nature knew not what fear was in any shape, save one – that of being apprehended and shot for a deserter – and as to any prospect of buying his good offices, that was totally out of the question.

      In an Irish household Terry’s character would have been appreciated at once. The respect which is never refused to any bereavement, but, in particular, to that greatest of all afflictions, would have secured for him, there, both forgiveness and affection – his waywardness and caprice would have been a law to the least good-tempered servant of the family; but Sir Marmaduke’s retainers were all English, and had about as much knowledge of, or sympathy with, such a creature, as he himself possessed of London life and manners.

      As his contempt was not measured by any scale of prudence, but coolly evinced on every occasion of their intercourse, they, one and all, detested him beyond bounds – most, asserting that he was a thoroughpaced knave, whose folly was a garb assumed to secure a life of idleness – and all, regarding him in the light of a spy, ever ready to betray them to their master.

      When, therefore, one after another, the servants persisted in either openly accusing or insinuating suggestions against Terry, Sir Marmaduke became sorely puzzled. It was true, he himself had witnessed his conduct the night before; but if their version was correct, all his daring, energy, and boldness were so many proofs against him. He was, indeed, reluctant to think so badly of the poor fellow – but how discredit the evidence of his entire household? His butler had been in his service for years – and oh! what a claim for all the exercise of evil influence – for all the petty tyranny of the low-minded and the base-born – tracking its way through eaves-dropping, and insinuating its venom in moments of unguarded freedom. His footman too – but why go on? His daughter alone rejected the notion with indignation; but in her eager vindication of the poor fellow’s honour, her excitement militated against success – for age thus ever pronounces upon youth, and too readily confounds a high-spirited denunciation of wrong, with a mistaken, ill-directed enthusiasm. He listened, it is true, to all she said of Terry’s devotedness and courage – of his artless, simple nature – of his single-minded, gentle character; but by a fatal tendency, too frequent as we advance in years, the scales of doubt ever lean against, and not to the side favourable to human nature, and as he shook his head mournfully, he said —

      “I wish I did not suspect him.”

      “Send for him at least,” said his daughter, as with an effort she restrained the emotion that agitated her; “speak to him yourself.”

      “To what end, my child, if he really is innocent?”

      “Oh! yes, indeed – indeed he is,” she exclaimed, as the tears at length fell fast upon heir cheek.

      “Well then, be it so,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he rung the bell, and ordered Terry to be sent for.

      While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her hands, her father paced slowly up and down the room; and so absorbed was he in his thoughts, that he had not noticed Terry, who had meanwhile entered the room, and now stood respectfully beside, the door. When the old man’s eyes did fall on him, he started back, with horror and astonishment. The poor fellow’s clothes were actually reduced to a mass of burned rags – one sleeve was completely gone, and, there, could be seen his bare arm scorched and blackened by the fire – a bandage of coarse linen wrapping the hand and fingers – a deep cut marked his brow – and his hair was still matted and clotted with the blood – awhile his face was of the colour of death itself.

      “Can you doubt him now, father,” whispered the young girl, as she gazed on the poor fellow, whose wandering eyes roamed over the ornaments of the chamber, in total unconsciousness of himself and his sufferings.

      “Well, Terry,” said Sir Marmaduke after a pause, “what account do you give of last night’s business?”

      “That’s a picture of Keim-an-Eigh,” said Terry, as he fixed his large eyes, open to their widest extent, on a framed drawing on the wall. “There’s the Eagle’s Cliff, and that’s Murrow Waterfall – and there’s the lake – ay, and see if there isn’t a boat on it. Well, well, but it’s beautiful – one could walk up the shepherd’s path there, where the goat is – ay, there’s a fellow going up – musha, that’s me – I’m going over to Cubber-na-creena, by the short cut.”

      “Tell me all you know of what happened last night, Terry,” repeated Sir Marmaduke.

      “It was a great fire, devil a doubt of it,” said Terry, eagerly; “the blaze from the big stack was twice as high as the roof; but when I put the wet sail of the boat on